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But that fast, it's gone. And the look that lingers is devastating.

I glance back at Dylan, and her face confirms it.

Jace is… totally unfazed.

He's not surprised. Not excited. Not even angry.

He is completely unbothered by my being here—or at least he looks like he is. And that may be worse than any other possible reaction.

My pulse spikes again.

Dylan speaks, but I don't hear her because Jace is still looking at me, and I'm still trying to swallow down the lump inside my throat.

Suddenly, he pushes off the bar.

His face lights up as if he's just seeing me for the first time. Like maybe he didn't realize who I was until right now. He comes over, and tells me how glad he is I'm here. How instead of doing this over and over—running into each other and finding ourselves in the same place at the same time—we should just be together again. Because he's been miserable these last six years, and the only thing that can fix that is me.

Us.

Going back to how things used to be.

Only none of that is real.

And none of that happens anywhere outside of my head.

Instead, the woman nods behind her, then moves toward another booth in the opposite corner. And he follows her—right on her skinny heels that she somehow wore up those fatally winding steps.

They step into the area and each pull one of the curtains shut. Then, they disappear behind the deep red drapes.

Without so much as looking back.

"I have to go," I admit—to Dylan and myself simultaneously. "I can't, I—"

"Len, don't do this. Don't spiral over some guy you dated, what? Like a million years ago?"

"Six," I say sharply—too sharply for how she means it. "But he's not just some guy, Dyl. He's…" I can't say it. "He's just not."

She inhales a calming breath. "Here." Dylan hands me the bottle. "Maybe just have a drink and take a second."

I stare at the champagne like it might give me some answers. Like it might give me the permission I'm secretly searching for. To go over there and bust through those curtains. To remind Jace—and the blonde—that we should be the ones sneaking off. That, even after all this time—after what I did—he's still the one that my heart aches for.

But it doesn't come.

Because I don't have that permission. Not from his stupid crystal bottle or anything else.

So instead, I take it. I throw back a large gulp, and I welcome the bubbles that shoot down my throat, sharp and fast. Because the burn beats whatever it is that's sitting in my chest.

"Better?" Dylan looks at me, brows high, smile fake, trying her best to ease the moment.

"I think I just need some air," I manage, my voice rough and eyes watering thanks to the carbonation.

"Yeah, okay." She grabs her purse from the seat and shifts toward me. "Lets take a breather."

I shake my head. "You stay. Wes is probably on his way over. I'll be right back."

"Are you sure?"

I grab her wrist and smile. "Yeah. Thanks, Dyl."