Chapter 3

Preston's eyes burned into me.

Something dangerous crackled in the air around him.

He went quiet for a beat. Then, softly:

"Mia's waiting for you."

My heart stopped.

I thought I was over it. Really thought so.

Twenty years of loving and hating this man—and one stupid name still brought me to my knees.

"Nice one, Preston." My voice cracked.

Nobody knew exactly where to hurt me better than my "best friend."

He had his guys drag me into the car. As they hauled me off, I caught one last look from the stripper—pale eyes with a strangely familiar look

Ian, our mutual friend, sat beside me.

He glanced at Preston across from us, eyes closed, cold as marble. Then he whispered:

"I know you're hurting. But it's your mom's funeral. You gotta be there."

He hesitated.

"Don't be mad at him. Preston ran the whole funeral himself. He…"

He trailed off. Couldn't finish.

Yeah. What was he gonna say? That Preston did it for me? Out of gratitude to Mom?

Neither one held up.

Whatever we used to be—Preston and me—it turned into a debt neither of us could ever settle the second Mom hit the pavement.

I leaned back and watched the little ceramic charm swinging from his rearview mirror.

Ian, Preston, and I had been inseparable since kindergarten.

But Preston only ever kept photos of him and me. Only I got the passenger seat.

I used to think that meant something. I chased that tiny sliver of "special" like a moth to a flame.

Now? Our photo had been replaced by a little charm Mia had molded herself. The passenger seat had a pink Cinnamoroll blanket balled up on it.

Mia's fingerprints. Everywhere.

Him running Mom's funeral?

I laughed softly. Bitterly. I tasted blood at the back of my throat.

Right. It was all an act for my father. He just wanted his blessing so he could rush into marrying Mia.

---