“Well, Judgey McJudgerton, maybe I just like boy bands. Maybe I feel they are misunderstood and their collective artistic contribution to society is undervalued. Where would modern hip-hop be without ’N Sync and the emergence of Justin Timberlake as a solo artist?”

“But you don’t listen to Justin Timberlake, you listen to ’N Sync.”

I tried and failed not to grumble. “It’s all the same.”

He shook his head. “No. You’re a purist, you always have been. Boy bands are the high fructose corn syrup of music. It’s the only thing about you that isn’t real. It doesn’t make any sense.”

I narrowed my eyes and ignored the way his thumbs were brushing over the bare skin of my shoulders, because it was confusing, and every time he did it I thought of his expression at the reunion after he said and I will always love you.

I didn’t want to think about that. “It’s not the only thing about me that doesn’t make sense.”

“Oh yeah, what else?” He surveyed me openly through thick lashes and shifted a half step closer, into my personal space.

I shrugged out of his hold, leaned away from him and against the window sill. I needed to gain distance. Nico’s omnipresent restless energy, charisma, and handsome face were proving to be more than I could defend against. That hole in my armor was stretching to accommodate him. I didn’t want to accommodate him. I wanted him to leave my armor intact.

Therefore, I decided to ignore his question. “I think you’re biased.”

“About what?”

“About everything.”

“Explain.”

I remembered this, the one word command: explain.

Growing up I was used to his mother saying this to her children and, therefore, Nico saying it to me, to Garrett. It was how his family communicated. Some people found it off-putting. I just knew it was part of who he was.

“Of course you think I’m trying to hold on to something. The truth is you’re jealous of my excellent taste in music. Have you even heard of One Direction? Have you listened to their songs? You can’t say you don’t like something if you’ve never tried it—because that makes a lot of sense.” My attempt at deflection, to use his own words against him from earlier that evening, only served to increase my blood pressure and his skepticism.

“I don’t need to suck on hard candy to know it will rot my teeth—”

His patronizing retort sent a jarring wave of anger down my spine. I pushed away from the sill and stalked around him. I couldn’t figure out why I was so angry. An irritating and spectral voice told me it was because he knew me so well. I didn’t want him to know me.

I shoved the spectral voice over the side of a cliff, rationalizing my violence by internally asserting that spectral voices were shrewish and should be ignored or murdered.

I felt a surge of stubborn resolve and spun on my heel. I charged him, caught him off guard, pointed, and poked his sternum.

“You say I’m a purist and, you know what, you’re right.” I fisted my hands on my h*ps and tried to straighten to a height greater than my relatively diminutive five foot four. “I’m a purist. And I think boy bands sing about the purest form of love and devotion—the idea of it. The purest form of something is the idea of it. They sing about something they couldn’t possibly know anything about. Once you know what falling in love is, what it requires in order to be sustained, it becomes infinitely less—less—less…” my arms flailed about in a circular motion, losing my mental wrestling match with the English language.

Nico lifted his eyebrows and prompted, “Less convenient?”

I scowled and poked him again. “No. Less alluring, less likely, less possible, less obtainable.”

He grabbed my finger and held it suspended between us. “I disagree.”

“You disagree about which part?” I didn’t want to be huffy, but I was. I was huffy and eyerolly and crabfacey. None of it, however, seemed to be off-puty because he came closer and held—commanded—my gaze with his.

“You had one experience that ended tragically. Have you even tried? Have you tried again?” His earnestness, openness felt… weird and… disorienting. I tried to glance over his shoulder, but he moved to intercept my glare. He nodded as though confirming a suspicion. “Yeah. I thought so.”

To keep from frowning I pinched my lips together. “You just. . . you just don’t know.”

“Is that why you left?”

I stiffened.

He studied me, his voice growing both softer and more severe. “Is that why you left me, that night?”

My heart thumped painfully in my chest. I couldn’t answer, my throat was too tight.

“Why did you send back all my letters? When you left, why didn’t you take my calls?”

“I—” I breathed the word, didn’t know what to say. I should’ve apologized, but instead I said, “We were just kids.”

“Did I scare you, that night? Did I do something wrong?”

My heart thump became a gallop. “No. It wasn’t you b-but that was so long ago. Why are we talking about this?”

“Because. . .” Nico gathered a deep breath, his eyes searched mine. He dropped his gaze to our hands, shifted them in order to hold my palm in both of his. “Because I’ve missed you.” Nico flinched and cleared his throat immediately after saying the words.

“Nico, you didn’t even like me. How could you miss me?”

“That’s not true. I always liked you. I admired you.” Again, his gentle words and his ardent expression were contradictory.

I frowned, flummoxed. I tried to respond, but instead blinked, and my mouth expelled a strange, breathy sound.

“Nico—what—that—we—you and I—we were never—you never—”

I watched him close his eyes, take a deep breath, then meet my confused stare with an extremely steady, heady, ready one of his own.

He didn’t speak. He just looked at me. Rather, he allowed me to look at him, and I knew.

He thinks he loves you.

A jarring bolt of shock, almost painful in its intensity, accompanied the realization and sounded between my ears with a high-pitched ping. This was followed by a more precise and distressing realization.

He thinks he’s in love with you.

The sound, the ping, increased in volume. I abruptly pulled my hand from his, and, to my relief, the shrill squeal was replaced with rushing silence.

“Elizabeth—” Nico stepped forward as though he were going to reach for my hand again.

“It’s late. You should go.” Eyes wide, I shook my head, crossed my arms over my chest.

I noted that his gaze strayed to my mouth. He didn’t make any move to leave.

I tried to laugh lightly. “I don’t know how late you people in New York City stay up, but, it’s got to be one in the morning by now and I . . .” I faked a yawn badly and borrowed a word from Sandra’s repertoire. “Well, shisterhosen, I’m tired.”

He man-sighed, which is a cross between an exasperated growl and a belligerent huff. “You’re leaving tomorrow.”

I swallowed the building thickness in my throat and shifted another step backward. “Yep.”

“Elizabeth—”

I swung my arms and clapped my hands, because I was having difficulty standing still. “All the more reason I should be getting to bed now and you should go home.”

“I have to tell you.” He cleared his throat, and I seized the momentary pause to escape.

“Damn it, I need to pee. You can see yourself out?”

His staying hand reached for and held my arm just above the elbow; his touch was light, but it was enough to still my movements. He tugged me toward him. “Wait—don’t—don’t do that.”

“Pee?” I pointedly avoided his eyes, but didn’t try to shrug out of his hold.

“No—stop—” He man-sighed again, and when he spoke his voice was raised, clipped, a staccato avalanche. “You have to know that I’m in love with you, you have to know that I’ve loved you since we were kids, since before I can remember.”

I closed my eyes against the lava-like onslaught and willed myself someplace else. His words, his expression, his voice—they burned me and knocked the wind from my lungs.

He started again, continued as though he were doing his utmost to maintain a calm exterior. He looked furious, but his voice and words were gentle. “I know that. . .” A pause, a strained swallow. “I know that it was Garrett, that you chose Garrett. I know that.” I felt his free hand closed over my other elbow. “I didn’t want to like him, but I did, he was my best friend and I never begrudged him that, never you. But, the summer after. . .”

I opened my eyes and stared at his chin. A long moment passed. My face was stiff and numb, like granite.

“And when I saw you in Chicago, even though I thought I was over it, over you—I knew I still . . .” He swallowed. “I’m still in love with you.” I felt the angry hesitation, frustrated indecision in him just before he released my arms. He took a step backward. “I just wanted you to know.”

I drew in a steadying breath, still not able to meet his eyes. “What do you want me to say?”