17
MARI
When Zac handed me my phone so I could respond to him, I initially frowned at it, but then I let out a surrendering sigh and slipped it from his hand.
“I just wanted to see you,” I finally wrote.
He read the words and then glanced up to squint at me suspiciously. “And you’re sure nothing’s wrong?”
I huffed out a breath, aggravated by the question. I didn’t want to talk about what was wrong, much less remember it. That was fear and problems and ugliness.
I didn’t want fear and problems and ugliness to mar my perfect time with Zac. He was all things amazing and happy and bright.
But he cupped my face in his hands and lifted his eyebrows archly as if he knew better. “Mari,” he said with a severity that ordered me to fess up.
I groaned, giving in, and started to type. “Enzo was
