It takes me a moment to realize what is happening. As much as I once wanted him to kiss me, I hate it now. I hate it so much, knowing I might just be one of his many flings. The thought burns through me. I shove him so hard that he nearly stumbles off the porch, catching himself at the last second.

“Scarlet…” he starts.

“I don’t want to hear any excuses,” I snap. After the way he has made a fool of me twice, keeping me waiting for hours, I have had enough. I slam the door so hard it rattles in its frame.

“Scarlet, don’t do this! I need to tell you something!” he yells from outside.

I do not pause. He does not deserve my attention, not after everything that has happened. My footsteps thud against the floor as I storm upstairs and slam my bedroom door with a sharp bang.

Fifteen minutes later, I wander into Mom’s room and peek through the window. He is still there, standing by his bike in the driveway, soaked in rain, staring up at the house. I am not sure if he has figured out which window is mine, but it feels like he has because his gaze keeps drifting toward it. I yank the curtains closed and retreat to my room.

I cannot focus on anything, not even the new book I was dying to read. I lie on my bed, staring at the ceiling, my thoughts spinning in messy loops. Nearly an hour passes before my phone rings. It is Julie.

I grab it and step back into Mom’s room, glancing outside. He is still there, standing in the rain like some broken statue.

What the hell is he thinking? Does he really expect me to open the door? No.

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

“Yes, he is,” I say, my voice flat.

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

“Then why don’t they come and take him home?” I snap. “Because I am not opening the door.”

“Is he outside in the rain?” she presses.

“Yes.”

I can hear a strange relief in her voice. “You didn’t let him in?”

“No. I didn’t even let him talk through the door.”

“I’m so sorry, Scarlet. It has to be this way. He’s… he’s such a jerk. All I cared about was your safety. We thought he went to Tom’s, but when he didn’t come back by eleven, which is his curfew, Dad called Tom. That’s when we realized he wasn’t there. We all panicked, and then I thought maybe he was at your place.”

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

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

“Good for him,” I mutter and end the call.

I head downstairs and peek through the blinds in the living room. He is still there, eyes fixed on the upper windows, utterly oblivious to me watching him. Moments later, his dad’s truck pulls into the driveway. Both his parents step out. There is some talking, possibly arguing, judging by their body language, but I cannot make out the words. After a tense back-and-forth, Oliver climbs into the truck, and they drive off.

I fall back onto my bed and close my eyes. I do not want to remember any of this. I want to forget, and I am definitely not telling Mom about any of it.