That night, there was a tail-gating party down at Coral Lake. A bunch of kids parked their trucks in the sand uphill, and a big bonfire was lit by the water. It was the perfect time to get drunk, eat marshmallows, and trash the lake—but that's not why I went.

Eric was sitting by the bonfire; he and his basketball buddies were celebrating the night's big win. They hogged the beer to themselves, using the coolers for benches. As soon as I approached, his friends lowered their voices to a mocking half-silence, their smiles as cheap as the beer. Jocks are the worst.

"Wassup, girl?" Eric looked up at me, bottom lip disappearing between his teeth. "I know—you came here to congratulate me on my winning shot."

I shook my head. "Nope. I just came to find out if Robin was worth it, if she really did make you a prince. Let's see." I leaned down, seized him by the shoulders—and struck him with a lightning kiss. He was so stunned he lost his beer in the sand, but the surprise didn't last. Eric came alive in a way he never had when we dated, wrapping me in his arms as he jumped to his feet and kissed me back as hard as he could. Not bad...

But not Tyler.

I pushed Eric and he stumbled backwards, landing on the cooler and slipping right off.

"Oh, shit, son!"

"Damn! Look what she did to him!"

I smirked, primping just like Robin had taught me. "Nope. Still a frog."

And Eric was still on the ground when I left.

***

I never loved Eric for one second, we were together, but finding out that he had cheated on me with Robin was a blow my ego couldn't withstand. After being humiliated by Robin's flagrant video, I couldn't allow this latest betrayal to go unpunished—kissing Eric was better than slapping him. But I never had the chance to gloat over my victory. As always, Tyler interrupted—even when he wasn't around.

All of a sudden, Tyler was... unavailable. He forgot to meet me between classes. His phone adopted a strange habit of going straight to voicemail. In English, he stopped passing notes—and could go the entire period without looking at me once. It was like he didn't know me. Worse. He didn't care. Tyler's silence was a sharp knife, bitter pills, a hangman's rope.

It killed me.

But Eric was there, willing to pick up where Tyler left off. Three days after I embarrassed him in front of his friends, Eric made his move. There he was, leaning against my locker, looking both ways... Deciding my chemistry book wasn't worth the cost, I turned and hiked it the way I came.

I was still pacing that afternoon, back and forth in my bedroom, tracking endless grooves in the carpet as I waited for Tyler to give up the strike and call...

Well, obviously he's mad at me...

But what the hell for?

"I didn't do anything!" I threw my hands up at the girl in the mirror. "This is crazy! He should just grow up, talk to me, and tell me what's wrong!"

"Or you!" Trina's shout had come from the other side of the door. Already her shuffling footsteps were receding into the distance. But her wisdom still rang in my ears. She was right. So I got in my car and drove to the Maison.

Inside, I headed straight for the golden elevators, rehearsing what I would say. So far, I hadn't gotten much further than the lyrics to Human, the song playing in the elevator. I pushed the up button, eyes on the blinking panel above the doors, tracking the lift's journey down to the lobby. The doors opened with a cheerful ding—and Tyler's parents were revealed. Startled, I took an immediate step back, clearing a path for the uncouple.

Madilyn was first to exit, brushing right past me. She didn't notice I was there, her own pain too gripping to be ignored. I saw the tears on her face, the hurt, the shame, and knew something terrible had happened upstairs.

Pete Moore followed close behind his ex-wife. His dark, unfriendly gaze swept over mine as he surged by, scowling at everything in his path. A tall man with olive skin and jet-black hair just beginning to gray—even with a sneer he was dilf-handsome, and just like his son, colder than a bad day in Oymyakon.

He saw me. There—a glimmer of recognition he chose not to acknowledge. Pete's handsome face was contorted with suppressed rage. This wasn't pain or sadness; it was fury that would probably be unleashed somewhere in the parking lot after this. I watched their retreating figures, considered going after Mrs. Moore to make sure she was ok... until I remembered they were here for the same reason I was. Tyler was my priority.

I took the elevator up to the fourth floor, traveled down the hall to the third door on the right, and knocked... Seconds later, it swung wide enough for one green eye to peek through, angry rap flooding through the crack in the doorway. I no longer wanted to yell at him. I just wanted to cover him in sloppy grandma-kisses and tell him that whatever did or did not just happen, it was all going to be okay.

But he made everything so damn hard.

"Hi." I waved.

"Ali. I didn't know you were coming."

"I know. It was a surprise—ta-da! If it's a bad time, I can go—"

"No, s'ok. Just a sec." He disappeared, there was the sound of the chain separating from the lock, the door swung open. A shirtless Tyler stepped back, his taut, chiseled frame blocking my first view of his apartment, not that it was a problem. Tyler's body was a temple, it was made to be worshiped. Tan and ripped, Tyler's body was a blank canvas, every muscle powerful and statuesque, sculpted by Michelangelo. He was more gorgeous than any deluxe apartment in the sky, even this one.

I had pictured dirty clothes on the floor—because Tyler never did his own laundry, empty pizza boxes—because he wasn't all that into cooking, pens and papers scattered all about—because poets were never far from their writing materials. But Tyler's apartment was immaculate—a vast airy space with a studio floor plan, dark modern furniture, and glass decor with lots of pointy edges. Right away, I noticed there was nothing about the place that said this was a home. No family pictures, no Grammy for Best New Artist, no knickknacks, or welcome mat to make you feel invited—there were signs that Tyler was alive, but not that Tyler was living.

As soon as I stepped through the door I was in the living room, Martha Stewart's kitchen off to my left, great big windows straight ahead, on the rear wall. This high up, Tyler didn't have to worry about intrusive fans. He could have filled his apartment with sunlight, but the navy, pinch pleated curtains were drawn tightly closed. Some of the apartment's light came from the flickering glow in the fireplace, where a half-empty whiskey glass was perched on the mantle above. I smelled its sweetness on his lips and fought the urge to chide him for turning to alcohol instead of me.

He stepped aside and I walked past him, towards the sofa—a large, L-shaped couch, with cotton-velvet upholstery finer than anything I'd seen. I was just about to tell him what a dream his apartment was, when I felt a crunch beneath my feet. I looked down to the shiny wooden floors, where a sea of glass sparkled like diamonds amidst bigger shards—the remnants of a vase, and much more. A family.

I removed my backpack, setting it gingerly on the couch. "What happened?"

"Hurricane Mom and Dad. Same shit, different day." Tyler's hands disappeared in the pockets of his sweats. He shrugged and turned his face away, stonier than ever.

My gaze returned to the broken glass. "At least this time they're fighting over you." I knelt at the edge of the mess, sifting through it, placing the biggest pieces in my palm. It reminded me of a scene from my mom's favorite movie—The First Wives Club—when the women had a fight in Elise's apartment, and the result was violence. It seemed like it was always the people you loved who brought you the most pain. "Your parents seemed pretty upset in the lobby. What about you, are you okay?"

"Peachy-keen." He knelt at my side, retrieving glass with the same precise movements, just as careful not to look me in the eye. Peaches were warm and fuzzy. Tyler was cold and stiff. "He didn't say anything, did he?"

"Who, Pete?" I shook my head.

"Good. He has this habit of bringing other people into his problems. He's like a leech—all he does is destroy things. This time? Not so bad—the vase was ugly anyway."

"Tyler, I—"

"It's okay." He straightened; I followed suit, speechless. "I'll throw that away. Trash can's in the kitchen." I deposited the glass in his hand and watched him go, wishing I had something anyway.

My phone distracted me from further cleaning, its angry buzz demanding immediate attention. I removed it from my pocket and read the text.

Forget music. Basketball is better for your health.

I rolled my eyes at the purple eggplant tailing Eric's message, smirking at the thought that I had once mistook his desperation for sexy. Eric was cute, and he was charming, and he could make girls blush, but when it came to the real him all that fire was mostly smoke.

"What's so funny?"

I jumped. Tyler was just ahead, broom in one hand, plastic bag in the other. At any moment he could sweep out the trash—and me along with it.

"Not Eric." I pressed the home button, tossing my phone on the couch.

His face tightened. He dumped the objects in his hands, letting them fall, carelessly, to the ground. "Yeah, I know Eric. Your boyfriend, right?"

"So that's why you're mad at me. I would say we're just friends but we're not even that. Honestly, I'm not sure I ever liked him. It was more like... infatuation. I don't even know why—all he did was play basketball and smoke weed in other people's basements—"

"Stop." Tyler's eyes flashed the same warning. "Fast-forward to the part where you kiss your ex at a party. Now un-freeze, and tell me it didn't mean anything. I dare you."

"Who told you—"

"Robin. In case you haven't noticed, Aaliyah, she hates you."

"Obviously! But I don't care—and I don't want Eric. This, is a total misunderstanding. It wasn't an I-love-you kiss. It was more like an I-hate-you type of thing. You had to be there—"

"If I had been there you never would have kissed him!" He didn't give me a chance for rebuttal, striding forward and encasing me in his arms. "So, was it like this?" Tyler kissed me, softly, quickly, with the gentle spark of a flame. "Or was it like this?" The heat was intense, his kiss an inferno—a scorching blaze of fury and passion. His lips, his hands, his tongue, it was all tangled with mine, a beautiful explosion, war zones and paradise. We were on fire.

He broke the kiss and I wanted to break him.

Tyler's hands dipped from my shoulders to my arms; he gave me a shake, not enough to hurt, just to get me going. "Which was it?"

"Neither! Because it wasn't you! No one could ever be you!"

"Good answer." He leaned down, lips brushing my ear. "But not. Good. Enough." Tyler stalked past me.

I whipped around, fists clenched in fury at the sight of his back to me. "Don't you dare act like you don't believe me. That kiss—didn't. Mean. Anything."

"And neither do I, apparently." He came back, bearing down on me, forcing me, little by little, towards the couch. "How would you like it if I kissed Robin, huh? Do you care at all about my feelings, Aaliyah, or is it just about you—like always? Did you forget about New York that quickly? Or what I said to you in the cab, and back at that stupid tree? Or how you were ready to give me everything in the backseat of your car? You could have kissed any guy, but you had to kiss him. It just had to be your ex—"

I ran out of space and bumped into the couch, taking a hard seat as I blinked back tears. "He cheated on me! Okay? What I did was wrong, but it wasn't you I was trying to hurt." I wipe my face, then spread my hands in defeat. "I just wanted him to feel as empty as I did when I found out she had you and him. God! Y'know, you're just like her! You both think you're entitled to whatever you want—no one else's opinions matter. If they did, you'd believe me. You'd trust me. It was just a kiss, Tyler—it will never happen again."

His head hung to the side, lazy with indifference. "You're right. It won't."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I don't know. You tell me, Aaliyah."

But I had had enough. I sprang from the couch and stormed past Tyler.

"Hey! Where the hell are you going?"

I stopped short, rounding on Tyler with open-handed rage, furious that he would push me away just for the sake of pulling me back in—a yoyo, his to toy with.

"Tyler, I came here to apologize, and to make sure you were okay—not to be your punching bag. I'm going home."

"Ali, wait. Please, I'm so--"

I slammed the door behind me.

***