Page 69 of Don't Think

And I wait some more.

It’s been at least an hour since Ana and Nora went to bed, and I’m still glued to the couch. Car keys in one hand, phone in the other.

And yet… I haven’t moved. Not a single inch.

Instead, I continue to sit here, feeling like the worst friend. Because a real friend would’ve said something by now, right? Or at leastmentionedthey were seeing someone they like.

But real friends also worry, and that’s exactly why I can’t tell them.

I don’t want to be talked out of this. I don’t want to see pity in their eyes because I’m diving into something that could very well leave me heartbroken.Again.

The bucket list was supposed to be simple. Just three things.

Confidence. Wants. And, finally, desires.

Being with Jax? That’s practically the whole list wrapped into one. And it’s the only thing I truly want right now. Iwantto see him. I want to know what it would feel like, even just once, to be held in his arms. To be able to prove to myself that I was brave enough, foroncein my life, to go after something just for me.

And if I don’t tell anyone, then maybe, when it inevitably falls apart, I’ll be the only one who ever knew it existed.

Driving to the hotel, I’m not sure how I made it in one piece.

I zoned out so many times that I nearly missed a few turns. And in a city like Boston, that’s not something you can afford to do—figurativelyandliterally.

Now I’m parked out front, hands tight around the wheel while I try to calm my heartbeat, which feels like it’s about to burst free any second now.

I flip open the visor and stare at my reflection, rechecking every speck of makeup to make sure it’s still perfect. Thankfully, there’s not a smudge in sight, but it doesn’t do much to calm my nerves.

I exhale through pursed lips, eyes fluttering closed while I try to talk myself down from the ledge of canceling—again.

It doesn’t work entirely, but I’ll pretend it does.

Fake it ‘til you make it, right?

The clack of my heels echoes across the tiled floor the second I step into the bar. Thankfully, it’s a quiet Tuesday night, not too crowded, not too loud, so at least I’m not turning every head in the room.

And then I see him.

Sitting in the exact same barstool as the other night. And my god, does he look good—even from the side.

His tattoos peek out from under his rolled sleeve, biceps stretching the fabric in a way that makes my fingers twitch with the urge to trace every line.

Although I do wish he’d worn that backward cap—thatwould’ve earned him a few extra brownie points. But hey, we can’t all be perfect, can we?

I slide onto the stool beside him without a sound, but he turns toward me anyway. Like he felt me coming the second I walked in.

Without a word, he slides a glass of water in my direction, that small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Thank you,” I murmur, wrapping my fingers tightly around the cool glass and taking a slow sip.

He watches me with unreadable eyes. Although that smile is still there, just softer now.

“Are you…” he starts, voice low, “sure you want to do this?”

I don’t answer right away. Unsure how to put into words exactly what I’m feeling since I don’t even know. Instead, Islowly reach for the edge of my sleeve, and with one finger, I slide the fabric down just enough to reveal the delicate strap of black lace resting against my skin.

“It’s a little too late to turn back now,” I say with a nervous laugh.

His eyes shift quickly from heated to something else entirely. Something… sad.