"I WAS DRUNK."

Reflex is a weird thing. It's trying to move one of your fingers and having the others follow. Or hitting a pulse right and having a previously ignored part of your body jerk involuntarily. All subconscious stuff.

Reflex was what made me say the first thing that came to my mind after a solid minute of just staring at everybody with nothing but static noise in my head, and if I'd been thinking clearer, I would've known better than to open my mouth at the time I did and in the direction I did. Because there was no way that was an excuse for what happened.

A pulse had been attacked, and all connected body parts had no choice but to respond.

With the way Mark looked at me, I gathered he was half-expecting me to say that. Of course he was expecting me to say that. This show gave him the opportunity to flex his scheming drama kid slash ex-writer muscles.

There was visible intention in the way I'd kissed Takoda last night, visible intention in the way he'd kissed me back. There was this finality to my movements—kind of like when a predator zeroes in on its prey, when a shark smells blood—that couldn't be attributed to the fact that I was intoxicated. I didn't realize that yesterday, not quite able to see past the drunken haze, but now, with the images in front of me, I realized that even though it was a mistake, it didn't look like one. Heck, it didn't even feel like one until this morning.

I looked like I was just about ready to start work taking off his shirt.

For many reasons, I wasn't sure I was breathing. My hands were trembling in my lap, oxygen was scarce, and waves of heat continuously washed over me, pushing me into its depths until I started to feel slightly nauseous.

This couldn't be happening.

"Yes, you were drunk," Mark agreed with a gentle nod of his head, a subtle duh tone in his voice. "I can see that. But I can't blame any of this"—he gestured to the camera—"on that. You two have done this before, haven't you?"

The room started to spin, and the lights suddenly seemed brighter than they were a second ago. I blinked rapidly, hearing my lungs failing, hearing the cogs in my brain malfunctioning as they struggled to produce an answer I could give to him.

"Cleo?"

I looked back at Mark. "Yeah?"

"What's going on between the both of you?"

"Nothing," I lied. Reflex. "I was drunk. Basically didn't know what I was doing." I managed to throw a nervous laugh in there, my body working faster than my brain. I felt numb, like I was suspended in time or something.

"What about him, then? He didn't know what he was doing either?"

I shrugged. "I can't speak for him."

Mark watched me for a moment, glancing down at my shivering hands and turning his notepad over, a sign that he was about to round up this session. I refrained from releasing a sigh of relief, knowing that even though he was getting ready to dismiss me, he wasn't quite done.

"If there's anything going on, you know you can tell me, Cleo. Anything at all."

Aside from being the show's producer, Mark was genuinely like family to us. He'd been around for eleven years, watched my sister and I grow, celebrated every one of our milestones in his lowkey way, been a part of the rise of the Lavigne clan. I knew. I knew that if there was anyone that deserved to know about the mess I'd gotten myself into, it was him. He could work his way around it if he had to.

But there was this tiny part of me that asked what would happen if he didn't want to work around it. What if he wanted to work with it? If I wasn't on the receiving end of the scrutiny, I probably would've appreciated the fact that this looked absolutely brilliant, looked good for increasing visibility and sparking interest, for fueling conversations on Twitter.

Ice-cold Cleo Lavigne and one of the biggest, most appreciated artists in the music industry, AKA her sister's best friend, alone, kissing, mouth to mouth.

Cleo Lavigne and Takoda Calebs. Takoda Calebs. I could almost see us trending by Wednesday evening.

"Nothing's going on," I told him, with as much confidence as I could muster around the pounding in my chest.

Mark kept on staring at me, knowing he was going to break me if he tried hard enough, and I was just about to wince from the intensity of his gaze when Coco appeared back in front of the camera with a box in her arms. I hadn't even noticed her come back in.

"Mom got me another box of"—she dropped into the spot next to me, set the box on her lap, then pulled out one of its items—"toilet mugs. It just came in."

The moment she pulled it out, everyone, Takoda included, started laughing.

"This one even looks dirty. Like, look at this." She turned the inside of the mug to face the camera, causing everyone to laugh harder. The mug did look like a toilet that had been abandoned for years after being carelessly used non-stop. The only difference between it and a real one was that this one was glazed. "There are even lids in here," she said as she lowered her gaze to the box, looking horrified, beyond traumatized.

Feeling relief spread through me at the change in mood, I asked, "Where do you think Mom gets this stuff?"

"Oh, there's definitely a 'disturbing things to get your kids' thread on Reddit or something."

This time when Takoda laughed, his eyes met mine for the millionth time today, but what I saw in them was different. What I saw in them made me smile back, made his orbs soften in return. Or maybe it was just the relief I was looking at.

Whatever it was had Mark looking at me again.

I was sprawled out makeup-free on the chaise lounge in the living room about an hour later, reading a stray magazine article about what to do when you suspect you're being ghosted, when Takoda came out of the confessional with flushed cheeks. He lingered by the entrance for a moment after he noticed me, taking in the otherwise empty room as if expecting someone to pop out of something and yell boo. There was a sudden alertness to his presence.

I averted my eyes and mindlessly flipped to another page before I was done with what I was reading. "She's in the kitchen making popcorn," I told him, my voice monotone.

I was silently hoping he'd leave and go to my sister, because that was the most logical thing for him to do after what just happened. There were no cameras in here, but I was still admittedly nervous about us being alone. After yesterday, especially after last night, talking to him one on one was the last thing I wanted to do.

But Takoda didn't share my opinion, as evidenced by the way he nodded, then came to sit on the couch next to me. I tried to remain calm and casual, tried to just keep my eyes on the magazine in my hands, but I was also a little too aware of how fast the edges were starting to crinkle beneath my grip at his sudden proximity to me.

I flipped to yet another page, deciding to just focus on leveling my breathing and acting like his presence wasn't bothering me.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him looking at me, his right leg bouncing in that way I'd come to associate with him being nervous. It was funny to think that he was nervous about me, too.

"How are you feeling?"

I hadn't gotten used to this new voice of his, hadn't fully equipped myself for the richer, lower version of the one I was used to, so despite the fact that he was there and I was aware of it, my body still jolted when I heard him speak.

Against my better judgement, I looked at him, and he seemed to still beneath my gaze. "What?"

He gestured to his head awkwardly. "Your hangover. How do you feel?"

Something temporarily softened inside me, and I was this close to telling him that I was fine when a year's worth of memories flashed in my mind, so fast it made me dizzy for a bit. In those few seconds, I just kept on staring at him, and he stared back, waiting for my response.

To no one's surprise, I crossed one leg over the other instead of giving him an answer, suddenly conscious of what I was putting on. I was in one of Coco's atrociously short shorts and an oversized Metallica T-shirt I found lying in her closet. If I'd been standing, I doubted anyone would've been able to tell that I was putting anything on beneath it.

I couldn't remember why I'd chosen this out of all the things my sister had in her closet.

For a very brief moment, I wondered if he felt tempted to look at my bare skin, but banished the thought when I realized how inappropriate it was. I didn't care what he thought about me.

"Why do you care?" I asked instead, refocusing my gaze on the magazine.

I could feel that he was lost and short of words before I spared him a glance and took in the look on his face.

He didn't speak, contrary to what I was expecting, and I took it as a sign to go back to what I was reading. I could still feel his gaze on me, but I did a better job at ignoring it this time. Practice did make perfect.

Right when I thought he'd gotten the message, he said, "You know, this thing you're doing isn't helping anyone."

I impulsively closed the magazine and threw it to the couch, feeling a bolt of annoyance or something similar ricochet through me with lightning speed. As quietly as I could manage in that moment, I asked, "What do you want from me, Takoda?"

He was surprised by my question—it showed in his eyes—but he was quick to cover it up. I was so jealous of how well he could mask his emotions. Even when he was younger, it seemed to be an ability he was born with. You couldn't really tell with Takoda. You couldn't guess what he was thinking, and he always took you off guard with the words that came out of his mouth. He was like a professionally trained spy, slinking around as much as he wanted without being discovered.

"I want you to act normal, Cleo. Everyone's starting to catch on."

I released a brief, facetious laugh. "You can't just disappear for six months, then show up and tell me what to do."

"Is that what this is about?"

"You're an asshole who uses people to get what you want," I said, making him fall quiet. "That's what this is about."

His jaw clenched in response to my words, and I guess a part of me wanted to feel bad at how harsh my tone was, but I didn't exactly regret saying what I did. They were a result of my pent-up emotions, of all the things I felt too numb to say all those months ago.

I remembered almost crashing my car on the way home, how I'd leaned forward against the steering wheel and cried while the vehicle overheated on the shoulder of the road, because out of all the ways I thought I'd get hurt, what he did was the one thing I didn't see coming. I believed I was strong enough, too smart to fall for something like that, but he'd proven me wrong.

I was just like every other girl unfortunate enough to let a boy's words, a boy's kisses, a boy's promises deceive her.

"Cleobelle—"

"The hell," I whispered, my voice trembling, and before I could think about it, I was on my feet and making to leave.

"Cleo, wait." He took a hold of my hand as he got to his feet, too, and the contact was so sudden that I retracted my skin from his like he was made of electricity and I of metal.

"Don't touch me." I was seething, my anger already reaching its limit, already boiling over. Tears were stinging at my eyes, and I was furiously fighting them, begging them to stay down. I couldn't let him see me cry over him. I wasn't going to admit my stupidity in front of him like that. "Don't fucking touch me." It was far from intentional, but my voice quivered on my last words, and he heard it.

"Can't we talk about it?" he looked the way I truly felt inside. Sad and broken.

"Talk about it? Talk about it—I've been a broken loser for months because of you, Takoda, so no, we can't talk about it." One stubborn tear found its way out, and I couldn't understand. I couldn't understand why I was crying. I was fine a minute ago. I was completely fine. Why the hell was I crying in front of him? "Your presence and everything about you right now is just really agitating for me, and I can't handle it. I told you to stay away from me."

"I can't, Cleo. Trust me, I tried last night, but then we couldn't find you and I panicked, and I'm so sorry about what happened. I just . . . I just can't pretend like you're not here."

I took a step closer to him, hoping to intimidate him to an extent but ending up regretting it instead. Takoda was taller, broader, more like a man now. I believed I'd mostly remained the same, my shoulders narrow, my frame slender. His build almost completely swallowed mine whole. But I'd pass out before I backed away. "Do you feel good when you lie to me?"

"I'm not lying."

"Well, I don't believe you."

He blinked at me, his eyes suddenly clouding over. "Look, I know saying I'm sorry won't cut it, but I really am. Things could've gone differently, but I was being a big idiot. I just—These last few months . . ." He scraped a hand through his hair, struggling with words. Under normal circumstances, I would've laughed at the fact that someone who creatively and intricately weaved lyrics like they could've been a new brand of thread, someone that regularly waxed poetic in his notebooks, was suddenly tripping over simple English. But nothing was normal about this. "I wanted to say something to you, I swear. I picked up the phone to call you so many times, to try and make things right, but I was also aware that you deserved more than the apology I planned on giving, much less over the phone. I wanted to be here to do it—"

He suddenly stopped talking, and I didn't realize why at first, until I felt the hotness on my face. Tears. A lot of tears.

This was ridiculous.

I quickly wiped them off, sniffling as I stepped away from him. "It doesn't matter."

"It does." He watched me for a moment, as though he was expecting me to say something. I didn't have the energy to, even though there were a thousand more things I was sure I wanted to tell him. "I hurt you," he said, "and I can never take that back."

"More reason why it doesn't matter. Not anymore, at least."

He took a while before saying again, "I'm sorry, Clee."

Another tear slipped out of my eye, and I brushed it off with the tips of my fingers, looking towards the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the neighbors' property. Three kids in nothing but cartoon-themed shorts were playing with a beach ball in the sand, while a lady I suspected was their mom watched them from a sunlounger, looking more red than tan.

I wasn't used to being apologized to. Anytime Coco did something to hurt me, I shrugged it off after a while, because apparently, siblings don't say sorry to each other. She'd just shove me and tell me to smile, and I'd tell her I was fine even though I really wasn't. My parents found their way around apologies by buying me stuff I didn't always need and being nicer than usual, and by the time I realized that I was supposed to be mad at them, I wasn't mad anymore. Same thing with Robin. That was how it had always been. So I wasn't entirely sure how I felt about Takoda's apologies. What did apologies do, anyway?

For some wildly insane reason, I didn't move or say anything. I remained standing there, letting his warmth cascade through me as I half-focused on those joyful kids and their partially sunburnt mother outside. Ever so slowly, after a peaceful moment, he reached forward for my hand. His touch was sizzling and intimidating, but I didn't jerk away from it, even though my body went rigid. I let him test the waters, weigh my reaction, become even more confident about what he was doing, and in my vulnerability, I looked at him.

He was looking at me, too. Looking at me. In a way he hadn't before. And it felt simultaneously familiar and foreign, like I was listening to a cover of a song I already knew, like I couldn't remember all of the lyrics. In that moment, I think we both forgot that we weren't the only ones in the building. There was an entire camera crew just down the hallway. My sister was in the kitchen, and she could walk in at any time. But none of that mattered to us.

I'd spent the last six months of my life in this back and forth. I didn't know what I wanted, wasn't sure what was good for me. I'd been burned so badly that I hadn't even bothered to look at a guy that way ever since Takoda walked out on me. There was a part beneath all this that was adamant on letting him in, insistent on me emphasizing the need for boundaries, but it had been so long since I'd been the subject of this kind of affection.

I almost couldn't remember what it felt like.

His hand was as warm as it always was, and as it gently tightened around my fingers, I felt the need to say something to distract myself from all the contrasting emotions running through me. But he beat me to it.

"I missed you, too," he whispered, reminding me of last night and the entire drunken thing.

I did miss him. To a crazy height, if I was being honest with myself. I just didn't know if I wanted to. This feeling was horrible; it made you feel alive at the same time that it killed you.

He was mindlessly stepping closer to me, out of habit, I think, and I wanted to push him away, to tell him to stop this, but I couldn't. My body was defiant, and he was so warm. His other hand came up to my face, and I backed away from it for a moment before realizing that maybe I wanted it.

Push him away, Cleo. Don't make the same mistake again.

I wasn't listening. I let him touch me, let myself melt into his warmth. I caught sight of the black ink on the inside of his wrist again, feeling my chest grow heavier and heavier with every passing second. His thumb softly brushed over my damp cheek, once, and instinctively, I reached up for his hand—

"What are you guys doing?"

"Nothing," was out of my mouth as I hurriedly stepped away from Takoda, before I even registered who had joined us.

At the sight of my sister standing by the entrance with a bowl of microwave popcorn in her hand, regarding us with what looked like suspicion in her eyes, my heart started to feel less like an organ that kept me alive and more like a war drum.

A second passed with her just watching us, then she squinted at me, her gaze growing soft. "Are you crying?" she asked, bringing my attention back to the fact that there were tears in my eyes.

I looked back at Takoda, unable to believe what I'd almost let him do. If my sister hadn't interrupted, how far would we