I pulled out my phone, sending Hanna a single note.

You’re all I can think about anymore.

Chapter Nineteen

When I was little, I’d drive my entire family insane by not sleeping for days before any holiday or big event. Nobody understood why. My exhausted mother would sit up with me night after night, begging me to just go to bed.

“Ziggy,” she would say. “Honey, if you go to bed, Christmas will get here sooner. Time goes faster when you’re asleep.”

But it never seemed to work that way for me. “I can’t sleep,” I’d insist. “There’s too much in my head. My thoughts won’t slow down.”

I’d spend the countdown to birthdays and vacations wide awake and anxious, pacing the halls of our big house while I should have been asleep upstairs. It was a habit I’d never outgrown.

Saturday wasn’t Christmas or the first day of summer vacation, but I was counting every day, every minute as if it were. Because as pathetic as it sounded, and as much as I hated that I was looking forward to it, I knew I’d see Will. That thought alone was enough to find me up every night, wide awake at the window, recounting the streetlights to his building.I’d always heard the first week after a breakup was the hardest. I hoped that was true. Because getting Will’s message on Tuesday night—You’re all I can think about anymore—was torture.

Could he have texted the wrong number by mistake? Or did he say that because he ended up alone, or because he was with another woman, but thinking of me? I couldn’t exactly be angry, and my initial self-righteousness over the prospect of him texting me while he was with Kitty faded quickly; I, too, had texted him when I was on my dates with Dylan.

The worst part was that I had no one to talk to about it, really. Well, I did, but I only wanted Will.

The sun had dipped low in the sky on Friday night as I walked the last few blocks to meet Chloe and Sara for drinks.

I’d tried to put on a brave front all week but I was miserable, and it was starting to show. I looked tired. I looked sad. I looked exactly how I felt. I missed him so much that I felt it with every breath, felt each second pass since I’d last seen him.

The Bathtub Gin was a small speakeasy in Chelsea. Visitors were greeted with an everyday storefront, the words STONE STREET COFFEE stenciled across the top. If you weren’t sure what you were looking for, or happened to pass by during the week when there wasn’t a crowd of people lined up outside, you might miss it. But if you knew it was there, illuminated by a single, glowing red bulb, you’d find the right door. One that opened up to a Prohibition-era club, complete with dim lighting, a steady hum of jazz, and even a large copper bathtub at the center.

I found Chloe and Sara sitting at the bar, drinks already in front of them and a gorgeous dark-haired man at their side.

“Hey, guys,” I said, sliding onto the stool next to them. “Sorry I’m late.”

The three of them turned, looked me up and down before the man said, “Oh honey, tell me all about the man who did this to you.”

I blinked between them, confused. “I . . . hi, I’m Hanna?”

“Ignore him,” Chloe said, sliding the menu across the bar to me. “We all do. And order a drink before you talk. You look like you could use it.”

The mystery man looked appropriately offended and the three of them argued among themselves while I scanned the various cocktails and wines, picking the first thing that seemed to fit my mood.

“I’ll have a Tomahawk,” I told the bartender, noticing in my peripheral vision the way Sara and Chloe looked to each other in surprise.

“So it’s like that, I see.” Chloe motioned for another drink and then took my hand, leading us all to a table.

In all reality, I’d probably just hold my cocktail for most of the night and absorb the comfort afforded by the option to get completely hammered. But I knew I wanted to race tomorrow, and no way was I going to run hungover.

“By the way, Hanna,” Chloe said, gesturing to the man currently watching me with curious, amused eyes. “This is George Mercer, Sara’s assistant. George, this is the adorable and soon-to-be-drunk and/or facedown-on-the-table Hanna Bergstrom.”

“Ah, a lightweight,” George said, and nodded to Chloe. “What in the world are you doing with this old boozehound? She should come with a warning label for girls like you.”

“George, how would you like my heel up your ass?” Chloe asked.

George barely blinked. “The whole heel?”

“Gross,” Chloe groaned.