“Hey!” she shouts through the door. “Don’t tell him I told you about him. He told me not to!”

I close my eyes and slump to the ground, leaning my head back against the door as I try to get it together.

Paul is here. No, Paul’s living here. In my building.

The question is, how do I feel about it?

Stunned? Check. Elated? Maybe. A little pissed that he didn’t just pick up the phone and call first? For sure.

But none of that matters, because while my brain is registering all of those reactions, my heart clings to only one: wariness.

See, not so long ago, I was a bona fide romantic. I believed in true love and happy endings.

And then I grew up.

I kissed my boyfriend’s best friend, and then went and tried to steal my ex back from his new girlfriend.

And then I thought I could make amends for all of that by fixing some poor fool who never really wanted to be fixed in the first place.

I single-handedly messed it all up.

In other words, romance? Disney and the romantic comedies can keep it. If it even exists.

Self-preservation feels infinitely safer. Self-preservation doesn’t allow you to go bounding down the hallway to throw yourself into the arms of a guy you love more than anything.

Self-preservation knows that by keeping to yourself, you won’t give someone the chance to push you away and tell you you’re not worth it.

Self-preservation means that you don’t have to worry about when you inevitably hurt him.

No. No. I’m so not doing that. I’m not going down that path of berating myself for what I’ve done in the past.

But . . .

Neither am I going down the path toward him.

I slowly climb back to my feet, wiping away the tears.

Paul Langdon has come, likely planning some big grand finale, and he’s going to get it. But I don’t think it’ll be the one he’s expecting.

Our ending is going to be the hard, painful kind.

The kind that will be better for both of us in the long run.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Paul

Note to self: ask Olivia why she chose the grossest building in Manhattan for her first apartment.

I pull out some bills fresh from my savings account, which I just emptied, and hand them to my two thuglike movers. Neither of them bothers to count the money, which seems idiotic to me, but hey, whatever gets them out of my home faster.

Home. Good God.

The landlord assured me it was the largest floor plan available. A “deluxe two-bedroom.” While I’ll grant that there technically seem to be two rooms in which one could put a bed, the deluxe part eludes me altogether.

Is it the ancient fridge? The freezer that makes rattling noises? No, it must be the dingy shower that can maybe allow for me to stand sideways. A car horn blares outside. Wait, no—make that dozens of car horns blaring outside.

Of course, I’m practically immune to it by now. I’ve been in the city for all of a few hours, but it only took the trip from LaGuardia to my new building for car horns to become second nature. I get why native New Yorkers say you don’t even really notice the noise after a while. You have to get used to it, because it’s either that or go bat-shit crazy.

I am a long, long way from Bar Harbor, Maine.

I rub a hand over my face and look around at the boxes crammed into a ridiculously small space. I don’t have much stuff. Bare bones kitchen essentials, clothes, and admittedly more boxes of books than is probably practical for an apartment home in New York City. But even my minimal belongings crowd this place.

I don’t care. I don’t care about the nasty grout on the counters, or the too-small fridge, or the fact that my landlord left me a note about the cheapest place to buy rat traps. I’m not here for the luxurious lodging.

I’m here for her. She’s everything.

The only problem? My grand plan for getting her back looks a little something like this: move into her building to show her you’re in this for good, and . . . end of plan. As in that’s the end of my f**king plan.

I’m too terrified to think it through. I’m terrified she’ll tell me to f**k off. Terrified she’ll have found someone else—someone who isn’t acting like a scared, superficial little boy, hiding alone in his castle because he was scared about what other people think.

Because here’s what I’ve realized: I don’t care about what other people think. It’s taken a long-ass time for me to grow up and get to that, but it’s the honest-to-God truth.

But I do care about other people. Lindy. Mick. Dad. Kali.

Amanda and Lily.

Olivia.

These past few weeks without Olivia have been the worst of my life, and I’ll happily spend the rest of my life being the circus spectacle for other people to point and laugh at, if only she’ll be by my side.

But that’s the trick, isn’t it? I’ve got to figure out how to get her by my side.

It’s why I moved into this hellhole when I can afford something three times the size that doesn’t smell like Bangkok.

I want to be close to her. I need to be close to her. Even if she wants nothing to do with me, even if I have to watch as another guy comes to her door, I need to be near her. So I’ll be wherever she is.

And Olivia’s in New York. Sort of my worst nightmare, but it’s a good fit for her. With all that polish and brains, she belongs in a Manhattan high-rise, not locked away in the middle of nowhere. I was a complete shit to want that for her.

And that’s why I’m here. Because Olivia needs to be here. And I need Olivia, however I can have her.