Two days later, Lopez puts me back on the schedule, and I head into work. I don't see Taehyung in cash-out. It's just Anna and the new guard who replaced Yoongi. Taehyung is here today - I know, because I checked the schedule - so I search for him as we head out to the floor. That's where I spot him, handling the changing of the guard. He's letting the morning ticket takers out of the Hotbox - two stupid boys, Sam and Ken. I step up to the back door before they can all walk and hand Anna my cash drawer, motioning for her to go inside without me.

"You left my house without saying good-bye," I tell Taehyung.

"You were pretty sick. I"m kind of busy right now, so -"

"You also left without telling me about game night."

He glances at Sam and Ken. "Maybe later," he says.

"That's what you said before."

"And my offer still stands." He leans closer and whispers, "Quid pro quo, Clarice."

Not that again. He's not Silence of the Lambs-ing me into confessing about V. No way, no how. I try another tactic. "You go first, then I'll consider telling you."

"Suzy," he says again, like it's some kind of coded warning I should understand. "You really don't want to do this here. " He glanced at the two boys.

It hits me like physical blow that he's using evasion techniques against me. From the moment all of this happened on game night with the fake text message - because it was fake, wasn't it? - to the distraction of Me before You, until right now, when conveniently he is surrounded by people and therefore cannot discuss the matter.

Taehyung clears his throat. "I've, uh, got to get them to cash-out, but -"

"No," I say, cutting him off. I realize I sound unreasonable now, and I'm mildly embarrassed that I'm raising my voice in front of the boys - but I just can't stop myself. "I need to know what happened on game night."

"Hey. We'll talk later. Trust me, okay?"

"Oh, are we on your schedule now? If Taehyung deigns to dole out a crumb? I'm just supposed to wait around for you like some well-behaved dog?"

His face darkens. "I never said that. I just asked you to trust me."

"Give me a reason to."

His head jerks back as if I've slapped him, and then his face turns stony. "I thought I already had."

My chest tightens, and I suddenly wish I could take it all back. I don't want to fight with him. I just want things to go back to how they were before that night, when everything changed. As he walks off with the idiots, I hear Ken say, "Damn, Kim. You've always got hot girls chasing after you. I need to start surfing."

"Yeah, but they're alway whiners, and who needs that drama?" Sam scoffs. "es are crazy."

Taehyung chuckles. ChUcKleS!

Suddenly, I'm Alice in Wonderland, falling through a rabbit hole, watching the beautiful memories from the last couple of months pass me by as I descend into madness. And walking away from me is the old Taehyung Kim, the stupid surfer boy that I hated. The one who humiliated me.

I'm devastated.

I pound on the Hotbox door. Anna swings it open, her face pinched with concern. I don't have time to explain; the line is long, and she's inserted my cash drawer, readying everything for me to start.

Ugh. It's already a million degrees in here. My chest is swelling with confusion and hurt, emotions rising with each passing second.

"Two tickets." Some stoner boy with shaggy hair is standing outside my window with some girl, giving me an I don't have all day look. I stare back him. I think I've forgotten how to use the computer. I'm beginning to go numb.

"What the hell is going on?" Anna whispers, tapping me on the arm. "Are you still sick? Are you okay?"

No, I'm not okay. I'm not okay at all. I can't get enough air through my nose. Part of me blames Taehyung for making me feel this way. But once the shock of him laughing at that ist comment wears off, I'm still left with the sinking feeling that the root of our fight is actually my fault, and I can't figure out why.

What did I do wrong on game night? He said it was just a misunderstanding, but that feels like a cover-up. Because something upset him, badly, and he blamed me for it that night. And now I feel so completely stupid, because I don't know what I did, and he won't tell me.

It's like I'm staring at a giant jigsaw puzzle and there's one piece missing, and I'm scrambling to find it - looking in all the sofa cushions, under the table, under the rug, checking the empty box.

WHERE IS THAT PUZZLE PIECE?

"Yo, I said two tickets," the boy at the window says, like I'm stupid. Is that a surf company logo on his T-shirt? Is this . . . one of the trashy creeps who was hanging out with RM at the posole truck? Who was being all disgusting, harassing those girls in front of appa and Jacqueline? Oh, wonderful. Just freaking wonderful. "Anyone home in there? I'm not standing here for my health, babe."

I'm not suite sure what happens next.

A strange heat rushes through my head - some sort of stress-induced overload, brought about through trying to determine what happened with Taehyung . . . heart hurting over our fight, over his reaction to Sam's ist comment. And all of it is topped off with the rotting cherry that is this jerk standing here now.

Or maybe be, just maybe, after a long summer, the Hotbox finally gets the better of me.

All I know is that something breaks inside my brain.

I switch on my microphone. "You want tickets? Here you go."

In a manic fit, I pop open the printer, rip out the folded pack of blank ticket paper, and begin feeding it through the slot - shove, shove, shove! It waterfalls from the other side like the guy just won a million tickets at an arcade.

"Have all the tickets you want," I say into the microphone. "es are crazy."

Creeper dude looks stunned. But not as stunned as Mr. Lopez, whose face appears next to his. Lopez is holding his clipboard, doing his rounds. His gaze shifts from the pile of bent-up tickets on the ground to me, and he's horrified. Customer service nightmare.

To RM's friend, he says: "Let me take care of this, and comp your attendance today." And he gestures for someone to let the guy's party through and clean up the pile of blank tickets.

To me, he says: "What in the world is the matter with you, young lady? Have you lost your mind?" His nose is pressed against the Hotbox's glass. His face is so red, his Vogue tie looks like it might cut off circulation and strangle him.

"I'm really sorry," I whisper into the microphone, gripping it with both hands as tears stream down my cheeks, "but I sort of have lose my mind."

"Well," Mr. Lopez says, unmoved by my pitiful display of emotion, "you'll have plenty of time to find it in your free time, because you're fired."

Can you guys believe this? Only four more chapters!