What if I told him about Jim right away? What if I never left Trevor? What if I never see him again?

The clock passes time slowly at night, and I think it’s my penance.

Sleep is a fantasy lately. I’m lucky to squeeze in two hours in a row on any given stretch. Somehow, though, I’ve managed to function during the hours I’ve been putting in on the project—from sunrise until seven or eight at night—and today will be no exception.

The office is closed for New Year’s Eve and day, but I have my own key, and I plan on spending a few hours in the afternoon on some of the final touches for the council presentation. Jeff said it was a pathetic way for a 21-year-old to spend New Year’s Eve. He was laughing when he said it, and I know he meant it as a joke, but it still stung a little. Regardless, I think it’s slightly better than bringing a take-and-bake pizza up to my apartment and having a solo movie party on my cardboard-box dining table.

I fine tune things for most of the morning, taking a short break for lunch before going at it again on the 3-D program. Everything takes me longer, because I’m still learning, but the work requires so much of my mind that it acts as a placebo, letting me forget everything that’s going wrong on the other side.

I pack my work up neatly by about four in the afternoon, and I take the materials to Jeff’s office. I like coming in here to work when I can, mostly because of the cushy leather chairs and the smell of wood. His office is perfect—exactly what I want for myself one day. I pull my knees up in one of the seats near the window and fold my hands along the back, staring out at the garden and busy highway beyond. My eyelids are heavy, and I let myself shut them to indulge. I can feel the waves pulling me down, like a heavy, wet blanket.

When my pocket vibrates, I startle. My arm is still tucked under my chin, but it’s asleep from the weight of my body. I actually have to twist myself to the side in the chair to get my arms to work and get the blood pumping in them again. The office is dark, only lit by the glow of a few streetlights outside. It takes three or four good rubs of my eyes to get them to focus on the clock, and I’m finally able to read the time: it’s just after ten o’clock.

My body feels rested for the first time in days. I stretch myself tall as I push my feet back into the ballet slippers I wore into the office; they must have fallen off during my nap. I close the door behind me and leave everything just as I found it in Jeff’s office and walk back to my cube to turn out the light.

The building is quiet, and the parking lot is empty. My breath is thick with fog as I blow it out and look for the button on my keys to open my door. I get in quickly and fire up the heater, digging through my purse for my gloves to warm my hands during the drive. I’m about to pull them on when I feel my phone buzz in my pocket again.

I’m sure it’s Jessie; she’s probably texting me during the party—drunk, no doubt. My screen is actually frosted on my phone, and I wipe it dry using the fingers of one of my gloves. When I see the trace of the phone call, the proof left behind, I let it slide from my hands down through the crack of my seat.

He called. Tonight.

And I didn’t answer.

I didn’t even hear it.

I dig feverishly under my seat, my fingers frantic, and grasping for the phone until I bring it back to my lap.

He called. Twice.

No message. Probably no more than a single ring. But he called. He must be at the party. I bet Jessie told him about my project, and I bet he just wants to see it. He probably wants to know how he can lease a property, and what he has to do to be a part of it, to work at the garage.

This isn’t about me. It’s about Jake’s—about the sign I stole, about getting back his home—the one he thinks I ripped away from him. It’s probably a lecture on how dare I use his father’s shop for my own personal gain!

He probably wants to blame me again for not giving him a choice.

I toss the phone into the seat next to me and slam my hands on the steering wheel over and over while I scream obscenities. How could he choose the garage? How could he not choose me? Not choose us?! Didn’t I mean anything to him at all? I told him everything, I shared Mac with him, and I let him in! I threw away EASY! I threw away PERFECT! Because I chose difficult—I chose f**king impossible! I chose him!

My foot is heavy on the gas, and I know I’m going at least 90 down the highway. I also know I couldn’t possibly look less ready-to-party in my faded jeans, long-sleeved T-shirt, and black slipper shoes. I wore the knit hat all day because the office was cold; my hair is permanently dented around my ears. When I finally hit a stoplight, I brush my hair out with my fingers and pull my cap back on when it does no good, wrapping my neck in the scarf, too. I’m cold, and damn it, I’m staying f**king bundled.