I held back the tears, hiding my face behind my hair. Don't think, June. Watching the cars go by, the wheels spinning so fast it made me dizzy, I tried to drown out all thoughts, all memories. My body was drained, empty, hands lying unmoving in my lap. I wasn't sleeping, not really, but time behaved like I was. It felt like a minute later when we came to a standstill at the side of the road, two houses away from Hayley's.

And it was then that I realized.

Three disasters. The rejected kiss. The lie about Charlotte. The hand up my leg.

Once again, I'd been fooling myself into thinking I could belong here, and once again, I'd missed all the signs shouting at me to go away.

I unfastened my seatbelt, feeling it slide up my arm with a short, zooming sound. My hands were shaking, with fear, with loss, but mostly with fuming, red-hot anger. I grabbed my legs, squeezed them tight, as if to erase the print Marsden had left there. "There was never a plan to go out and toast to Albert's career, was there?" The confused shake of his head already told me enough, and for some reason, I laughed. All these years growing up in Soundview, listening to abuela's and my mother's warnings about sketchy guys and pretty boys, and nothing ever happened — turned out it were the white men in fancy suits I should've watched out for. "Oh god, I can't believe... I'm such an..." I was laughing, and at the same time, tears gathered in my eyes, no idea for what.

There was worry on his face, clear worry, the kind of worry about me that had always made me feel warm inside. Now, it just made me laugh some more. "Who said there was?"

I looked at him, at how I knew and loved him and had to let him go. Turned out, I was just as good at making up stories as Valentina was, maybe even better, just as gullible as when I wrote that pirate book. That I'd even tried last night — that I'd even thought for one second he might long for me like I did for him. Today, there'd been an asshole of a man who'd known me for thirty minutes and already had tried to get into my pants, and here was a guy who'd known me for five and a half years, and hadn't made a single move since I returned to him, even though he was probably well aware I'd cave in immediately if he would. There was no point in holding it back anymore. It was time to let go of the only thing Charlotte Rutherford had ever taught me.

That some things were better left unsaid. Because what did it even matter anymore?

Nothing. Today was the day I was going to have my heart broken for good.

"Marsden said there was."

"Marsden? Anders Marsden?" The worry grew, I could see it in the way he rubbed his hands on his jeans, like they were sweaty. The muscles in his arms were tight, and somehow, I couldn't stop looking at them.

"Yeah. He invited me to come to this thing. And I went with him, to that bar—"

"You went to that bar with Anders Marsden? Alone?" His eyes were wide open, the rest of him frozen, and I could just see him thinking, foolish, naive Junie, I thought she was smarter than that. Yes, I did too, Nathan. "June, that guy... So many women — he..." He took a deep breath, clenching his fists just like I always did, then swallowed. "Did he do anything to you?"

"He wanted to, I guess."

His knuckles went white. He pushed them against the steering wheel, gritting his teeth. It was a reaction I was used to seeing in Sam, not in him. "But he didn't?" Each syllable was carefully pronounced, reserved, his voice perfectly composed, a stark contrast with his tense arms.

"No. I got away."

A short sigh left him, and he wiped his fist over his mouth. "Fucking asshole!" Him shouting was so unexpected I flinched, fingers prodding into my legs. "Sorry Junie, I just... sorry."

"He said I was asking for it."

"Of course he would say that."

"I didn't, though."

He reached out to touch me, probably to comfort me, but I couldn't bear it, not after last night. Not when I just realized. So I pulled back, and he dropped his hand. "Of course you didn't. In no way was this your fault, alright?" He searched for something in my face, and maybe he found it, because he opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it: "Just... be careful in the future, okay? These men might look nice and respectable, but they can be the worst criminals you'll ever meet. They know they can get away with—"

"—I know that."

I didn't need a lecture on how naive I'd been, like I was a child that didn't know anything, not from him. I was already feeling foolish enough on my own.

"I'm just worried about you. I just... I don't want anything to happen to you."

Those sincere eyes had comforted me yesterday — now, they lit a raging fire in the pit of my stomach. I was so done with this. Making me love him, pretending to love me back, and then letting me down. No. Never again. "Yeah, well," I said, picking up my purse from between my feet, "you can stop worrying, because for one, that's not your job, and for two, nothing will happen to me. Marsden probably has some sick fetish, and that is why he tried." I put my hand on the door handle, so ready to push it open and end this torture.

"A fetish?" The amount of surprise in his voice threw me off, as if he really hadn't considered it before, and I turned back.

"Yes. A fetish. It is a thing, you know. Getting turned on by disabilities for some reason. I've run into someone like that before. So, there isn't even a reason to worry because I'm sure it's pretty rare."

He didn't say anything, only stared, like it horrified him to even consider the possibility, and he could've just as well shoved me out of the car. Was it really that bad to think about having sex with me? Well, I guess that was my final confirmation that a broken heart was necessary and inevitable. I pulled the handle towards me, when: "Do you really believe that?"

Something in the way he said it made me let go. I looked back, trying to read his face — it was a mixture of so many emotions I couldn't understand any of it. "What else could it be? Am I supposed to think all of a sudden the disability doesn't matter anymore?"

"Junie, I—"

Oh, no. No. I was done with it. I'd said so. So completely done. He didn't have the right to call me Junie or try to soothe me or anything — it was over. "Don't you Junie me," I said, the fire spreading through my veins, "don't you dare to Junie me and tell me some fairytale about some guy who will love me and want to kiss me and all that. It doesn't work anymore, Nathan. And you know why? Because I know how it is now. I've lived it. There is no growing up more to do or any of it, this is what it is, and it is shit." I was shaking, every inch of me, burning him down with my stare. "What did you think, that I've been waiting patiently for Prince Charming to come and bring me to his castle? I've tried the dating thing, you know. Valentina convinced me it'd be worth it. You know what happened? On Tinder, this one guy said I shouldn't be on there — I belonged on a site for disabled dating. And these other two guys, they ghosted me, right after I told them about the disability. Oh, and there was this great dude who was mad at me and literally told me I should've posted pictures in which I was more clearly disabled, whatever that may mean. And yeah, I've been on a date — one. A client of mine, a little older, handsome, and I really thought: 'well, maybe this time'. And you know what? He spent the whole fucking date telling me about all the other disabled women he'd had sex with, and how he believed all disabled people should be doing it all the time or something." All of it hurt, all of it still hurt, after all this time, and I wished I hadn't needed to bring it up again, that I didn't need to prove I didn't fit into society's standards. "So, yeah, I really do believe that, and I have all the reason to. No guy has ever looked at me and thought: 'hey, what a beautiful girl'."

I was breathing fast, my lips dry from all the talking. He was staring at me, and somehow, I was angry that he still could, that he dared to, that he wasn't ashamed — ashamed for kissing me and leaving me and giving me all that false hope.

"It's what I think when I look at you."

"What?"

"That you're beautiful."

He said it softly, calmly, without any sign of stress, the words like a featherlight kiss on my forehead. I tensed, nails jabbing into my skin — did he... did he really say that? Did he really call me... beautiful? My heart skipped a beat, the anger temporarily smothered by confusion. One of his hands went to his hair again, and he seemed to have trouble holding my gaze. "What?" I said again, because somehow, I must've heard wrong. I shook my head, frantically, my curls flying around me. The fire sparked, giving me a reminder that he'd done this before — telling me I was worth it, and then abandoning me. He didn't mean it, didn't mean any of it. "No. No, you don't get to do this again. You don't. I'm sick of this. Stop pretending."

"I'm not pretending."

"Yeah, right." Telling me I was beautiful, when the gorgeous Charlotte would be coming to that party, his girlfriend who he supposedly hadn't been with in two years. But pretending? No, of course not. Where did I ever get that idea from? "Maybe you've always been pretending. Right from the start. Do you remember how you told me you and I were fighters? Back in the beginning? You said we were fighters, and I believed you for it. But you know what? I think you aren't. I think you're a coward."

When I was a hopeful fourteen-year-old who hadn't realized her dad could die, her mom could waste away, and she wouldn't go on dates like the other girls. When I still hung on his every word, savoring every single one of them. How nervous I'd been to enter his bedroom, and how it'd felt like a victory when he called me a friend.

Not anymore. That innocence was long lost.

"You're a coward, Nathan."

I said that. I said that out loud. Like a bolt of thunder opening the sky — but it didn't hit or shock me. There was only this anger, this loud, roaring anger, and it was everywhere. I hadn't realized it until it was out, and it made so, so much sense.

He didn't move, not even an inch, only blinked, never expecting me to find out — or maybe not even knowing it himself. The silence between us was sizzling and spitting, and I was so hot with rage, because he hurt me and he didn't get to pretend like he hadn't. It was all so clear to me now, so obvious, that I didn't understand how I couldn't have seen it before. "Why are you even still a lawyer? You're a grown man with your own income and your own house. You could do anything you want, and still, you're going to that firm every day, to do a job you don't like. Why?"

His mouth was closed tightly, and I was sure he wasn't going to answer. But: "I do like my job."

The way he said it threw me off, almost like he genuinely meant it, and he couldn't. "Liar."

He turned his whole body towards me, unexpectedly, sideways in the driver's seat. "I'm not lying. You were the one who made me see I liked it in the first place, remember? I like that it's predictable, that there are rules, and that I can help these kids to a better life. I'm good at it. I know how it works. And that's all thanks to you presenting me with the truth. Because sometimes, you seem to know me better than I know myself." A frustrated sigh, and he ran his hands through his hair, searching for more to say on the ceiling of the car. "I did think about it. When I found out what Lena had done, I realized I wasn't obligated to stay a lawyer. But I made a conscious choice not to quit. I'm happy with my job, and that's not a lie."

"What Lena had done?"

He sighed deeply, averting his gaze to the outside world, rubbing his hand along his jaw. "It turned out my parents never cared about what I wanted to do with my life. It was all Lena. For some reason, she thought it'd be good for me. I don't know."

I was probably supposed to be perplexed or feel sorry for him, only at that moment, I really couldn't care less. These past two years, I'd just been glum and miserable, though now, it dawned on me I should've been furious, and nothing could distract me from that. "Oh, well, poor you," I said. "That's what you want to hear, right? That it's not your fault? That's why you do it, right? Hide behind this... this selflessness. Every choice you ever made was for someone else. Going to public school. Taking Lena's crap. Going to Stanford. Moving across the ocean. Kissing me. So at least, if it turned out to be the wrong choice, you'd have an excuse. You'd still be the good guy."

The ocean blue was intense, and I hated it, I hated that after all I accused him of, he didn't even cower, didn't even wince. He just nodded, slowly, controlled, as if I was simply trying to convince him what to eat for dinner. "Maybe you're right about most things," he said then, "but I know you're wrong about one. Kissing you was the most selfish thing I ever did."

He couldn't say things like that. He couldn't say things like that and look at me like that and mess up my heartbeat. And he certainly couldn't near me, like he was doing, and he couldn't brush my curls aside, and he couldn't touch my face, and he really, really couldn't bring his lips so close. Still, he did, and the fire inside me transformed into another kind of warmth, filling up every corner of my body. "No," I said, so quietly it almost didn't matter, "no, don't kiss me. Don't feel sorry for me. Don't do that to me again." I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to convince myself he wasn't there, that his fingers weren't tracing my cheeks, because I couldn't give in, not a second time.

There was a sharp intake of breath. "Is that what you thought? That I felt sorry for you?" His voice was just as small, even a bit unsteady. "June... those kisses, they were the best I'd ever had."

He was lying. He was still lying. I shook my head, pulling back — I couldn't think with him so close, and I needed to think. "You ran away. What was I supposed to think?"

"I know I ran away. That was the biggest mistake I've ever made. It's no excuse, but Sam — he found us like that, on the carpet, and I was kissing you. And he was... disgusted. And I panicked. I panicked, and I thought about Charlotte and that you were only seventeen, and I took off. And you can hate me for that because I've been hating myself for that ever since I came back and found your letter."

I opened my eyes. His were radiating sorrow, pain, desperation — almost like he meant it. Like he wasn't lying. Like he'd been telling me the truth, all this time. "But you didn't come for me." I wasn't supposed to blurt that out, to confess how I'd had a tiny speck of hope, those first few months, that maybe, maybe I'd wake up one day and he'd be there.

He tugged at his hair again, as if punishing himself, shaking his head. "I wanted to. I almost did one time. But the letter. You said you needed to start over. You said you and me was a mistake."

"I lied in the letter, okay?"

"You weren't supposed to be lying."

"You weren't supposed to be running away from me!" It came out loud and shrill. This was all too much, too much — the idea of what could've been. "Did you really believe I would kiss you and mess up our friendship just because? I'd loved you for so long by then — kissing you was all I wanted."

For many long seconds, he was motionless, and I realized what I said, that it was all out now and that the ending was in sight. Then, a ghost of a smile grazed his lips, barely there, and yet, so beautiful. His shoulders relaxed, the rest of him so calm. "I loved you too," he said. "I just found out a little too late." He smiled in full now, letting it take over, shy and sweet and melting my heart. "I still love you."

I could see him hold his breath, and for some reason, I did the same. Everything tensed, not only me but even the air around me. I pushed my fists into my stomach, like I could stop it from falling from the slope, jumping, rolling, enjoying every second of the cold wind blowing in its face. Countless times had I imagined him saying that to me, from outrageous pirate fantasies where we were standing on the deck of a ship, to hot daydreams where we'd be cooped up in the back of the Mercedes, half undressed, planting kisses on each other's shoulders. Never, ever, did I think it'd be like this, fighting in the car when I was boiling with anger.

I still love you.

"But — yesterday — you..."

"You were crying."

So, he had noticed. He had felt the pull — it hadn't been in my head, it hadn't just been me. On the one hand, it was a relief, knowing that I wasn't imagining things. At the other, I really didn't get it. "So? I'm too ugly when I cry?"

"No!" He sat up straight, visibly seeking for something to say, his gaze flickering around the car. "You were missing your dad. You were upset. I wasn't sure if you were thinking straight, if it was really what you wanted. And it would've felt wrong, and the next time I was going to kiss you, if there'd be one, I didn't want there to be anything holding me back." He opened his mouth to add something, closed it again. Took a deep breath. "And... and there's something you need to know. About Charlotte."

Oh no. For a short, glorious moment, I'd allowed myself to think that maybe this time, this time, it was going to come true. That it was going to be the two of us. That I would have day after day of waking up next to him, seeing those eyes first thing in the morning, making him laugh.

But I'd never have that, because Marsden had been right.

It was like a stab right in my heart, carving it in two. "Please, no. Don't tell me it's true. Don't tell me you're still with her."

He shook his head, too firmly. "No! I'm not. After we kissed and I went back to London, I realized it was you I wanted to be with, and I broke up with her. We haven't been together since. Believe me."

How the hell was I supposed to know what to believe anymore? Everything I'd thought to be true had caved in in these past few minutes, and I was still in the process of rebuilding my world. "Then why did Marsden think you are?"

Ouch, there it was. He looked away, his chin down, enough evidence to prove him guilty. That was it. The final page of this fairytale, and it wouldn't have a happy ending. "Because she asked me to say we are... She... she called me last December. She said she wanted to travel around the world but that her dad wouldn't let her. If it'd be okay if she'd tell her parents she was with me. I said it was fine."

I let out a sound of disbelief. That he could be this spineless, this weak, that he would let himself be used like that — who did that? She was manipulating him, even from thousands of miles away, and he only thought he was doing the right thing. "That's messed up."

"It isn't. I was just trying to help. And it wasn't a big deal until you showed up out of the blue."

Unbelievable. That he could sit there and play the victim, as if it wasn't all his fault, as if it was a perfectly reasonable thing to do for an ex-girlfriend. The anger flared up again, and it was both for him and for her. "Oh, really? Until I showed up out of the blue? I'm sorry, did I ruin your plans?"

"Of course not! I never wanted any plans if you weren't a part of them."

A few hours ago, that would've resulted in me desperately clinging to him and kissing every spot of his body I could find — now, I was seething, my legs trembling, my vision hazy. I wasn't even sure why anymore, I just knew I was so, so consumed with rage. "You know, I don't know why I'm even listening to you anymore." I pushed the door open, with so much force I almost tumbled out. I was done. Officially done. One last look over my shoulder, one last glare. "I might've let you make me fall in love with you twice, but I'm not going to let you break my heart a second time. I'll be at the brunch tomorrow to say goodbye to Albert and Sam, and then I'm gone. You're not a solution, Nathan. You're a problem."

So. That was it. I jumped out of the car, dead set on getting away from his as soon as possible, when he caught my arm, holding me back. There was a determination in his face I'd rarely ever seen, and it was enough to make me forget what I was doing, only for a second. "I love you," he said again, and it seemed like my stomach hadn't listened to the little speech I just held. "And I'm going to prove it. Like I should've done two years ago."

I was too mad, too confused. It all didn't make sense, nothing of it did. "Good luck with that," I said, and I yanked myself free. Without giving him any more attention, I slammed the door shut, quickly marching away from that ridiculously expensive car. It took every bit of strength in me not to look back, to keep on going, reminding myself I was angry with him.

My phone beeped, and I startled — the sound must've toggled on when it fell to the floor. Somehow, I just knew it was him, and I couldn't help but look back.

The Lexus wasn't there anymore. He'd driven off.

I took out my phone.

Nathan: I'm going to prove it.

And even through all of it, all of the chaos, I found myself hoping that, oh, he would, and that I could just give in and not make this the end.

That I could make this a beginning.