Not of Jenna, but of Wyatt. Of beaches and midnights and slow smiles, and someone who had wanted to put a ring on my hand, even if it was only a tourist trinket, even if it was only for two days. He’d wanted me, he’d honestly wanted me, at least for a little bit. Wasn’t it just a sign, a giant Times Square sign, that I was here, maudlin and morose over Wyatt when I was supposed to be broken-hearted over Jenna?
