I pause in putting on mascara as it hits me that this is a part of post-college life that nobody ever warns you about. Your social life is no longer dropped into your lap by virtue of shared classes and extracurricular activities. Relationships, whether with friends, family, or romantic partners—from here on out, they’re going to take a lot more work. No more built-in friends at the sorority, or hollering down the stairs when I need my mom. It’s certainly not going to be as easy to meet guys now that I’m done with school. It’s not like I can just chat up the cute guy in econ class anymore.
Thinking about my romantic future inevitably leads my thoughts to Paul, and I make a little growling noise at my brain for even going there.
He’s not for you.
Going back to my makeup, I add more eyeliner than usual, going for a subtly smoky look. I also add lip gloss and blush, even though any guests of Paul the bastard barely deserve deodorant, much less makeup.
I have no idea when his guest is coming, so I sit down on the window seat and pretend to read my book. Really, though, I just do a lot of staring at the water and thinking. All the while I’m braced for a knock at the bedroom door. Surely Paul will tell me himself that my presence is expected, or even mandatory?
The knock never comes. Lindy’s order to freshen up is apparently the only invitation I deserve.
I tense when I hear the doorbell, but force myself to relax. It’ll be fine. My parents hosted more parties in a month than most families do in a lifetime. I can small-talk strangers in my sleep. With one last glance in the mirror, I open the door to my room.
I hear voices, but they’re too muffled to make out whether they’re male or female. As I descend the stairs, I listen more carefully. There’s Paul’s familiar timbre, but I can’t hear the other person.
Seriously, if it really is an ex-girlfriend, I—
I freeze when I hear it. A male voice. I know that voice. Why do I know it?
Recognition takes my breath away. Oh my God.
Somehow, even as I register the familiarity of it all, I’m not fully prepared for what I see when I round the corner into the foyer. I’m not sure anyone could ever be prepared.
My eyes lock on the dark-haired guy still standing in the doorway. The heated longing on his face when our gazes collide feels like a punch in the face. I close my eyes to block it out, and take a deep breath.
I swallow. “Michael.”
He smiles. “Liv.”
Kill me. Kill me kill me kill me. This is not happening. The very guy I’m trying to escape is standing in the house that’s supposed to be my hiding place.
I tell my manners to override my panic but fail miserably. “What are you doing here?”
For the first time, the heated adoration on his face flickers. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, how did you even find me? Did my parents give you the address?”
Michael frowns and takes a step toward me. I step back.
“What are you talking about?” he asks. “You told me to come.”
I blink. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Your texts, Liv. You told me you needed to see me. Said you couldn’t get away, and asked if I could come here—” He breaks off when he sees the truth on my face. “You didn’t ask me to come.”
But I’m barely listening, because a dangerous buzzing has taken over my brain. Very slowly I turn my head to face him.
Only then does Paul emerge from the shadows. “Surprise, darling.” His voice is lethal.
I meet his gaze, and cruel triumph is written all over his features.
The pieces click together as I read his face. I get it now. I get what’s going on. This is some sick revenge plot. I snooped in his business, behind his back—I dragged his ghosts out of the closet without permission.
Now it’s his turn.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Paul
It was ridiculously easy—just a couple of quick texts to the mysterious Michael when Olivia was out for her morning run.
Runs that I once joined her on. Right up until she went and acted just like the rest of them, reading up on me like I was Soldier X instead of Paul.
But that’s not the point. The point is that my instincts about Michael were dead-on: not just a friend, but not a boyfriend either, though he wanted to be. It was written all over his whipped face when she came down the stairs.