Pressing a kiss against my cheek, he unlocks the door and pulls me inside.

The mixed scents of old pizza, beer, and soy vanilla candles waft around me as he walks me to the bed.

“I’ve missed you so damn much.” He slides a hand under my dress, pushing my panties to the side.

As if he can sense my hesitation, he pulls back.

“Let’s get tipsy so you can get comfortable,” he says. “I have strawberries, whipped cream, and some specialty champagne I bought for you.”

“Actually, I think all I need to do is make a phone call.”

“To who?”

“Travis.”

“Your brother?” He raises his eyebrow.

“Yeah.” I nod. “He’s called me like ten times tonight, so I should probably let him know that I’m fine.”

“Your brother is a thousand miles away.” He shakes his head. “And last time I checked, he left you in Seattle to fend for yourself. He can wait.”

Good point.

Pulling me close, he runs his fingers through my hair—kissing me all over again. I wrap my arms around his neck as whispers my name. I try my best to focus on this moment. On him.

“Take off your shoes,” he says, and I kick off my heels.

Without another word, he rolls me onto the mattress and stamps a line of kisses against my neck.

As I’m threading my fingers through his hair, a loud knock sounds at the door.

“Coming!” He groans. “I forgot to put a sock on the door for my roommate, babe. Hold on.”

Walking over to the door, he looks through the peephole. “Holy fucking shit.”

The knock comes again—much louder this time, and he steps back.

For a moment, I start to believe that my premonition of murder is seconds away from coming true. I look around for our best chance at escape, but both windows are blocked with beer can towers, and I can’t risk my legs by jumping down four stories.

I consider volunteering as tribute to be murdered first, but logic steps in to alleviate my fears.

It would take Travis seventeen hours to drive here, and even if he chose to fly, he wouldn’t dare waste money on a last-minute plane ticket.

He’d also call me a million times in advance to let me know.

“Who’s at the door?” I ask him.

“Shhh.” Michael presses a finger to his lips. Then he stares at me, looking torn between jumping out of the window and hiding under the bed.

Suddenly, like a scene straight out of Mission Impossible, he runs over to me and wraps his arms around my legs. Tossing me over his shoulder, he carries me to his closet and drops me onto a pile of musty clothes.

“Stay here and be quiet, okay?” he whispers. “I love you so much.” He slams the door shut, but he quickly reopens it.

“Here. Take your shoes.” He almost hits me with them.

What the hell? I stand to my feet as he pushes a laundry basket in front of the closet door.

Through the thin slats, I watch as he puts on an erratic one-man show.

In the first act, he makes and remakes the bed—adjusting the pillows by color. In the second, he takes off his jeans and changes into a pair of sweatpants, all while humming an off-key refrain of a familiar pop song.

He ignores my whispered demands for answers during the intermission, and after brushing gel into his hair, he takes a few swigs of Listerine and spits into the sink. For the finale, he rummages through his top dresser drawer for cologne, spraying a bit too much of it on his chest.

“You can do this, Michael. You can do this.” He takes a few deep breaths before finally approaching the door and opening it.

“Hey there, babe,” he says.

Babe?

“Hey sexy.” A brunette who looks way older than me wraps her arms around his neck. Her D-cup breasts are popping out of a tight, low-cut pink dress, and her makeup is painted to perfection. “I know that we agreed to celebrate Valentine’s Day tomorrow, but I can’t wait until then.”

Michael grips her waist in the same way he gripped mine—giving her the same deep, open-mouthed kiss that he offered to me minutes ago. He even whispers, “I’ve missed you so damn much,” in a verbatim cadence.

What in the actual fuck?

For a moment, I wonder if I ever looked as foolish and bewildered as the brunette does at this moment. So in love and so naïve.

When he pulls away from her mouth, he lets out a deep sigh. “I need to tell you something super important, Kylie.”

“Yeah?” She kicks off her shoes. “What is it?”

“I’m a cheating bastard and I’ve been dating a high-school girl.” I wait for him to say those words and let me out of the closet, so that we can marvel at his lies.

“I know that we’ve been ‘off and on’ these past few months,” he says, grabbing her hands and staring into her eyes. “But I want you to know that I’m ready for us to stay ‘on’ this time for good, and I’ve put a lot of thought into making our Valentine’s Day special … I have strawberries, whipped cream, and a specialty champagne I bought for you.”

No, really. What in the actual—

“Oh my gosh, seriously?” She points to the red purse at the foot of his bed. My red purse. “Is that Coach bag for me, too?”

“Yes, it is.” He pushes it onto the floor. “I’ll let you grab that later. Kiss me first.”

I pinch myself a few times to make sure that I’m not imagining this scene. That somewhere along my linear narrative of the day, the universe hasn’t randomly decided to throw in a crazy subplot that ruins my story.

The painful pinches on my wrists are real as ever, though, and the more I watch Michael’s mannerisms—the more I hear him whisper the very words he’s whispered to me, the past months of our relationship play before my eyes in a clarifying slow-motion.

He only called me at night, and he hardly ever wanted to go on dates during the daytime, since he claimed, “I want to keep you all to myself.” He preferred showing up to my practices at the rink instead of letting me come over.

Although he did come to some of my competitions, he never took selfies with me at the ceremonies. He waited until I joined him in the parking lot, and he was always parked in the farthest row.

Foolish, foolish girl.

By the time I’m finished replaying all of the memories that confirm he was never serious about me, the brunette is moaning, and he’s trailing wet kisses against her chest.

“Oh godddd, Michael,” she says.

Screw this.

I kick at the closet door until it opens.

“Seriously, Michael? Were you planning to let me rot in there all night?”

He looks over his shoulder and gasps.

“Um…Who are you?” The brunette covers her chest with a pillow. “And why the hell are you watching us from the closet?”

“Oh, wow,” Michael says, his voice deadpan. “This is so shocking. This is my roommate’s girlfriend—Well, ex-girlfriend. I think she’s here trying to surprise him or something.”

I stare at him in utter disbelief.

“That’s who you are, isn’t it?” He shoots me a pleading look.

“Hell no.” I grab my purse. “This is my Coach bag, by the way.”