BULKY

I bolt upright in bed when my phone starts to vibrate on the bed beside my hip. Reaching down, I pick it up, wincing when I see Paul’s name on the screen. I’m definitely about to get an earful, but it’s going to happen sometime, isn’t it? Might as well be now.

With a blown-out breath, I answer the phone. “Paul…I’m sorry. I—”

“Can you come downstairs?”

I swipe at my red nose. “So you can yell at me in person?”

He sighs and it turns into a quiet laugh. “Just come down here.”

The call ends and I stare at the device in trepidation a moment, before climbing off the bed and slipping a white summer dress over my bikini, sliding my feet into sandals. I catch a glimpse of my tear-stained face in the mirror on my way out, but no amount of makeup is going to fix it. There is no one waiting in the foyer, so I open the door myself and come face to face with my best friend on the marble staircase.

“Hey,” I say miserably.

Paul shakes his head, a hard gleam in his eye. “What were you thinking?”

“I don’t know.” My voice is unbalanced. “It started out as a crush on your dad, but then it just…snowballed. And then I couldn’t breathe unless I saw him at least once a day—”

“Gross. Look, is he the reason you’re friends with me?”

My chest seizes with disbelief. “What?” I reach out and grab his arm. “No. No! Oh my God, of course not. You’re my best friend because I adore you. I would never use you like that. I’m sorry…I’m sorry you’re doubting me—”

“Shut up, I’m not,” he interrupts, rolling his eyes. “Not really. I just had to make sure you love me as much as you should.”

“I do.”

“Just in very different way than you love my father.” He shakes his head. “It’s going to take a long time for me to get used to saying that.”

My heart sinks down to my knees. “I don’t think you’ll have to get used to anything. He’s never going to want to see me again.”

Paul places a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “Don’t be so sure.” He tugs me toward the steps where his car is waiting below. “Come on, weepy face.”

I sputter in confusion. “Where are we going?”

He doesn’t answer, simply opening the passenger side door and gesturing for me to get in. Hope starts to flicker inside of me, but I douse the flame immediately, afraid how crushed I’ll be if Gunner isn’t on the other side of this car ride. Still, without any keys or even my phone, I move as if in a trance, getting into the car and fastening my seatbelt.

We drive into the city, the radio playing softly, the air conditioning raising goosebumps on my skin. My best friend has essentially forgiven me for keeping my relationship with his father a secret—I’ve already gotten a better outcome than I deserve. I’m trying to suppress any more dangerous hope from rising to the surface, but the closer we get to our destination, the tighter my throat gets. Especially when we drive right past the hotel where Gunner and I met every night for one glorious week.

“Where are you taking me?”

Giving me a cheeky look, he doesn’t answer. But then he parks in front of Wonderbluss. The art installation center I took Gunner to on our first night together. There is no way Paul could know the significance of this place unless Gunner told him.

My heart pumps wildly in my ribcage, my fingers curling around the doorhandle. “Is he in there?” I sob. “Does he forgive me?”

“Oh, I’d say that’s a safe bet.”

With a shocked and relieved whimper, I throw myself out of the car and go running. I start to open the door of Wonderbluss, but someone opens it for me first. It’s my…father? And my mother is standing behind him. They both look a little shaken, but happily resigned, nonetheless.

And they’re dressed up.

My father is in a suit and tie, my mother in black Versace.

“I made a mess of things,” I say, haltingly. “I should have told you the truth.”

“We all make mistakes—I know that better than anyone,” my father sighs, his mouth ticking up at one corner. “Luckily, not all mistakes lead to ruin.”

I swallow. “I’m sorry you saw…what you saw.”

“How about we just pretend that never happened, huh?” We both laugh a little uncomfortably, stopping when he jerks his head at the velvet curtain separating the entrance from the art installations. “Orange door.”

With a happy, watery laugh, I give my parents hugs and dash toward the curtain, throwing myself through it into the hallway. I don’t bother trying to smooth my hair or get the wrinkles out of my dress. I only care about getting through the orange door. To Gunner. I miss him so much, I barely feel human. I need his hands on me, need to hear his voice.