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I'm not sure if I'm actually horny, or if it's the pregnancy hormones wreaking havoc on me. I just know that there's this constant buzz beneath my skin, and it is torture!

There's a lot of torture going around lately. Late nights, guilt, hormones, horny hormones—they suck. Life sucks. Maybe I suck.

I wonder if Andy and Shy are having fun. I couldn't bring myself to go out with them tonight. One, I have nothing to wear to a club. I'm pregnant, and it's obvious now, so scratch that idea.

Still, I feel guilty. I feel guilty that I'm not out with my friends, celebrating a new year. I feel guilty that I’m not out celebrating our first New Year out of school as adults.

I feel guilty that I'm not the friend they hoped I would be. That life took me for a spin, kicked me around a bit, and spit me out up upside down. Yeah, to say there’s a lot of guilt is an understatement.

Tate shifts again—and this time I’m hit with his scent. It’s so strong, I can practically taste him.

Think of something else, Faye. Anything else…

I wonder when Andy is going to break up with Micah. If she's going to break up with Micah. She keeps talking about it, but she never does it. Still, I can see her pulling away from him. I'm sure he can feel it.

It's almost crueler, I think, to cling to him the way that she is. To cling to something that seems so obviously done.

Watching them, there's a small piece of me that feels a little less guilty for letting Holt go. Because our end, if I would have clung—it would have been tragic. More so than it already is.

I don't want to think about Holt. Not while I'm lying next to Tate. Not while I'm thinking of kissing him—or trying to think of something to make me not think of kissing him.

The anxiety of midnight kisses might kill me.

I dare a peek at him. “What time is it?”

He glances at me with that roguish grin. It reminds me of the one he used to give me in the car when he'd drive me home while Holt would stay late for hockey practice. I used to think he looked so much older than his years, so much wiser, a little edgy, even. Like he had secrets, something to uncover, to explore.

Now, I think his secrets—that thing to uncover, that darkness to explore—I think those were his feelings for me.

Tate doesn't answer verbally. Instead, his phone starts a countdown.

Sixty seconds. Fifty-nine…fifty-eight.

My heart starts to beat.

I think my breaths quicken.

Thirty-nine. Thirty-eight. Thirty-seven.

My palms shake. On my back, I stare at the countdown as I fist the sheets.

I can feel Tate's eyes on me, but I can’t look away from the countdown.

Twelve. Eleven. Ten. Nine…

My breath stalls, snared somewhere in my burning lungs.

Three. Two. One.

Fireworks explode on his phone, and then more sound from outside the apartment where the town celebrates—something I’d also been too tired to do. The thought of standing out in the freezing winter night for fireworks—just no.

The pop, pop, pop outside fades into the crackle of electrified heat that pulses between us. Tate’s phone connects with the surface of his nightstand. The mattress shifts as he shifts—and then he’s leaning over me.

I can’t breathe.

His eyes slam into mine before dragging down to my lips, parted on a desperate gasp that fails to feed my starved lungs.

“Tate,” I manage to whisper his name.