Page 121 of P.S. I'm Still Yours

I rise off my bed in one go and throw on a jacket over my pj’s. I don’t care if he’s done with the conversation. I’m not, and I’ll be damned if I let him ghost me again.

I slip into my slides and speed down the hall toward Kane’s bedroom.

I swing the door open and find the room empty.

Where the hell is he?

I go through the first floor of the house at warp speed, my anger losing momentum with every room I check.

Memories of that night I found him singing on the patio resurface, and I charge toward the sliding glass door, turning the patio lights on before stepping outside.

Venturing into the backyard, I comb through the barbecue, sitting, and pool areas with no luck. I’m about to text him to ask where he is when an idea pops into my head.

I make my way to the edge of the patio, stretching my neck and squinting to see the floating dock and gazebo by the beach. Mom, Evie, Gray, Kane and I used to watch the Fourth of July fireworks in there every summer.

Solar lights hang from the roof, illuminating the otherwise pitch-black area, and I strain my eyes for any sign of Kane.

That’s when I see movement in the gazebo.

At least, I think I do?

Couldn’t hurt to look.

Maybe I’m wasting my time. He might not even be there, but I’ve come too far to turn back now. I reach the bottom of the creaky stairs a minute later, following the only source of light on the deserted beach.

I’m afraid my anger will be gone by the time I find him. But then I see a shadow inside the gazebo.

I’m embarrassingly out of breath when I stop in front of the floating dock, my heart beating twice as hard as it normally would. Victory creeps into my chest at the sight of him.

Kane’s sitting on the gazebo’s built-in bench. My satisfaction dies down when I spot the half-full bottle of whiskey in his right hand.

I thought he stopped drinking?

When did he relapse?

He doesn’t notice me until I’m standing inside the gazebo, a few feet away from him.

His green eyes widen in surprise, but he doesn’t get a chance to speak before I blurt out, “Next time you try ghosting a girl, maybe don’t pick the one living in your house.”

He scoffs, avoiding my gaze. “Did you come all this way just to tell me that?”

“I get that you’re not familiar with the concept of good communication, being a professional ghoster and all, but usually, when someone asks you a question, the polite thing to do is answer it.”

He gives a shrug, the picture of indifference, and takes a swig from the whiskey bottle before saying, “I wasn’t ghosting you.”

“I’m sorry, are we talking about now or the last five years?”

We’ve been beating around the bush since I got to the beach house.

He’s done a great job at pretending like he didn’t completely shatter my heart the day he left, and I’ve done a great job at pretending like I haven’t been dying to find out why.

But I’ve had enough of this game.

Time for the truth.

His vicious mouth curls into a smirk. “So, that’s what this is about.”

He really doesn’t care about the pain he’s caused me, does he?

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