Page 190 of P.S. I'm Still Yours

Until he spins her around, cups her face, and kisses her.

It feels like getting stabbed in the chest with a butcher knife.

I blink repeatedly, as if to cleanse my mind from the image of them together.

Scar cringes. “Okay, definitely not gay.”

“I’m such a fucking idiot,” I whisper to myself.

Did I really think a girl like Hadley would stay single for two years? I never even answered her texts or reached out to her. Of course she’d move on with some asshole from the basketball team.

Why wouldn’t she?

It’s not like I gave her a reason not to.

I squint, making out the surname plastered on the back of her boyfriend’s varsity jacket.

Aster.

This Aster guy tickles her from the moment they move away, and she fakes a smile, shooing his hand away.

Fucking rookie.

She hates being tickled. She once kicked Gray in the face, almost breaking his nose, to get him to stop. He doesn’t even know her.

Why does he get to be the one kissing her?

“I’m sorry, man.” The pity in my drummer’s eyes makes me nauseous.

She kisses the lucky motherfucker again, crushes her body to his, and slips her hands deep into his hair.

“Whatever,” I drawl, starting the engine and backing out of my spot. “Let’s get out of here.”

I must have a taste for torture because I glance into the rearview mirror as I drive away, watching him kiss the hell out of her.

My Hadley.

Mine…

But that’s just the thing, isn’t it?

She’s not mine.

Even though I’m still hers.

* * *

“Remind me again why we couldn’t just go home?” I hear the words Scar is saying, but they don’t register, his voice a dull echo as I pull into the driveway of the only other people I know in this town.

Brody and Finn Richards.

Part of growing up with a rich father is getting to know other rich kids.

The Richards and my family were what I like to call convenient friends—i.e. people you wouldn’t be friends with if it weren’t for the fact that you run in the same social circle.

Everybody knows the rich life tends to be a lonely one.

Once you reach a certain level of wealth, things get messy.

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