—Present Day—

"Six thousand two hundred twenty-four dollars and forty-five . . ."

My head spins and my knees weaken as I gape in horror at the medical bill in my hands. I'm about to fall to the ground when Nessa slides a wheelchair right behind me. My butt hits the cushion with a plop, and I slump on the seat.

"See that?" Nessa rubs a hand in circles over my back, sympathy coloring her voice. "That is why you should get health insurance."

I bring the paper closer to my eyes and read the receipt word by word. "I've never even caught a cold, Ness. Health insurance would be a total waste of money. Besides, a thousand bucks for the ambulance alone? This is a rip-off!"

"Look at the bright side," she says, a note of guilt in her voice. "At least it doesn't require too many visits to the hospital like last time."

"Yeah, but . . ."

To be honest, Nessa has a point. When I broke my ankle two years and twenty-eight days ago, I had to visit an orthopedist five more times after my initial visit to the ER. The piling medical bills, combined with my credit card debts, led me to bankruptcy and forced me to sell Rusty—my precious 1963 Dodge Dart.

But even though I only need to visit the doctor once more to remove the stitches, the thought of spending $6,224.45 when I still haven't paid this month's mortgage and Lightning's payment sends anxiety sweeping through me.

"So, now will you let me pay for—"

"No." I stand up and hand my credit card to the cashier.

Ever since we walked out of the emergency room, Nessa has been trying to get me to use her credit card to pay my medical bills. Considering how I'm going to have to spend the next six months skipping breakfast and dinner, I should've accepted her offer.

Still, just like last time, I can't allow her to pay for my mistakes—well, Pikachu's mistakes.

How come I don't remember that?

The question slithers into my mind as I recall dreaming about that cursed Christmas Adam last night.

I've always remembered spending the night in the ER surrounded by people crying in pain and making a decision that led to our undoing. But before today, I forgot how the accident happened. I always thought I slipped because of these cheap, secondhand sneakers. But now I realize the accident wouldn't have happened if Pikachu hadn't gone wild.

What if TJ's right?

What if I do have a . . . condition?

What if I have been hypnotizing myself into believing that I don't have any feelings for Nessa?

". . . go get the car, okay?"

A shudder of horror runs through me at the thought of Nessa driving my precious car. "Oh, no, no, no. Give me back Lightning's key." I hold out my hand, palm up, and move my fingers in a beckoning gesture.

She lets out a mocking laugh. "You can barely open your left eye, Ol."

"Yeah, but even with one eye closed I'm still a much better driver than you are."

As she purses her lips in a pout, a memory trickles into my consciousness, a memory of her sporting that same look last night . . . after I kissed her.

My eyes go wide in shock. What the heck? Did I kiss her? Again? But she's not freaking out this time. So it must be a dream—

"Oh, come on, Ol. You can't still be holding a grudge against me for almost crashing Rusty into a tree."

"As a matter of fact, I do." I take my credit card back from the cashier and give Nessa the side-eye.

"But think about it. You just got out of the ER. You spent half an hour throwing up in the restroom. And you can't even walk straight. What if, say, you're driving behind a logging truck and one of the logs falls off? On a normal occasion, you can avoid it like . . . falling off a log."

She giggles at her own pun, and I roll my eyes. "Your point?"

"You are hungover, Ol. Need I remind you what happened in Final Destination 2?"

The car crash scene from the horror movie flashes before my eyes. How the logs roll off the truck, crash into the car behind it, and cause a bizarre string of accidents—which, to be honest, is quite similar to what I went through last night. A bunch of drivers dies in a gruesome way in the scene, and every one of the vehicles gets wrecked and burned to the ground.

"You're not going to put your baby's life in danger, are you?" Nessa stares up at me with a sympathetic expression, yet a mischievous smirk lurks behind her eyes.

The thought of Lightning being blown up to pieces sends cold shivers of dread down my spine, and I let out a defeated huff. "Fine. But you are not driving past twenty, you hear me?"

A victorious grin breaks across her face, showing off her huge teeth. "Make it thirty?"

"Twenty-five."

"Yes, sir." She holds up her hand in a mock salute before spinning on her heels and hopping away like a rabbit who has eaten too many acid-laced carrots.

What is wrong with her?

For a reason I can't understand, Nessa has been exceptionally and unusually chirpy this morning. A part of me is relieved that she's starting to act like the Vanessa Hayes-Wong before all the Hollywood drama I dragged her into. Yet I can't help but think she's going into this . . . hyper bunny mode because she's enjoying my misery a bit too much.

What a psycho.

Chuckling a little, I drag my aching body to the hospital lobby. The painkillers the doctors gave me start to wear off, and twinges of pain prick at my skin. Plus, Nessa is right: I do have a terrible hangover.

A ray of sunlight stabs my eyes as I step out of the hospital building. My hand shoots up to cover my eyes, but it can't stop my head from pounding like a drum. Still, even with blood whooshing in my ears, I recognize the soft, smooth sound of Lightning's engine.

Nessa stops the car beside me and toots the horn twice. The sound still reverberates in my head when she honks again. Louder this time.

I pull my face into a grimace and climb into the passenger seat. "Did you have to do that?"

She giggles. "Sorry."

My stomach growls as I lean back against the leather seat, and the hyper bunny sitting next to me giggles louder. Did she take something last night? Or—

My breath sticks in my throat as the strangest idea appears in my mind. That creep Lovejoy didn't propose to her, did he?

". . . some breakfast?"

I whip my gaze to Nessa's. "Did you say breakfast?"

"Yeah. Do you wanna have some breakfast? My treat. Since you almost died and all."

The words jog my memory of the conversation we had last night. How I admitted that I was jealous. How she poked my forehead—which hurt like hell, by the way—and asked me to find the three magic words that would get her to stop seeing that creep. And how I said that . . . I was Mr. Dumpy.

My body shudders with shame. Please tell me that was just a dream.

"Ol?" Nessa waves a hand in front of my face, worried and a little confused. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah." I clear my throat and focus on the breakfast part. A wicked idea slides into my mind, and I smirk. "So, breakfast?"

I set my last tray among three others and sit behind the table. The warm and sweet scent of chocolate honey toast, the mouthwatering aroma of spaghetti, and the delightful smell of salmon omelet make my stomach rumble. I breathe in deeply and close my eyes, savoring the aroma. Hmm. This is the best breakfast—

"I hope you die from overeating." Nessa slams her tray on the table, hard enough that one of the strawberries on top of her pancake falls onto the plate.

"Oh, come on, Ness." I take a large bite of my buttermilk fried chicken sandwich. "Lovejoy owns this place. Why don't you ask him for free coupons?" As she opens her mouth to protest, I continue, "Besides, you were the one who said I could buy anything."

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean—"

"And considering I'm gonna have to skip breakfast and possibly dinner for the next six months, I need to stuff as much food as I can into my stomach right—"

Nessa jabs her knife into my honey toast, saws off an oversized bite-sized chunk, and stuffs it into her mouth.

A frown twists my face. "What are you doing? That's mine."

"I paid for it, remember? Hence, all of these"—her hand moves in circles above the trays of delicious food—"are mine."

I click my tongue. "Fine, whatever."

As the words leave my lips, another sense of déjà vu hits me. It feels as if we had a similar conversation last night. Something about . . . her never wanting me to be her brother, and . . . what did she say afterward?

Pikachu suddenly peeks from his bedroom, grinning like a maniac. He drags a record player out and sets the needle down on the black vinyl.

"Well, I absolutely don't want you to be my brother." Nessa's voice resonates through the speakers, sounding like a very old record. "Or just my best friend. That's not—"

"And would you please take off those sunglasses?" Nessa says, snapping me back to the present. "People have been staring at us ever since you stepped into this restaurant. I swear the cashier almost peed in his pants earlier."

"You do realize I have blood on my T-shirt and a hole in my jacket, right?" I plunge my fork into the spaghetti Aglio e olio and twirl it into a creamy spiral. "Being stared at like I'm a thug is inevitable."

"Oh, no, no." She swallows a gulp of her apple cinnamon milkshake and wiggles a finger in my face. "People aren't staring at you because they're afraid of you. They're staring at you because you look ridiculous—"

I snatch a strawberry from her plate and pop it into my mouth. The bittersweet taste of my favorite fruit draws a huge, contented smile on my face—one that disappears when Nessa slams her knife into my salmon omelet and spears a large piece with her fork.

Munching the omelet, she shoots me a sugary-sweet grin.

My competitive side kicks in, and I smirk. Game on, Miss Mochi.

Holding a hand over her mouth, Nessa drags her feet toward the door with her back hunched like an old woman. "I think I'm gonna throw up . . ."

After almost thirty minutes of stealing each other's food, my stomach has never felt fuller and the smile on my face has never been bigger. Suffice to say, this is the best breakfast I've ever had in my entire life—and the fact that Nessa just raised the white flag makes it a thousand times better.

As I walk beside her, my mind reminds me of the recording Pikachu played earlier. "Hey, Ness?"

"Hmm?"

"About last night. Did you—"

The theme from Psycho suddenly blares from Nessa's phone, and Nessa lets out a tiny sigh. "Hold that thought." She fishes her phone out of her bag and stops next to the Miss Mochi statue right outside the orange-painted building. "Hey, Mom. What's—"

"Vanessa Hayes-Wong, are you trying to kill me and your father?" Her mom's voice roars through the phone like an angry lioness, causing Nessa and me to flinch.

Nessa brings the phone closer to her ear, and I walk toward the Mr. Dumpy statue on the other side of the door to give her some privacy.

"Mom, calm down. I can't understand what you're saying. What are you talking about? What news?"

Alarm rings in my head. Great. What now?

"A swingers club?" Nessa shrieks in horror, her eyes almost popping out of their sockets.

The burning-red dragon inside my head awakens with a roar. It doesn't take a genius to figure out what happened: the paparazzi have fabricated another story about us.

Nessa rubs her forehead. "No, of course not. That's just—Mom, listen to me. It was just a regular, double date, okay?" Her breathing shortens and her chest heaves up and down as her mom keeps speaking rapidly in her ears. After a while, she snaps, "Would you listen to me? No one's having an orgy!"

Smaug wraps its tail around my neck and punches the inside of my skull. Fuck. This is bad.

Nessa's milky-white complexion turns bright red with embarrassment and shame as several passers-by glance at her. Hiding behind the life-size statue, she lowers her voice. "No, Ollie and I are still not together."

I cock a brow. What does she mean 'still' not together? Does her mom think we're a couple or something?

"Yes! Thank you! His name is Ryan." She nods, a ghost of a proud smile tipping the corner of her mouth. "Yes, he does look like Brad Pitt."

I twist my face into a scowl. Great. Even her mom thinks that creep looks like Brad Pitt.

"No, I'm not in a swingers club," Nessa continues. "Is Dad gonna be okay?"

As Nessa tries to calm her mom, the newsstand at the corner of the street grabs my attention. My curiosity leads me to approach it and examine the gossip magazines displayed on the rack. The burning-red dragon in my head opens his eyes when I see Celia's photos splashed all over the front covers of the tabloids.

"Oh, no." I slide my sunglasses down my nose and scan the absurd headlines.

Spotted: Oliver Morrison and Vanessa Hayes-Wong Joining a Swingers Club. No Hope for #CelOllie?

Swingers Club Meeting Gone Wrong! Was Celia Adams Involved?

Celia Adams: A Tragedy at a Swingers Club Meeting!

Oliver Morrison Caught Cheating on Celia Adams. Again.

"What the hell? I didn't even—"

I grit my teeth and snatch the magazine that features an interview with Celia's parasitic best friend Jessica Walsh. My anger spikes as I read the article; that lying leech claims that Celia and I have gotten back together several days ago. As if that's not enough, she even defines last night's unfortunate accident as a form of karma that I—and I quote—deserve for cheating on Celia for the 99th time.

Rage burns hotter and hotter inside me, and I curl my fists around the edges of the magazine.

"S-sir?" the newsstand operator stutters. "I-I'm sorry, but—"

I shoot the middle-aged man a sharp glare, and he cowers in fear.

Feeling a bit guilty for scaring the man off, I pull out my wallet from my pocket and hand a five-dollar bill to him. With a heavy heart, I mutter, "Keep the change."

As I redirect my attention to the magazine in my hands, the pounding in my head intensifies. The article comes with a photo of me being wheeled out of the karaoke bar on a stretcher with Nessa by my side. Considering how blurry the picture is, I'm guessing the person who took the photo isn't a professional. The commotion I made must've prompted one of the bystanders to snap a picture of us and sell it to these stupid magazines.

The burning-red dragon's giant hand grips my chest and squeezes it hard. What have I done?

Author's Note:

Dun dun dun! The paparazzi is back! And that can only mean . . . more drama!

As always, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and if you do, please don't forget to show some support by voting and/or leaving comments. Thank you so much for reading!