Ariel Beckham.
I glance at the alarm clock—3 a.m. Still no sign of him.
I lie still, trying not to disturb Hannah, who's passed out next to me. Noah is also sprawled in his bedroom. Both drunk, both blissfully unaware of the mess swirling in my head. Stupid. That’s what I am. The memory of Ramirez smashing the glass, the blood dripping from his hand—it haunts me. He saved me, again. From myself.
A sharp gasp escapes my lips when I hear a door open in the hallway. My heart leaps into my throat. It has to be him. I rise from the bed and clutch my chest in the dimmed room, barely breathing as I push aside the curtains. I peer down, and there it is—his car, parked right where it always is. He’s back.
Should I go? Should I try to talk to him? What would I even say? An apology feels like an
