When I woke, it was light. With Ciar thoroughly passed out underneath me, my right leg curled awkwardly across his body and my left bent at the knee against the door, I became aware of just how cramped the car's backseat was.

What followed was a slow, silent attempt to peel myself away from him without waking him, while trying to figure out the physics of last night. I remembered everything. Every touch of his skin, his fingers, his lips, every part of him against me. His whispers still echoed in the closed space, my name floating from the walls like a lullaby.

Maisye. Maisye. I am Maisye.

I leaned my head back against the window and sighed, letting my eyes flutter shut. Something had fallen into place last night in the rush of heated skin. Something that I couldn't ever remember feeling—not as a child, nor an adult. Not even with Mark.

Perhaps it was simply understanding. Ciar had said it one of the first times we'd met. You're just as reckless as I am. He'd seen it from the start, called me out on it.

Death wish.

Maybe he had one, too.

But the hole in my heart that opened into unnerving nothingness in the face of death felt shallower now, perhaps filled by whatever had sprung to life inside me last night.

A long, dramatic inhale broke the silence, and I opened my eyes as Ciar lolled back to consciousness. He squinted at me with bleary eyes and bedhead, and I wondered how I could feel safer waking up in a getaway car parked along the side of a deserted road than in my own bed.

He stretched as far as the backseat would allow, then sat up. His legs slipped out from under me as he pulled them toward himself, reaching for the clothes scattered about the car. He started to dress, and the ache in my chest returned the longer he went without speaking.

"Ciar," I started softly.

He handed me my clothes, all balled up, and I hugged them to my chest as my voice died.

After several seconds of waiting, he gave up on me, pulling himself forward by the headrests of the front seats and climbing back behind the wheel. He glanced at me in the rearview mirror, and I scrambled to throw my clothes back on.

With trembling limbs, I dragged myself into the seat beside him, and he started the engine without a word. I kept my breaths shallow, as if any movement might break the already thin ice between us. Did he regret last night? Did he think I regretted it?

Because I didn't.

"Where are you going?" I asked as he pulled back onto the road.

"We need gas. And breakfast."

Something started to drain away as we drove, as if we'd left part of ourselves behind in that stand of gravel along the side of the road. The silence thickened as it stretched, until it seemed like nothing could break it.

Finally, Ciar pulled into a gas station. I sat in the car while he filled the tank and then drove across the street to a small diner. I stayed seated as he got out, letting the slam of the door separate us and muffle the crunch of his boots across the lot.

I knew I would follow eventually, but I needed to settle my racing thoughts first. I had slept with him. So what? It wasn't like anything life-changing had happened. I was overthinking this, forcing it to mean more than it did. But his voice still haunted me.

Death wish.

And then, the softest whisper: Maisye.

I closed my eyes and swallowed hard. I was so fucked.

With a low growl, I threw the door open and trudged into the diner. Ciar already sat at a booth away from the windows, his back to the door. I sat down beside him, rather than risk my face being visible from the outside.

And maybe a little bit because then I wouldn't have to look at him, either.

He shifted, his gaze finally landing on me. "You okay?"

I nodded, studying the menu. "Fine. I'm not her. I remember everything."

"I know." He stared at my profile. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," I said again, but my voice had dropped to a whisper.

"Maisye—"

"Are y'all waiting for anyone else?"

We both looked up as a waitress stopped at our table, pointing to the empty booth across from us. She didn't bat an eye when we shook our heads, instead taking our orders and retreating back to the kitchen.

With my menu gone, I could only stare at the speckled pattern on the table and try to count the dots. I unwrapped my silverware and began to systematically shred the napkin, tearing off ribbon after ribbon and leaving them in a pile in front of me.

"What are you thinking?" he asked.

I laughed to myself. What was I thinking? Everything. Which thing did he want to hear about? His voice in my head, repeating my name over and over again? The piece of me that had flared to life under his touch? The fact that I knew he hadn't really kissed away my damage, and that believing he had was dangerous?

"Would you take it back?" I whispered to the table.

He didn't answer right away. He snatched the fork from beside my elbow, turned it over in his hands a few times, and said, "That's a loaded question."

I nodded. "So the answer is yes."

"I didn't say that."

I tore my gaze away from the tabletop, but I still didn't look at him. I let my eyes wander from the tacky art on the walls to the other patrons happily engaged in conversation like the world wasn't ending.

He sighed. "You mean last night, right?"

"I don't know what I mean." I tilted my head back and laughed at the ceiling. "Maybe I mean everything. I really don't know."

The waitress returned with two glasses of water, but instead of drinking, he simply pulled his closer and started to trace patterns in the condensation. "I'd take a lot of things back," he said quietly. "A lot of things that would mean last night never happened. But that doesn't mean I would take it back."

I eyed him from my peripheral vision. "What things?"

"Tillie."

Her name was a punch to my gut, compounded by the way he spoke of her like he'd throw her away in an instant if she walked back into his life. It didn't matter how many terrible things I found out about her; she would always be my sister, my twin sister, the girl who crawled into bed beside me and hugged me tight when we first got sent to that orphanage.

"But she—"

He shook his head, cutting me off.

"She used to say that you have to live for the moment," I continued anyway. "And as long as the moment is worth it, as long as you're happy right then, you're doing something right. And that even if you wished you could undo it all, that's irrelevant, because the person that you are would never exist to regret anything."

Ciar let out a low chuckle, his cheek giving way to an ironic dimple. "I wouldn't be who I was if I hadn't done everything I have. Yeah. I might be someone a little less fucked up."

He finally turned to me. "She was fucked up, Maisye."

"But you loved her."

He gave a barely perceptible nod. "I did."

Something flared in my belly, a hot wave of nausea that caused my throat to close. She and I were separate in his eyes, and as he told me he loved her, I sat like a sideshow to what they had shared. Because he didn't love me. Only her.

Stop it. You idiot. Why would he love you? Why would you want him to? You've known him for a month and hated him for half as long.

"Maisye, are you okay?"

I gripped the edge of the table, my knuckles stark white. No, I wasn't okay. I needed help. Professional help. Medication. Alcohol. Something, anything, because sleeping around wasn't the answer and neither were attachment issues.

I didn't want to be her. Of course I didn't.

"I'm fine," I growled, and just like that, we were back where we started.

We ate in silence. Or rather, Ciar wolfed down his food while I picked at mine, my appetite shriveling like an autumn leaf. Once finished, he watched me push a lump of scrambled eggs back and forth for several minutes and then sighed.

"Maybe we should go," he suggested.

"Where?"

"I don't know. Canadian border isn't far." He threw down more than enough cash to pay for our meal and then nudged me out of the booth as I started to protest.

We'd run away to Canada, and then what? Never come back? What about his mother?

I didn't want to draw attention by making a scene, so I followed him out of the diner. I could always argue with him in the car.

I never got the chance. The second we stepped into the sunlight, a slim hand grabbed me from behind, a rough breath falling against my ear.

"Don't make a sound." Her voice was hoarse, unfamiliar, but as Ciar whirled around, his mouth fell open.

I ducked out of her grip, ready to tell her to get lost, that mugging us was useless because we had nothing except last night's soaked, smelly clothes—but the words died when I saw her face.

It was mine.