what just happened. When I look back at Ryle, he’s halfway down a hallway. He disappears into a room and I stand here, looking at the picture again.
That’s when I see it.
The picture is blurred, so it was hard to make out at first. But I can recognize that hair from anywhere. That’s my hair. It’s hard to miss, along with the marine-grade polymer lounge chair I’m lying on. This is the picture he took on the rooftop the first night we met. He must have had it blown up and distorted so no one would notice what it was. I bring my hand to my neck, because my blood feels like it’s bubbling. It’s really warm in here.
Allysa appears at my side. “It’s weird, huh?” she says, looking at the picture.
I scratch at my chest. “It’s really hot in here,” I say. “Don’t you think?”
She glances around the room. “Is it? I hadn’t noticed, but I’m a little drunk. I’ll tell Marshall to turn on the air.”
She disappears again, and the more I stare at the picture, the angrier I get. The man has a picture of me hanging in the apartment. He bought me flowers. He’s giving me attitude because I brought a date to his sister’s party. He’s acting like there’s actually something between us, and we’ve never even kissed!
It all hits me at once. The anger . . . the irritation . . . the half glass of champagne I had in the kitchen. I’m so mad, I can’t even think straight. If the guy wants to have sex with me so bad . . . he shouldn’t have fallen asleep! If he doesn’t want me to swoon, he shouldn’t buy me flowers! He shouldn’t hang cryptic pictures of me where he lives!
All I want is fresh air. I need fresh air. Luckily, I know just where to find it.
Moments later, I burst through the door to the rooftop. There are stragglers from the party up here. Three of them, seated on the patio furniture. I ignore them and walk to the ledge with the good view and lean over it. I suck in several deep breaths and try to calm myself down. I want to go downstairs and tell him to make up his damn mind, but I know I need to have a clear head before I do that.
The air is cold, and for some reason, I blame that on Ryle. Everything is his fault tonight. All of it. Wars, famine, gun violence—it all somehow links back to Ryle.
“Can we have a few minutes alone?”
I spin around, and Ryle is standing near the other guests. Immediately, all three of them nod and begin to stand up to give us privacy. I hold up my hands and say, “Wait,” but none of them look at me. “It’s not necessary. Really, you don’t have to leave.”
Ryle stands stoically with his hands in his pockets while one of the guests mutters, “It’s fine, we don’t mind.” They begin to file back down the stairwell. I roll my eyes and spin back toward the ledge once I’m alone with him.
“Does everyone always do what you say?” I ask, irritated.
He doesn’t respond. His footsteps are slow and deliberate as he closes in on me. My heart begins to beat like it’s on a speed-date, and I start scratching at my chest again.
“Lily,” he says from behind me.
I turn around and grip the ledge behind me with both hands. His eyes journey down to my cleavage. As soon as they do, I yank at the top of my dress so he can’t see it, and then I grip the ledge again. He laughs and takes another step closer. We’re almost touching now, and my brain is mush. It’s pathetic. I’m pathetic.
“I feel like you have a lot to say,” he says. “So I’d like to give you the opportunity to speak your naked truth.”
“Hah!” I say with a laugh. “Are you sure about that?”
He nods, so I prepare to let him have it. I push against his chest and make my way around him so that he’s the one leaning against the ledge now.
“I can’t tell what you want, Ryle! And every time I get to the point where I start to not give a shit, you show up again out of the blue! You show up at my work, you show up at my apartment door, you show up at parties, you . . .”