It takes me a moment to understand what’s happening. As badly as I once wanted him to love me, to touch me, to kiss me, I hate it twice as much now. I hate it knowing I might be just another one of his flings. The thought burns through me, and my body starts to shake. I gather all my strength and shove him hard. He nearly stumbles off the porch, catching himself at the last second.

  “Scarlet…” he starts.

  “I don’t want to talk to you. Go away,” I shout, panting as I point toward the driveway. After the way he’s made a fool of me twice, after leaving me waiting for hours, I’ve had enough.

  He stays where he is, still trying to explain. I slam the door so hard it rattles in its frame.

  “Scarlet, don’t do this! I need to tell you something. It’s all a misunderstanding,” he yells, pounding on the door.

  “I don’t want to hear any excuse. Go now, or I’ll call the police,” I scream.

  “Please, Scarlet,” he begs, his voice cracking. “Please. Just give me another chance. I have to tell you something. Please open the door.”

  I don’t open the door. He doesn’t deserve my attention, not after everything he did to me. My footsteps thud against the floor as I storm upstairs and slam my bedroom door.

  Once I’m in my room, I crawl into bed, restless. Tears spill from my eyes, uncontrollable. Just as I’m about to let it all out, my phone starts ringing, like it’s determined not to give me that chance. I don’t need to look at the screen to know it’s him. I hit end. It rings again. I end it again, then toss the phone onto the bed beside me and pull the blanket over my head.

  For a few seconds, it’s silent, and I think maybe he’s finally stopped. Then there’s a beep. A message. Even though I told him I don’t want to talk, a part of me still needs to know what he wants to say. I reach for the phone and read it.

  'Please open the door. I swear I only need a minute or two. Please...'

  I turn off my phone and set it on the bedside table. Then I pull the blanket over my head again and cry into the dark.

  Once the tears run dry and there’s nothing left, I feel lighter. It’s like all the sadness, or at least part of it, has drained away. I sit up in the dark, staring at the window.

  Stolen story; please report.

  A few more minutes pass, then I slip into Mum’s room and look outside, expecting him to be gone already. But he isn’t. He’s still there, standing beside his bike in the driveway, soaked through, staring up at the house. A slight shiver runs through me.

  I don’t know if he’s figured out which window is mine, but it feels like he has. His gaze keeps lifting toward it. I yank the curtains shut and retreat to my room.

  I can’t focus on anything, not even the new book I was desperate to start tonight. I lie on my bed, eyes on the ceiling, thoughts spinning in circles.

  I turn my phone back on to see if he’s sent anything else. Nothing. I set it down on the table and start pacing my room, back and forth.

  I don’t care if he’s getting soaked out there. I don’t even care if he ends up sick. What I do care about is what Mum will say if she finds out about any of this.

  Nearly an hour passes before my phone rings again. The call’s from Selena, so I grab the phone and step back into Mum’s room, glancing outside. He’s still there, soaked and unmoving, as if rooted to the spot.

  What does he think he’s doing? Does he honestly believe I’ll open the door after everything he’s put me through? Does he really think I’m stupid enough to fall for his tricks over and over? Sorry, mister. Not this time.

  I answer the phone.

  “Hey, is Oliver over there?” Selena asks.

  “Yes,” I say flatly.

  Her voice sharpens. “What is he doing there this late? Mum and Dad are worried sick.”

  “Then they should come and take him home,” I snap. “Because I’m not opening the door.”

  “Is he outside in the rain?”

  “Yes.”

  There’s relief in her voice, and it makes my stomach twist. Like she’d rather he stand out there in the pouring rain than step inside. “You didn’t let him in?” she asks, needing to hear it.

  “No. I didn’t let him in… didn’t let him talk… didn’t answer any of his calls. I want him off my property. The sooner, the better,” I say, the threat clear in my tone.

  Her voice softens immediately. “I’m so sorry, Scarlet. It has to be this way. He’s such a jerk. We thought he went to Tom’s, but when he didn’t come back by eleven, Dad called Tom. That’s when we realized he wasn’t there. He didn’t even answer his phone. We panicked. I figured he might have come to you. All we cared about was your safety. ”

  “If he stays out there much longer, I might call the police,” I say coldly.

  “Oh, Scarlet, don’t. Mum and Dad are already on their way. They’ll pick him up.”

  “Good,” I mutter, ending the call.

  I head downstairs and peek through the living room blinds. He’s still there, staring up at the windows, completely unaware I’m watching him from downstairs.

  A few minutes later, his dad’s truck pulls into the driveway, and both his parents get out. They’re talking, maybe arguing, judging by their movements, but I can’t hear the words. His dad does most of the talking, sharp and abrupt, clearly not impressed. His mum mostly watches, looking tired and a bit sad, lifting her arms here and there like she’s trying to stop things from getting worse.

  After a tense exchange, Oliver climbs into the truck, followed by his mum and dad. They drive off, his dad’s eyes scanning the house as they go.

  I fall back onto my bed and close my eyes. I don’t want to remember any of this. I like it out of my head, permanently. And I’m definitely not telling Mum about any of it.