My Google alerts tell me Wyatt's on The Late Show with Jackson Billows. Every time I try to convince myself it's perfectly normal to have a Google alert on your former boyfriend from ten years ago, I realize I sound crazy. I avoid analyzing it. I don't follow him on any social media, so the alerts are all I have. Publicly fanning the flames isn't good. #Wyllie will never be making a repeat. As I fold laundry, I flip to The Late Show and dial my sister. She'll still be awake. She keeps the weirdest hours of anyone I know. Nikki doesn't say hello like a normal person, instead she says, "I hope you had a good flight back. You're not watching The Late Show. Please tell me you've turned off the TV." "My flight was good," I say and then I add, "It's idle curiosity." I tuck the phone between my ear and neck. Calling her was a bad idea. "You can call it curiosity, I call it obsession," Nikki says, her voice tight. "Tomayto, tomahto. How's Haven?" "She went to bed fine. Want me to drop her off after school tomorrow?" "Do you mind?" I finish the last piece of folding. "Oh," I breathe. Wyatt struts onto the stage, and I wish my screen was bigger. Maybe I need a bigger TV. "I'll let you go," Nikki says with a mirthless laugh. I hang up without comment and go around the couch, getting comfortable. In these moments, when I'm transfixed and hungry for the sight of him, a little voice in the back of my head tells me something isn't quite right. Ten years and the sight of him on a television is enough to snatch my breath, make my heart race. His effect on me is like a burn that won't heal. I have a boyfriend. A very nice, normal, non-famous boyfriend, who I keep out of the spotlight. Acting is a job now, and less of a lifestyle. Seeing Wyatt, knowing the life I have now is better, shouldn't make me nostalgic for what once was. We were bad for each other, or maybe he was just bad for me, but in any event, we didn't work, couldn't work. Wyatt takes his seat, and I resist the urge to lean forward. I don't go to his movies—I'm not interested in pretend Wyatt, but I can never resist his interviews. If I still did drugs, he'd be my crack. They banter back and forth, and I'm drowning. Wyatt, when he turns on the charm, when he sucks up all the oxygen in the room, is breathtaking. Jackson shuffles the cards on his desk. A nervous habit. I've been a guest on his show enough times to recognize the pattern. I narrow my eyes. Why would Jackson be nervous? He and Wyatt have been real, legitimate friends for years. Wyatt appears sober, which is a nice change. Sober Wyatt was always my favorite, and he's wearing a suit that fits him like a glove. My eyes travel the length of his body, taking in his broad shoulders and narrow hips. When he gestures toward Jackson, his biceps flex under the suit coat. He looks good—too good. I slap my face lightly and shake my head. No. No. No. If I saw him in person, I'd go the other way. I've been turning away for ten years. Sober, witty Wyatt in a nice suit can't change the past, the choices we made. Jackson squares his shoulders and grins. Wyatt tugs at the neck of his shirt. It's brief, but it's there. I sit forward. Another nervous habit. They're both nervous. Why? "So, are you single right now?" Jackson's words are a softball. "No one special in your life?" The crowd goes wild, and I cringe. I hate that question, for him, for me. "You know," Wyatt says. "I've been thinking a lot about old flames that still flicker." He winks at the camera. Jackson laughs. "Old flames. Give us a little hint?" Wyatt opens his jacket and leans into the couch, throwing one arm over the back. Confidence blasts from him like a siren's call. My heart rate picks up. "Have you got a photo, Jackson? Help a guy out?" Jackson rotates in his chair and an old photo of me and Wyatt pops up on the screen behind him. My heart threatens to gallop away, and I clutch my chest. Oh, my God. What is he doing? My stomach flips, and my phone comes to life, buzzing on the coffee table. I glance down to see Nikki's name. I send her to voicemail. My gaze zooms back to the screen. When my phone buzzes again, I don't even look, I send it to voicemail. Bile rises in my throat, and I swallow it down. Shit. Is this really happening? The crowd bursts to life with wolf whistles, cat calls, and screaming. More than one old photo of me and Wyatt flips across the screen. The memories. Oh, God. The memories. "Ellie Cooper." Wyatt draws out my name like he's licking an ice cream cone, his eyes glued to the last photo of us. Ten years since I've heard my name leave his lips. The genuine animation in him, the love on his face when he looks at the photo, softens me, even as rage builds deep in my gut. He loved me so hard once. "Have you and Ellie been in touch?" Jackson asks. Why is he going along with Wyatt's asinine chatter? I will tear Jackson apart for agreeing to be part of this ridiculous public spectacle. I'm never going on his show again. He's dead to me. I'm half tempted to call my manager right now, but I want to see where this is going. After all these years, why would he bring me up on such a highly public forum?