 
# He Lived Next Door

## Portia Moore

### Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Epilogue

Also by Portia Moore

Afterword

Excerpt - Prologue

Excerpt - Chapter 1

Copyright © 2017 by Porsche Moore

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

without the express written permission of the author

except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

* * *

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

* * *

Editing: Joy Editing

Cover Design: Bex Harper Design

Proofreading: Kelly Giannini Fiorentini & Bex Harper

Photography: Scott Hoover

Formatting: Irish Ink Formatting & Graphics

_F ive Years Ago_

* * *

I knew I was in love with her the second I heard her voice.

It was meant to be. _Fate_ that Jax left his book at our apartment and I felt like not being a jerk-off and brought it to him, _fate_ that I arrived early to his class and stepped in the lecture hall out of boredom, and _fate_ that I came in at the exact right time to hear her words. Words I'd replay in my mind well after today.

"You can't know someone's story without reading the pages of their book."

They were so simple, but they imprinted on my thoughts. Her voice replayed in my mind even when I wanted to shake her from it.

It was a moment.

_The_ moment, the slice of time in life, when you know, its existence will change the course of every moment after.

I stay the rest of the class. I want her to speak again. I'm anxious as others ask questions and the professor drones on, because _everything_ that comes after is unimportant, and each person that speaks does so with words that aren't as eloquent as hers; their voices aren't as beautiful. I'm about to risk looking like a crazy stalker and walking right down to where she is when the professor ends class. When Jax comes out I corner him and ask him about her. He looks at me as if I'm crazy, so I run toward the crowd of students leaving his classroom. He grabs my arm to stop me.

"I heard her say it in your class and you don't know who she is, so I have to find her!" I tell him manically.

He lets out a frustrated groan because he knows I've gone from zero to a hundred. That doesn't happen often, but when it does, that's it. I'll run through a wall. We've been best friends since our sophomore year of high school, so he knows when there's no stopping me and he might as well jump on board.

I hurry down the hallway, trying to catch her even though I have no clue what she looks like. The hall is flooded with students leaving their classes. I rush out the main door and stand by it, hoping she'll be talking and I'll recognize her voice. I search each girl's face as they pile outside. Some smile at me and I make sure to give each one my best charming smile in case it's her.

"You've lost it." Jax chuckles, and when I don't answer, he looks at me as if I've lost my mind.

Maybe I have lost my mind, because you're crazy to come to a dead stop on one of the busiest streets in Chicago—not to mention on a Monday, where even a slight stroll can get you trampled or knocked over.

"I've got to find whoever said that," I tell him again.

He covers his face as I search through the crowd. "I told you I could just ask at my next class." He sounds annoyed but slightly amused.

"No, you'll only half-ass it." I wave him off, and he nods in defeat.

"You didn't even get a glimpse of what she looked like. She could be dog-faced, man."

I give him the middle finger and weave through the crowd of people. But the voice is gone, disappeared into a sea of conversations and street noises.

"Ugh!" I yell in frustration, gripping my head and avoiding people rushing to their next destination.

It's a cold day here in Chicago, and being close to the lake has made the cold wind bone-chilling. That makes it worse for me, since people are not only in a hurry to get where they're going, but to get off the street to somewhere warm. Panic creeps up my chest. What if I never find her? It'll drive me crazy.

"I've got to find her," I tell Jax again, anxiousness coursing through me. I look around and spot a mailbox and newspaper box. I slither through the crowd and climb on top of it. "Attention, everyone, attention, please! In..."

I turn to Jax and ask his professor's name. He tells me, begrudgingly.

"In Professor Garrison's class, who said, 'You can't know someone's story without reading the pages of their book'?"

Of course no one says anything.

"You can't know someone's story without reading the pages of their book!" I yell again.

I get a couple of glances and giggles from the crowd, but most people keep walking. People in downtown Chicago are accustomed to outrageous, outlandish behavior, and most don't pay me any attention. I shout it again, and soon Jax is shouting it with me. Even if he is shaking his head in disdain, he's used to my ridiculousness, and what's a friendship if you can't be ridiculous together?

"If you said that, I have to talk to you," I shout, and I sound desperate even to myself but I don't care, I have to know her.

We shout together, this time garnering more attention. After about five minutes, I look at Jax, whose face is red from the cold. I begrudgingly get down off the mailbox.

"We're done, Jax," I tell him.

He looks completely relieved. "What were we just acting like two maniacs for?"

"You know me. I'm an idiot sometimes." I sigh in defeat.

"Uhm, I think you guys were looking for me maybe?"

It's _the_ voice! My blood warms up, but I hesitate, because I'm almost afraid to see who said it, whose voice grabbed my heart and didn't let go. Am I really ready to hand it over to someone? I haven't even let a girl borrow it, but _this_ girl stole it and has it in her keeping before I've even seen her face. Jax is facing her already and his eyebrows are raised, his smile big and goofy as it always is when he sees a cute girl, and I know she's not a 'dog-face'.

"This guy here, actually," he says begrudgingly, patting my shoulder.

I take a deep breath and turn around. My heart slams against my rib cage. She's beautiful, totally and completely. Her cheeks and nose are red, but the rest of her skin is flawless, not one blemish. Long blond hair pours from underneath her hood. Her eyes are big and bright and the color of honey, and her lips are exactly how I imagined them, perfect, plumped and curved into a grin. Next to her is an older woman who has to be her mother. They have the exact same eyes, and her mother's hair is just a tad darker. She looks annoyed and skeptical, her gaze darting between Jax and me.

"Say something, Romeo," Jax whisper shouts in my ear before giving me a hard elbow to the ribs.

"You, you said that, what I was yelling earlier?" I ask even though I know it was her.

She nods nervously. Her pink lips have a gloss over them and they're pursed, lips I imagine kissing a thousand times. There's a hint of a smile on them, and I'm praying she doesn't smile fully because it might stop my heart.

"What do you gentlemen want?" her mom chimes in. She sounds completely irritated and that should scare me out of what I'm about to say next, but it doesn't.

"I-I had to know whose voice said those words because, I fell in love with it." I feel her mother scowling at me, but it doesn't matter. _She_ smiles, and I have to remind myself to breathe. Our eyes lock, and she stares into mine, studying me. I want to be her open book.

"Do you guys want money? Is that what this is about? Because there are much easier ways," her mother interjects angrily.

"We don't want any money, ma'am. If we were paid to do this, I'd have made sure he came up with a much better line." Jax is trying to lighten the mood using his easygoing charm, but I don't even know if it's working because all I see is her.

She glances at Jax briefly before her eyes return to mine.

"I'm Chassidy."

She stretches her hand out and I take it, gripping it in both of mine. I feel it, what my dad said I'd feel when I met the one. It's a culmination of excitement, euphoria, and fear all wrapped up in one, traveling to every part of my body, making me light and dizzy.

"You have to let me take you out," I plead to her.

"What if she's married, young man?" her mom asks bitterly.

My heart drops. Why wouldn't she be married? She's beautiful and smart. She looks about twenty, but still, I know it's possible.

"Then my heart would be broken."

She rolls her eyes, but Chassidy squeezes my hand.

"I'm not married."

With her words, my face breaks into one of the biggest smiles I've ever experienced. She blushes, her skin turning the color her nose and cheeks are from the cold. I want to make her blush like that every day.

"Let me take you out," I say.

She's smiling, but I can tell she's still skeptical.

"Anywhere you want, whenever you want. You can even bring your mom," I say, gripping her hand tighter, and she laughs.

"You bet I'd be there if she considered going anywhere with some man she met off the street, even if he does look like you."

I see her mom has a special sort of talent to make a compliment sound like an insult.

"Mom," Chassidy says tightly, her smile disappearing into a hard frown.

"I can vouch that he's not crazy... even though he has a tendency to do crazy things," Jax adds.

"What's your name, Prince Charming?" Chassidy asks. The rough tone she used with her mother is gone, back to the voice that caused all of this calamity.

"Bryce, but you can call me whatever you want," I tell her, finally letting her hand go.

"Bryce what?" her mom asks pointedly.

"Daniels, ma'am," I tell her mother, whose eyes look as if they're going to set me on fire.

"Just exchange numbers so we can get out of this Godforsaken weather," her mom demands.

I frantically search for my phone, and Jackson hands me his. She tells me her number, and I put it in his phone and call it, and hers lights up. As soon as it does, her mother takes her arm and starts to pull her away.

"It was nice meeting you Bryce," she says over her shoulder, throwing me a smile I'll never forget.

"You better have been worth this," her mom snaps at me before they join the herd of people disappearing down the block.

"What the hell was that?" Jackson asks.

I just smile, staring at her number in his phone. "That was my future wife."

_P resent Day_

* * *

I shouldn't be here.

This isn't helping. It's not going to. It sort of helped the first time, but is it going to help now... I need _something_ to help me. I feel so lost, empty. I need to feel something other than this despair that's been wrapped around me for so long. I'm afraid to let it go. If I let one emotion out, the rest will unravel.

I look around at the women here, all different races and ages, and instead of feeling comforted, a form of comradery, I feel misery creeping around the room. I bite the Styrofoam cup in my hand so hard, a piece tears off in my mouth. My heart is beating faster than normal and my throat is dry even though I've downed an entire cup of punch.

"First time?"

I glance at the owner of the light voice. It's a girl of course. She looks young, really young, maybe sixteen. She can't be here for _this_ group. Maybe I'm in the wrong room.

"I'm Mallory," she says, stretching out her hand.

I take it reluctantly, trying to pull off a warm smile that feels cold on my lips.

"Nervous? I still get nervous sometimes." She laughs but it's mirthless, and when her amber eyes meet mine, I _know_ that she's here for the same reason I am. I recognize her feelings—loss, pain, and sorrow. My heart breaks for her instantly, for everyone here, but their pain and mine intermingling is suffocating, not liberating as it once was.

"Here." She hands me another cup filled with lemonade, and I down it quickly. "What's your name?"

"Chassidy. I'm sorry..." My thoughts are floating to a different time, a different place.

"It's okay. They're running behind." She sighs, breaking a piece off a cookie someone brought and popping it into her mouth.

More people are trickling into the brightly painted room with over thirty chairs arranged in a circle. The fluorescent lights feel hot on my skin, but I know it's paranoia. I haven't gone crazy just yet. I watch as some greet each other with half smiles and hugs. No one I recognize is here from the last time. Most people seem to be loners, like me. They seem confused and in a daze, observing, probably thinking the same thing I am.

"It's hot in here, isn't it?" she asks.

I nod, watching her pull out a hair tie from her Tory Burch backpack and gathering her long dark hair into a bun.

"Looks like we're the youngest people here." Her voice gives away a hint of her nerves.

I nod, rubbing my fingers across the back of my neck. Things like this aren't supposed to happen when you're young. Your body is supposed to be optimal, ready-made for it—so what happened to ours? I want to ask her this, but my tone won't be right, it won't come out as a joke. It would come out wrong, like most things I've been saying lately.

"How old are you?" I ask, my eyes sweeping across her.

"Nineteen," she says with a half smile. "How about you?"

"Twenty-six." I try to relax, but the cool liquid or conversation isn't helping at all. I feel beads of sweat forming on my forehead. I wipe them but don't feel anything. "It's not my first time here," I croak, my voice sounding older and hollower.

"Really? I don't think I've ever seen you here before," she says with a quizzical look, then she smiles brightly. "I would have noticed your hair. You have great hair."

I smile, touching it, then I remember putting my fingers through Logan's tiny blond curls and my stomach clenches.

"I come every week. Well, at least for the past four months I have."

"It was a year ago," I squeak.

She looks confused, probably wondering why I'm back after a year.

"I-it happened again." When I utter the words, they come out strangled and my throat begins to close in on itself. My vision becomes blurry with fresh tears.

"Okay, everyone, we're about to get started."

I recognize her voice. That's Jane, the group leader from the last time I came. I think about the progress I made and how now I'm back to square one.

"Are you okay to join the group?" Mallory asks me, her voice full of sympathy.

But it doesn't make me feel better. _This_ doesn't make me feel better. I'm weighed down by the past, depressed by the future, sucking up all the despair in the room and infecting it with my own. "I'm sorry, I-I can't do this. I shouldn't have come."

Before she can respond, I shoot to the door and hurry out. She seems to be functioning okay, but I'm not and I don't want to bring anyone down into my hole of misery. When I reach my car, I take in as much air as my lungs will allow. I can't help but think about how crazy I looked to them, to Mallory. But maybe they understand. If anyone could understand, it'd be them.

I rest my head on the steering wheel. I've sat in front of this building for three weeks, getting up the courage to go in, and when I did, I ran out like a lunatic.

"Life coach pfft." Nicole rolls her eyes before she sips her second tequila and lemonade. If she could be a coach for anything, it's knocking back booze in the classiest way. "What the hell does one do with a life coach? Why does a fully grown person need someone to be their cheerleader? Adulting is hard. Get over it!"

Kelsey, the most conservative of the three of us, gives her a warning look, but Nicole ignores it completely, as she's done since our high school years.

"I don't understand what you need to see a life coach for. You're doing fine. Your closet is dripping with labels, you're gorgeous, and you're skinny. You're doing just fine to me and every other person in the world," Nicole continues dismissively.

I can't help but feel guilty that an argument's about to start over my fake life coach session. I told them I was seeing a life coach so I wouldn't have to tell them that I went to a support group and failed epically. They're my best friends. I should be able to talk to them about this—I know they'd want me to, especially Kelsey—but I'm so tired of being the one everyone feels sorry for. I'm sick of their pitying glances, trying to make sure they don't say the wrong thing and make me uncomfortable. We've just started to move beyond that, and I don't want it to start again. Besides, emotional stuff makes Nic uncomfortable, and the last thing I want is for her to feel uncomfortable while alcohol is around. She'll drink away a car payment.

"I think it's a great idea. There's nothing wrong with a little help. Maybe I'll schedule a session with him." Kelsey's tone is full of encouragement as she picks up her glass of lemonade, which Nicole sneers at. Nicole teased her when she ordered, regardless of the fact that for as long as we've known Kelsey she's hardly ever had anything more than a glass of wine at dinner.

"Oh please, what would you need help with in your life?" Nic asks almost accusingly.

Kelsey blushes, but her hazel eyes narrow on Nic's emerald-green ones. Even though we've known each other since our freshman year of high school, Nicole still says things that can go from annoying to downright offensive, especially if you don't know her. That's why we stopped trying to introduce new people into the group. She's a special cupcake that isn't for everyone, but a flavor we've just never lost our taste for. When we got partnered together for an English project freshman year, I thought they were going to rip each other's heads off, but we survived and forged a lifelong bond.

"Are you saying that staying home with my children is mindless and not nearly as _difficult_ as getting to fly across the country and throw parties?" Kelsey asks tightly.

Nic rolls her eyes and throws her hands up in defense. "I'm saying that you have two gorgeous children you get to spend all the time you want with, in a gorgeous house, married to a gorgeous man. _You_ would be wasting your money, just like Chassidy is wasting hers."

"You're being condescending!" Kelsey fumes, and suddenly it's like we're back at the burger joint we used to frequent in high school.

"Are you serious?" Nic asks indignantly.

I'm used to their debates. They look as different as their world views. Kelsey has skin the color of toffee and thick curly brown hair. She's slender, conservative but fiercely opinionated. Nic's a liberal through and through. She blames her brashness on being Irish and claims she's meant to be hot-tempered since her hair's the color of fire. This, at least, is a tamer discussion. When it's election season, I can't be in the same room with both of them at the same time.

"I'm complimenting you guys. We're _all_ doing well. _You_ married one of the best pediatricians in the country, _Chas_ is living her dream as a writer, married to the love of her life, and _I_ get to rotate between the country's most eligible bachelors and get paid for it," she says with a wink.

Kelsey lets out a condescending chuckle.

"I mean I get paid for doing their events not doing _them_!"

Several people at nearby tables look over, and Nic glows at the attention. Kelsey shakes her head in disdain, and I cover up a laugh. It feels good to laugh.

"I just think that we're all doing pretty well, well enough not to need an adult babysitter, it's just such a waste of money," Nicole proclaims loudly.

Kelsey shifts her body toward me to give Nic the cold shoulder.

"What does Bryce think?" Nicole asks, throwing a haughty look in Kelsey's direction.

I tuck a strand of my hair behind my ear. "Bryce is happy as long as I'm happy." I try to sound cheerful, but the truth of the statement slaps me in the face. I'm not happy, so Bryce isn't either, even if he doesn't know why.

"Is he still out of town?" Nicole asks.

I grab my Long Island iced tea and take long sips, feeling uncomfortable with their gazes on me. Can they see behind the mask I'm wearing? Are there cracks?

"Yup, he'll be back tomorrow," I say with as much cheer as I can muster.

"You must be ecstatic," Kelsey says.

I smile, but it's tight. "Yeah, it's been a week." I try to hide any disdain in my voice, and I glance at both of them to make sure I've succeeded.

A look of concern flashes across Kelsey's expression, but it's gone quickly as it came.

I remember when I didn't have to hide my feelings from my best friends, when I could be completely honest, when my life seemed so perfect. Those were the days when I would count down the minutes to when Bryce came home, when him being around made me believe everything would be okay...

"I don't know how you do it, being at the house all by yourself while he's jet-setting across the country," Nicole says airily.

"So how is the new book coming along?" Kelsey asks, effectively changing the subject.

"It's coming..." I sigh.

"Now we're talking! That's the type of book I'll read," Nicole says, her eyes lighting up.

"Of course you would," Kelsey says condescendingly.

Nic blows her a kiss, and just like that, all is well with them... for now.

I grin. "I didn't mean literally."

"How hard could it be? Girl meets boy with emotional issues and dark secrets and her love cures him. Bam, you're done!" Nicole claps.

"I'm glad you think it's so easy," I tease.

Kelsey winks at me.

"I've just been sort of lacking inspiration, I guess," I say while playing with the last piece of asparagus on my plate.

"You're married to one of the most beautiful specimens on the planet. How can you lack inspiration? Are you a lesbian?" she asks loudly.

That makes me laugh. It's true though. Bryce is a beautiful creature, even more handsome than he was when we met five years ago. Our attraction to each other isn't the problem though.

"My lack of inspiration isn't his fault. It's me. Obviously," I say.

"Ugh, this alcohol runs through me quicker than money out my bank at Nordstrom's." Nicole squeals, standing. We watch her scurry to the bathroom, her limited addition Celine bag swinging behind her.

"Chas," Kelsey asks, her voice only above a whisper, and my stomach turns over. She's seen through the crack. Her big hazel eyes are like a puppy's. They see into your soul. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah, everything's fine," I lie, plastering on a fake smile.

She frowns at me. "Are you sure?"

I know she won't let this go. This is the first time I've seen her since it happened, and her radar has always been especially effective at reading people. It's what makes her a great mother. The nurturing gene is intertwined around each cell in her body and makes it extremely difficult to hide when something's wrong. She was the only person I told about wanting to live with my dad instead of my mom, and I told her that only a few weeks after I met her at fourteen.

My eyes tear up, and she reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. "Hon, what's going on?"

"Things are just not right." I bite my bottom lip, then finish off my Long Island.

"Is it the writing...?"

I bite my lip, smile, and shake my head. Aside from the girl I met earlier, I haven't told anyone. Technically I was at the meeting to say it out loud, to admit that it had happened again... My eyes fall on my wedding band, a symbol of love that's supposed to be forever, unbreakable.

I take my hand from Kelsey and twist the band around my finger. "I was pregnant again."

Her eyes widen as shock colors her face. "What?" Her expression fades from shock to sadness. "Chassidy, oh my God!"

She covers her mouth with her hands and tears up, so I tear up. She starts to rise out of her seat, but my eyes beg her not to. I don't want to make a scene. I hate that I've ruined our lunch.

She nods and instead scoots closer to me, holding my hands. "How many weeks were you?"

Her voice is full of sympathy and understanding that make me feel even more emotional, but I won't allow myself to start really crying. Nicole will be back soon, and we're celebrating her landing a big account at work. The last thing I want is to make such a great occasion a solemn one.

"Ten," I say quietly.

She leans in and hugs me tightly. I hug her back but pull away quickly to make sure that Nicole doesn't see and ask questions.

"I'm so sorry for your loss." Her voice is warm but wobbly.

I flash back to the day she came and saw me after I lost Logan, and I grab Nicole's drink and down it. Kelsey looks at me sympathetically, worry littering her pretty face. I flash her a pageant girl smile with tears in my eyes.

"I'm going to be okay," I assure her as confidently as I can.

She smiles, but it's weak.

"Right?" I nudge her, trying to be okay even though my insides feel as if they're being stretched in several directions.

"Of course you are," she says, trying to shake off her own emotions. "Is Bryce okay?"

"I haven't told him. I'm not going to."

Her eyes widen. Of course I know she won't agree with me not telling Bryce. Kelsey won't pee without telling David. Their marriage is almost ridiculously perfect, and I hate myself for being jealous. I miss when people used to be jealous of Bryce and me.

"I can't tell him. I can't have him look at me how you are." I take a deep breath. "We were supposed to be over this after Logan." My voice breaks, and I grab a napkin and dab my eyes.

"You have to tell him. You can't hide something like this from him. It'll drive you mad. Bryce loves you. He can help you," she says, but I've already made up my mind.

"He can't help me. I'm obviously just broken," I say quietly.

She looks crestfallen, but what can she say? She's not broken. She has two beautiful children.

"What's happened to you happens to so many women who go on to have beautiful, healthy children, and even if you aren't able to, that doesn't mean there's anything wrong with you," she says indignantly. "I don't know what you're going through, so I can't say that I know how you feel." For a moment, she looks guilty and I hate myself for making her feel that way. "But I do know that you're a great person and Bryce loves you to death. Don't let this get you down. You cannot shut him out. Talk to him about it."

I nod, but I know I won't.

"I'm serious," she says.

"What if we're not meant to be?" My voice sounds cold, and she looks shocked.

"What are you talking about?"

"What if we're just not meant to be? He's a great man. He's so loving and kind, and he deserves a child... _his child._ I can't give him that." I pinch the bridge of my nose.

Kelsey lets out a long breath. "Don't do this. Don't blame yourself. Don't make this more than what it is. If he had to choose, and you don't know if he does, but _if_ he had to choose, he'd choose you. You know that."

"But he shouldn't have to," I say, desperately trying to get her to understand.

She only glares at me stubbornly. "How much does Bryce like flying?"

A small smile finds its way to my face. Flying is one of his favorite things in the world, and the day he received his pilot's license was one of the happiest days of his life.

"I bet he'd give it up for you," she says pointedly, and I frown.

"And how selfish would that be of me?" I try to ignore the disheartened look on her face.

Silence passes between us before she folds her hands and peers up at me through her thick dark lashes. "You may not like what I'm going to say."

I suspect I know what's coming, so I try to prepare myself.

"You should pray about this," she says.

I cross my arms and clench my jaw, trying to keep myself from telling her what I think of that suggestion. I'm grateful when I see Nicole bounding back to our table with an extra pep in her step. The conversation is quickly changed, and I'm grateful.

But I can't shake her words. I should pray? That's so like Kelsey, believing prayers are magical letters and there's a big genie in the sky. If there is one, obviously the prayers I said, though there weren't many, were routed to someone else.

Kelsey can be so empathetic, which makes me wonder how she can be so oblivious to how much it stings when she brings up religion. I know she means well. All she's ever known is her faith, and if I didn't think she meant well, I would have told her where she could go shove her prayers. And why shouldn't _she_ have faith? She came from a normal close-to-perfect two-parent home in the cushy suburbs with a cute little cocker spaniel. If there is a God, he's been pretty good to her.

My parents were never married and were barely friends, more like strangers who liked each other a whole lot during a drunken tryst that had unexpected lifelong consequences. Even though they were awesome separately, the few times they had to share spaces—like birthdays, holidays when we tried to blend our families—were terrible. My mother runs cool, is always serious, can be admittedly condescending, and clashed against my dad's free-thinking, optimistic, sort of goofballish personality. I always wondered how many drinks had to be consumed to get them in bed together.

We had a nuclear family for all of four years before they called it quits and my dad moved to California. My mom said California fit him, but hoped he didn't give himself a concussion with his head being so high in the sky he wouldn't look in front of him. By the time I was six, right as I started to forget what he looked like, he came back, saying he had started a successful landscaping business and married my stepmother, Annette. That's when the real fights started. He filed for custody and was awarded joint custody since I had started school and my mom was taking care of me just fine. I stayed with her during the year, and he got me for the summers and every other holiday.

I can't say it was a terrible childhood, except whenever I was with my dad, I felt guilty about leaving my mom behind in cold Chicago. My dad had his new wife and new house, which was five times the size of ours in Illinois, right near the ocean. I always promised myself that I'd only have a child with someone I'd love forever, so my child never had to be in a situation like I was, having to choose between two people, two foundations that were drastically different...

I push those thoughts out of my head and finish lunch with the girls, ignoring Kelsey's concerned glances. I make sure to down two more Long Islands so she won't press me on the car ride back home. Nicole is so excited about me being her drinking partner that she orders us shots, and the rest of the lunch is sort of a blur.

* * *

I wave to Kelsey and Nicole as I make it to my front door. Nicole's sort of slumped over with a big smile from her drinks. Kelsey is sober as a nun, and she calls out that she's going to call me later. Do nuns drink? I'll have to research that later...

I walk up to my building, which Bryce and I have called home for three years. It's one of the older luxury buildings in the area. They've been putting up so many new ones, but the price we pay for almost fourteen hundred square feet is unbeatable. Our plan was to buy a house in the suburbs when we started our family.

That thought makes me sort of nauseated. I head to the elevator but decide to take the stairs instead. I haven't been to the gym in weeks though, so by the third flight, I regret my decision. My mouth is dry, and my thighs are stinging.

"This was a dumb idea," I mutter and plant my butt on a stair, making up my mind to head to the elevator as soon as I catch my breath.

"You're not giving up that easily, are you?"

The voice makes the hairs on my neck stand up. It's smooth and warm, like hot chocolate going down on a cold day. I can't see his face because a box—two to be exact—hides it, but I can tell from his toned abs peeking through his shirt and his arms, which have muscle swirling around them, that even if the face is a two, this man could be a ten. I feel my cheeks flush from the thought.

"Um, do you need a hand?" I ask, finding my voice doesn't sound as wavy as I thought it would.

"That would make my day actually," he says, shifting the boxes in his grip.

I stand and wipe my palms on my legs, making my way over to him.

"They're not heavy. This one's just blocking my vision," he explains, sort of squatting so I don't have much of an issue reaching the top box.

I'm used to standing on tiptoe to get things done though. Life as a short girl has made me resourceful. Still, his gesture makes it easier for me to grab the box.

"You're a godsend," he tells me with a chuckle.

I start to tell him that maybe it was divine intervention since I'm one of the laziest people ever, or maybe it was a nudge from down under since I don't know what the hell I was thinking taking the stairs, but I'm greeted by a spectacular pair of blue eyes hidden behind long dark lashes. They're magnetic, perfect, as is everything else on his face. A perfect nose sits above two plump lips curved into a smile with the most adorable dimples I've ever seen. He looks young, his face holds that youthful glow we all have before life stomps it out of you. Is he 25...maybe? Probably not even 23, but he has the body of a man...

I grip the box to my chest, almost feeling lightheaded. No more drinking with Nic.

"I'm Carter," he says, with a smile that wraps around my heart and squeezes.

It's the sort of feeling I got in high school when the boy I had a crush on smiled my way. I feel the same grin on my face from then and scold myself. _Goofy drunk lonely girl._

"Chassidy," I tell him, my voice lopsided and high. I wonder what brand of toothpaste has the wattage to make his smile so blindingly white. I follow him, telling myself not to stare at his butt. "So which floor are we heading to, Carter?"

"Only three more levels," he says, sounding nowhere near as out of breath as I am. I definitely need to visit the gym again soon.

"You're on seven?" I ask, surprised.

"That's the one."

Geez, he looks almost as good from behind. I roll my eyes at myself at how childish I'm acting, but it's a good distraction. I climb the steps that seemed impossible earlier, but now they go fairly quickly. When we reach the seventh level, he shifts the box into one hand, pulls the door open, and waits for me to go past him.

"Thank you," I say as I step through and he follows.

"We're making a left. 704," he says.

"You're kidding," I say with a laugh.

"Well, I was tempted to say I was on twenty, but I thought that'd be rude," he jokes as we reach his door.

"That would have been really mean," I retort, watching him pull the keys out of his back pocket.

"I really appreciate you saving me," he says, opening the door.

I shrug. "You saved me. I'd probably still be on the steps if you hadn't come along."

When he walks through the door to his apartment, I peek in, standing at the threshold with his box in my hands still.

"You can set that on the counter," he says, holding the door open with his foot.

I press my lips together and glance behind me.

"Or I can just grab it from you," he says as he sets his box down.

"Oh no, it's fine, sorry, brain freeze." I giggle like an idiot before making my way in, ignoring the queasy feeling I get when I do.

"I promise I'm not a serial killer," he says.

"Good to know," I laugh.

I set the box on the island and quickly scan the apartment. It's eerily identical to mine, down to the large island I fell in love with three years ago. It has the same dark wood floors and high ceilings I fell in love with, the same shiny stainless steel appliances. It's empty aside from the boxes scattered about, but the feel is different here. There's no clutter, and the light shining in from the floor-to-ceiling windows makes it feel much bigger.

"You want a water?" he asks.

He's even _more_ stunning in natural light. The blue eyes that I thought were gorgeous before are more magnificent when the sun graces them, his smile even more electric, and I find myself holding my breath to make sure I'm awake and not dreaming.

"I would, thank you," I say, gripping the strap of my purse.

I'm nervous. I haven't been nervous around a man in a long time. He doesn't seem to be though, striding with ease to his fridge. I peek around him and see water bottles, Gatorades, and a box of takeout food. He walks across the apartment and tosses the water bottle to me.

"You don't need one?" I ask. I'm sure his box was heavier than mine, and at one point, he was carrying both.

"Nah, I'm good." With an easy smile, he hops on the island, his eyes landing on the bottle in my hand.

Right, he's waiting on me to drink. I smile tightly, trying to loosen up. I take a small swig, then a longer one, resisting the urge to gulp it all down.

"What floor do you live on?" he asks once I'm done.

"It's actually a coincidence... I'm right next door." Unable to resist, I gulp down the water.

"No such thing as coincidences." His tone is serious, but his smile... oh gosh, his smile is contagious and makes me, a twenty-six-year-old woman, smile like an idiot at a stranger.

Well he's not a stranger technically. He's Carter, my next-door neighbor. My extremely attractive next-door neighbor.

"So what do you call this, fate?" I tease.

His eyes narrow on mine as if he's studying me, and I look away.

"I don't believe in that either," he says with a casual smirk.

I resist the urge to ask him what he does believe in. That seems like a mildly flirtatious question, and I don't flirt anymore, especially with someone as handsome as he is. Especially someone as handsome as he is who lives next door to me. I would be furious if I caught Bryce doing it and I'm a Libra, so I'm sort of born to be fair.

"Well, it was nice meeting you, Carter. Thanks for the water," I tell him, heading to the door.

"Thanks for the help," he says, following me.

I ignore the heat that creeps up my spine as he nears me. No more Long Islands for me.

"Maybe I can get you a coffee sometime... as a thanks for helping me," he says casually, as if he's being friendly. But with a smile, face, and body like his, it'd hurt a girl's pride, even a married girl like me, if he was just being friendly.

I scan his hand and notice he isn't wearing a ring, but what does that mean? Plenty of married men go without a ring. Crap, why am I worried about whether or not he's married when I'm for sure married?

"Married." It comes out like word vomit, not cool and casual as I would have liked.

Both his eyebrows lift, and he laughs. It's a great laugh, but how could he not have a great laugh when he has perfect lips and teeth.

"Okay, you're free to bring your husband along." He shrugs with a small grin.

My whole face begins to burn up. So he's not flirting with me, and I'm not sure if I feel relieved or disappointed. A little bit of both.

"He's not much of a coffee drinker," I say, stepping across the threshold. It seems darker on this side, and it's cooler. The air conditioner is always blasting in the hallway.

"Well, until we meet again," he says, leaning in his doorway with a casual smile that seems familiar and warm. That should feel unsettling, but it doesn't.

I turn to open my door and realize I haven't unlocked it. I laugh at myself and glance back to see that he's still watching me with an amused grin.

"Keys would help," I joke, and his smile becomes even better. How is that possible?

"Or telekinesis."

"Or that," I snort. Did I really just snort?

When my door opens, I'm almost sad.

"See you around," I say once I'm inside.

I wait for him to close his door first, but I secretly hope he doesn't. I realize I'm being an idiot, so I give him a small wave and ignore that it's the first time in days that I've genuinely smiled at a man including my husband.

I stare at the blinking cursor on a blank page that screams that I'm a failure, that the books I wrote before were flukes, that eventually all my readers will know I'm a fraud, a one-hit wonder who writes about things I haven't felt in a long time that seem so far out of reach.

I push my chair away from the desk and flip on my television. I should just start with the first sentence, but instead I grab a carton of butter pecan ice cream and park myself in front of the latest season of _Real Housewives_.

"Maybe I do need a life coach," I mutter.

I watch my favorite character get yelled at by the group of equally rich women and turn it off before the episode is over. I'll wait until it's on demand and I can fast forward through the parts I don't like. I lie back, pulling the throw over me. It's only seven and I usually don't sleep until ten, but it's where I find relief. I close my eyes and try to think of good things, happy things.

At first my dreams are happy and make me smile, but when I wake, my heart is pounding and I'm sweating.

I saw _her_.

Anna and Bryce together. He was holding her and looking at me with the most fantastic smile, the smile of the happiest man in the world. Then she disappeared and the pink blanket she was swaddled in became stained with blood. The despair in his eyes, the wail in his throat haunts me. I shoot off the couch toward the kitchen sink and splash my face with water.

I haven't seen him since I lost her.

It was too early to know if it was a boy or a girl, but I felt in my heart she was a girl.

She sneaked in on me. We weren't trying. Logan took so much out of us, seeing his face and holding his tiny body, his hand curled around my finger as if he were alive... I thought I'd never recover from losing him. It took months until I felt like me again, until we felt like _us_.

It was so long before we didn't feel guilty when we smiled or laughed.

I don't want to say that we moved on because it makes it seem like we dropped him off and left him behind, but we managed to live again. Bryce was there for me, but I almost pulled him into my darkness instead of him pulling me out. I saw the man I loved with bright eyes, a kind spirit, and unbreakable resilience slipping beneath the current with me. But he managed to keep me from going under and pulled us both out.

I lost her while he was gone. For ten weeks she was mine, a little secret I couldn't wait to share with him, but I was cautious. Or was I selfish? Did I have some sort of sixth sense that she wouldn't be alive for long? I knew her for five weeks. Five weeks of joy and hope died within me, and the only evidence of her was left on sheets that I had to strip and throw out so he wouldn't see.

I go for the bottle of vodka Bryce usually partakes in. At least if I have another bad dream, I'll be too drunk to remember it when I wake up. I begin to open the bottle as someone knocks at the door. I grab my cell phone to see if anyone called or texted me about coming over. When I don't see any missed messages, I hesitantly make my way to the door. For a moment, my heart leaps, thinking it's Bryce home early and wanting to surprise me, before the feeling of dread returns. Don't get too excited in case you're disappointed. It's always been my mantra.

"Who is it?" I ignore the creeping anticipation climbing up my chest.

"Carter. From next door."

My heart skips a beat, and I open the door. This time his brown curls are partially covered with a beanie, and I wonder how it's possible that he's cuter than he was yesterday.

"Hey, neighbor," he says with an enthusiasm you'd think he was too cool for.

"Hi," I say, my surprise not hidden in my face or tone.

"I'm not bothering you, am I?" he asks almost sheepishly.

I give a small shrug, commanding my eyes not to lock on his chest. It's broad and sculpted enough that I can see each line through his shirt. He's got to be a personal trainer or something... but he seems too laid-back for that. I worked with a trainer for a few weeks after I lost Logan, and he was like a legit drill sergeant.

"Um not really. Well I was sort of working, then I got side tracked by reality TV crack," I joke, running my hand through my hair nervously. I start to tell him I had a nightmare, but I keep that to myself. I wonder why it would have come out so easily.

He looks amused. "You work from home?"

"Yeah, something like that." My thoughts focus on why he's knocked on my door.

He reads my expression and gestures to his door. "I locked my key in there. The maintenance guy said it'd be about twenty minutes or something..." He gives me a smile that I'm sure has convinced many women to make bad decisions.

"Oh, you want to come in?" It comes out more like a confused accusation than an invitation.

"Or... I could go sit in the café downstairs," he says with a lopsided smile.

"No, don't be silly. Come in." I stand back and motion for him to come in.

His blue eyes sparkle at me. "You sure?"

"Yes, completely. If you turn out to be a psycho though, I have a black belt, so just be forewarned," I kid, feeling a little more at ease.

He turns around, his eyebrows raised in surprise. "Really?"

"Let's pretend, okay?" I whisper as if telling him a secret.

He nods and gives me an adorable wink. I fight the smile spreading across my face, but it's useless.

"Can I sit down?" he asks, gesturing to the barstools lined up against my island.

"Yeah, please."

He takes a seat and rests his upper body on his elbows on the island. I watch him look around the apartment, and my face flushes scarlet as his gaze lands on the bottle of vodka. I swipe it from the counter and tuck it neatly onto its shelf under the sink.

"Is it like de ja vu?" I ask, heading to the refrigerator.

"Yeah," he says with a chuckle.

I grab a water bottle and hold it out to him. "My debt repaid."

His lips turn up into a grin. "I'm glad you were home. The maintenance guy makes me nervous."

Magnew, our maintenance man, is a 4'11" Polish man with a mouth like a sailor and a stern look and harsh tone for any guy in the building. He's always a jerk to Bryce and a little puppy with me, so Bryce always has me call when something goes wrong in the apartment. It's funny how two big strong guys like Bryce and Carter can be intimidated by little Magnew.

"He's as sweet his pie. His bark's worse than his bite," I tell him, and he shrugs.

His eyes continue to inspect the apartment, and for a moment, I wonder if he's a thief. He could be scouting the place, but it'd be pretty ridiculous to rob your next-door neighbor when you're new to the building.

"How long have you lived here?" he asks.

"Going on three years," I say, taking a seat on the stool farthest from him. "Me and Bryce."

My eyes fall on the picture of us, a picture of when we were happy—truly, disgustingly happy. The kind of happy that would make you swear the couple had just met or were doing it all for show, but we weren't. We had the kind of love I write about—or used to at least.

Carter's eyes follow my gaze. I guess I've been staring at the picture longer than I realized.

"Is that you guys?" he asks, and I nod. He points at the frame. "May I?"

I shrug.

He walks over and picks it up. "You guys look like one of the couples on those magazines."

I feel myself blush. I wonder if that's a guy's way of saying Bryce is attractive? Bryce is—there's never been any denying that. He was one of the most beautiful human beings I'd ever met, with thick ash-blond hair swirled with natural golden-blond highlights. He has naturally moist, kissable lips and forest-green eyes with speckles of amber around the iris. He had me at first look.

"Thanks," I say as he puts it down.

"What type of guy is he?" he asks, striding back to his seat.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean is he the type of guy who'd kick the chair out from under me if he saw me sitting here with you?"

I laugh.

"Or would he offer me a beer and we could all watch the game together?"

I smile and let out a short sigh. "Umm, a little bit in between, I guess."

"So he'll knock me out of the chair and offer me a water bottle?" he jokes, and I laugh.

"He's not really jealous. I never give him a reason to be though."

"You're frowning," he says with a half smile.

"No, I'm not."

He nods adamantly. "Yeah, you are."

Then I notice the muscles in my face are scrunched up. "Sorry, I wasn't frowning at you."

"Were you frowning about what you said?"

"Why would I frown about that?"

"I don't know. Do you think you should give him a reason to be jealous?"

I search his face for some hint of flirtation. His words sounded like a pick-up line, but I see no trace of innuendo. "No, why would I want to make my husband jealous?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. Women are weird sometimes. No offense." He puts his hands up in defense.

"No, I don't want to make my husband jealous." As I say it, I ignore the slight tingle inside me at the thought of Bryce walking in, seeing Carter here, and being jealous. I like the idea of making sure he knows I'm still desirable, that he still wants me and would fight for me.

But I already know that.

"So what women are driving you crazy?"

"None, thank God," he says, and my eyes widen.

"Really hate women, huh?"

"No, it's just that you're a complicated species," he says with a casual shrug.

Suddenly it hits me. Carter hasn't flirted with me, and he's completely harmless. He's definitely gay. I feel a wave of anxiety leave my body. Of course he's gay, because I live in the real world and not a romance novel. No woman is allowed to have a straight, single guy neighbor who looks as impressive as he does.

"No meddling mother?" I ask.

He chuckles, displaying a teasing grin. "More like a really involved father."

I smile tightly, thinking of my own dad and how laid-back he is. He called me two days ago and I forgot to call him back. I make a mental note to do that.

"So what were you working on?"

I look at him, confused.

"When I got here, you said you were working on something before being sucked into crap TV."

"Oh right," I mutter.

As I think, I take the hair tie off my wrist and put my hair up, flicking away some stray blond strands. I bite the corner of my lip. Telling people what I do, especially people I just met, is always weird. Some people are genuinely interested and impressed, but others are dismissive or ask a million questions, including personal questions that people of other occupations never get asked. Questions like am I any good, how much money do I make, or is my book like insert any that's been made into a movie over the past five years.

"A story," I say quickly. "What do you do?"

When he looks at me with curiosity littering his handsome face, I know I'm not going to dissuade him so easily. "Like what type of story? Like an anecdote, a journal entry?"

I sigh. "No, more like a book. Nothing really significant like _War and Peace_ or anything."

"But a book, like a real book with a cover and chapters?" he asks, sounding even more enthused.

I feel better answering this one, since he seems to be in the camp of nicer people, but now I feel like his opinion of me is higher than I deserve. I stand and walk over to the refrigerator to distract myself. "Trying. I've been a little stuck."

"That's so cool! You're writing a book!"

I feel my face heat up as I take out a carton of blackberries. I never know what to say when people compliment me like that. Thanks seems sort of pretentious or snobby, so I stuff my mouth instead.

"What made you decide to do it? How far are you into it? Are you into it? How do you have the time?" His questions come rapidly, and I feel anxiety creeping up from my neck to my head.

"Well, I always loved to read, I just started this one, and I write full time, so technically all the time in the world." I offer him the carton, and he takes a handful of berries.

"Wait, you said, 'this one,' which means you've written books before?"

Now I feel embarrassed from how he's looking at me—like I'm an interesting creature.

"Yeah," I tell him, wishing he'd pick up on how much I'd rather talk about something else.

"How many?"

"Three," I mutter, tucking my loose hair behind my ear as I lean against the refrigerator.

"That's amazing! So you're not, like, just a writer." He pops the remaining blackberries in his mouth and swallows them in almost a gulp. "You're an 'author.'"

I giggle uncomfortably and shrug. "I think they're the same thing."

"So is that what you do, like, write all day?" he asks, still enthusiastic.

"It's what I should be doing... but most of the time, I end up watching reality TV and eating junk food."

"And the occasional blackberry," he adds, his eyes gleaming.

I'm so glad he's gay, because if he wasn't, I'd feel really guilty for looking at him how I am. But when you're a writer, you get to look at really attractive people in a non-pervy way because you need descriptions for characters, and what a book boyfriend he'd make.

"That you're right about." I sense he's about to drop the subject, but just in case, I'll head him off. "So what do you do?"

He glances at the ceiling as if he's uncomfortable talking about his job as I am. "It's sort of complicated."

I scoff. After he interrogated me, he's not getting off that easily. "Oh no, please explain."

"You could say I work for a not-for-profit."

I feel my eyes widen. Handsome and charitable? If he wasn't gay he'd be perfect for Kelsey if she weren't already married to a handsome charitable man. Maybe Nicole, if she didn't eat him alive first... he seems a little too laid-back for her.

"What sort of not-for-profit?"

"Helping people?"

I raise my brow at him, and he gives me an innocent smile that makes me smile back. "Do you really work for a not-for-profit, or are you secretly a billionaire who's moved into the building to track down a long-lost love?"

He tilts his head as if he's confused, and I chuckle at my own joke.

"Sorry, I've been reading a little too much."

"You write suspense?"

I laugh. "Maybe one day. Right now, it's more like love stories." I would say romance, but then I'd get the inevitable _Fifty Shades_ question, and even if he is gay, it'd be sort of awkward explaining to him the difference between romance and erotica.

"Is it true to life?" he asks, and that surprises me. "You and Bryce?"

I'm surprised he remembered my husband's name, and the question makes me feel tense and sad all at once. "No, I haven't gotten to our story yet. Romance readers like drama, and we've never really had much."

"So you write those books that used to be in the grocery store with the Fabio guy on it?" he jokes.

"Not exactly." I laugh as I notice his phone vibrate. He looks at it and frowns before getting to his feet. "From the exasperated look on your face, I assume it's Magnew?"

"Why couldn't the maintenance guy look like Megan Fox or Beyoncé?" he asks as he grudgingly heads to the door.

Wait, is he gay?

"Well, thanks for letting me squat here for a while," he says, his hand on the knob.

"Any time, it's an excuse for me to not write."

His smile fades a bit and his expression becomes more serious. "You should write a story where, you know, you get your happy ending."

I start to feel uncomfortable, but his smile stretches, erasing any trace of awkwardness.

"Don't eat too much fruit. Mix it up with some doughnuts or something," he jokes before leaving.

I close the door and sigh, then I think about how out of touch you have to be to mention Fabio before _Fifty Shades_.

* * *

I can't sleep tonight. Everything is keeping me awake. First the temperature in the room is too hot, then it's too cold. It's too quiet, then not quiet enough. I'm so restless for the first time in a long time. I hop out of bed and head to my office, which is just a desk with a MacBook in our living room. Bryce has asked me a million times if I want to turn our extra bedroom into an office, but each time he asks, I become silent, angry, bitter. It makes me feel as though he's given up on us ever being able to use that room as a nursery.

I let out a frustrated breath and push that thought out of my head. I pull up the document I was working on before my "writer's block" hit me. This story was supposed to be light and filled with humor, a feel-good tale, sort of like a Hallmark movie with a hint of Lifetime. I had a good chunk of it done. I knew my characters and connected with them and writing it was fun. Then I lost Anna and all of the humor and hope in the story left me. Every time I try to write a scene in this story, it ends in death, something my readers would balk at. I take my readers through hell, but there's always a happy ending, a thread of hope wrapped around each obstacle and tied into a bow. Now I'm out of that thread.

Bryce loved this story. He said it was his favorite one yet. Well, he always tells me the newest is his favorite, and I always believe him because he always tells me he fell in love with my words. He sees my books before anyone else, the good, the bad, the vulnerable parts of me. I've shared so many things with him, and he's always made me feel safe.

I've never been able to do that for him, and lately, it seems I've only brought him pain. After we lost Logan, I was hurting so badly, but I couldn't bring myself out of it to help him with his pain. He was always so strong and never let me see how losing our son affected him. But on the nights we made love—and it took months before I was ready again—when he thought I was asleep, he'd reveal his pain, his devastation, his mourning. Those moments hurt more than Logan's loss itself, because he knew I couldn't handle carrying his grief when I was so weighed down by my own.

I can't see him hurt again. Anna is the first secret I've ever kept from him, and I hate myself for it. The tears I tried to blink away earlier are falling full force now, and I can't stop them. I feel weak and angry that I haven't gotten over this yet.

I ignore the tears, open a new document on my computer, and try to focus when I hear the key turn in the lock. I jump from the keyboard and bolt to the couch, where I pull the throw over me. I hear Bryce come in and drop his bag at the door after he closes it. My heart pounds as I try to pull myself together. I can't let him see me like this.

I hear his footsteps. I know he's headed to the kitchen—it's always his first stop. If he didn't work out so much, I swear he'd be shaped like Peter Griffin from the way he eats. The water comes on first—he's washing his hands—then I notice the smell of takeout. He's not cooking, which means he'll be heading my way any second to park in front of the TV and destroy one of his favorite meals.

Just as I predicted, I hear his footsteps approaching. He stops beside me. I know I've surprised him—I never used to sleep on the couch. It's leather and he never wanted us to get it, but I fell in love with the way it looked, and as he usually does, he let me win.

"Chas?"

I close my eyes tighter. I hear him put the food on the coffee table, and a few moments later, he's lifting my legs and he rests them on his lap.

"Chas, you fell asleep on the couch. You never fall asleep on the couch," he tells me quietly.

I keep my eyes closed. If I open them, I'll start crying. I hear him let out a sigh, and I wonder if he knows I'm awake. In a second, he lifts me from the couch, puts me in our bed, and sweeps the covers over me. I want to tell him that I'm so glad he's home and how much I've missed him, but instead I keep pretending I'm asleep, not entirely sure if he buys it or not. After a while, I hear the television come on, so I slip out of bed and crack open the door to sneak a peek at him. He's only in the next room, but he seems so far away, and I know it's my fault.

I wake up to the phone vibrating on my bed. I also see that I have three missed calls. They're all from my mother of course.

I take a deep breath and answer. "Hey, Mom," I say, trying to remove the grogginess from my voice.

"Where have you been? I've called you a million times," she squeals.

"Mom, you called me four times in a row this morning. I was sleeping," I tell her, sitting up in the bed. I look around the room and see no trace of Bryce. Him coming home so early was a surprise. He wasn't due back until tomorrow.

"Are you listening to me?"

I'm so glad she doesn't have an iPhone and can't Facetime me. "I am, Mom, I'm just looking for Bryce."

"What do you mean? You've lost him?" she asks sarcastically.

I know I must be sleepy because why would I ever tell my mother the truth? I'm now in the living room and there's no sign of him.

"No, it's complicated," I say tightly.

"Everything is always so complicated with you. Why is that?"

"Mom, please, not this morning," I beg, searching for a sign of his things.

It's nine thirty, so his usual routine would mean he'd just come back from his run an hour ago and now he'd be in the shower, but there's no sign of him anywhere. I head to the kitchen and check for the takeout bag in the garbage. If it wasn't there, I'd think I imagined the entire thing.

"Are you guys okay?"

I note the smugness of her tone and I can't keep the edge out of my voice. "Yes, we're perfect."

I love my mom, but she's never been the biggest supporter of our relationship. Since my dad left, she's had a strong disbelief in having a relationship with anyone. Boyfriends yes, flings yes, but marriage? She thinks they're all doomed to fail and she didn't hesitate to tell me that the day I told her Bryce had proposed.

"You don't sound perfect," she says accusingly.

"Let me call you back." I hang up and text Bryce.

_Are you home?_ is the weirdest text a woman should have to send to her husband. I'm startled when I hear keys in the door and, a few moments later, it opens.

"Hey," he says, his voice uneven. He looks almost as surprised as I am to see him.

I smile at him—it's genuine and not forced. He's always had the ability to make me smile, even in my saddest moments. His eyes smile at me, but it doesn't reach his lips. His eyes lock on mine, trying to read me, read who I am today. Am I someone he can talk to, touch, make love to, or someone who will freeze up and want her distance?

I hate myself for not knowing. Awkwardness has grown between us like weeds. When did they start? The day I found out I was pregnant with Anna and I didn't tell him. Ever since then, there's been a secret between us that I couldn't share yet, and now... well, it doesn't even matter.

He pulls his sweatshirt over his head, and in doing so, his white wife beater pulls up, showing his etched stomach and strong arms. My skin heats up from the sight. Our distance has never been due to my body not desiring him, and it's screaming at me now. It's been a little over two months since we made love. I've missed him so much.

He folds up the sweatshirt and sets it on a barstool, then he sits down, stretching his long legs out in front of him. His eyes trail up my body, and my stomach flips. Then his eyes lock on mine. They're big warm pools that I used to swim in every night.

"You slept on the couch last night." His tone is cautious, hesitant, and he stuffs his hands in the pockets of his sweats.

"I just fell asleep," I say meekly.

He squints at me in disbelief, then he sighs, looking at me as if he's searching for the woman he used to love, as if I'm a ghost of myself. "You never fall asleep on the couch."

There was a time when he came back from trips and would wake me up so we could make love for hours. Now we're almost uncomfortable to be in the same room with each other.

"There's a first time for everything."

He nods, but he's skeptical. He knows it's nearly impossible to get a good night's sleep on the Couch of Death.

"Do you want me to make breakfast?" I ask, walking toward the fridge.

"I grabbed something after my run," he says before I get a chance to open it.

"Oh."

"But I can sit down and eat with you," he says quickly, but I don't want his pity breakfast time.

"No, I'll probably just eat a bagel or something," I say, trying to hide my annoyance with him and myself. I bite my lip and grab a pack of bagels. I hate this feeling. I hate how we feel like we're roommates rather than husband and wife, two people who love each other.

"I missed you."

His words stop me in my tracks. I close my eyes and wrap his words around me. I missed him too—so much. I look back at him. All the feelings I've ever felt for him stir up in me, but I swallow them.

"Why didn't you call me?" I ask, fighting with the stubborn bagel that doesn't want to leave the pack.

"I didn't know if you wanted to talk to me," he says quietly.

My face heats up, and I pull the bagel out of the bag.

"Did you... want me to call?" His voice sounds tired and cracked, exhausted.

He's exhausted with me. I've drained him. I did want to hear his voice, but at the same time, hearing it makes me feel so guilty.

"It doesn't matter," I say with a half shrug and a fake grin, and I see a brick wall being built on top of those weeds between us.

"That's not what I asked you," he says sternly.

My eyes dart to his. They're hard. I focus on putting the bagel in the toaster. The silence between us is like a person, and I hear him let out a frustrated sigh.

"I wish you would tell me what I did," he says, his voice strained. It makes me want to hug him, but I don't know what it is I want or if what I want is what's best for him.

"You didn't do anything."

I hope he sees that the problem is me and not him, but he lets out a frustrated groan and rakes his fingers roughly through his hair. His head lowers, and he waits a moment before he looks back up at me.

"Is this going to be it for us?"

His question makes anxiety course through me. When I look at him, my heart wrenches. His face is blank, but his eyes are full of confusion and sadness, and my heart beats wildly. Is this going to be it for us? Is it too much? Can I ever get over this pain, this fear of not being good enough for him, that he deserves more than what I can give him? Looking at him, I see the love in his eyes and I can't imagine giving him up, but I'm not ready to give in, to break, to have him fix me at the expense of himself.

"What do you mean?" I ask, my voice revealing a tremble I didn't intend.

I start to feel angry too. Yes, we've been distant with each other because I've kept to myself more than normal, but how can we heal when we barely see one another? He's gone so much, and if he wasn't, then I wouldn't have had a chance to make distance my friend. Is he ready to give up on us just because things aren't perfect anymore, because we're going through a rough patch? This man promised me forever.

"Why would you say that?" I ask, feeling tears come to my eyes.

"Why wouldn't I say that? You've completely shut me out!"

I flinch. He hardly ever yells. Well, when he's watching football games with his friends and brothers, he does, but not at me. I guess I've never deserved it before.

"Don't blame this all on me," I say, my own voice raising.

"This isn't about blame. I don't care whose fault it is, mine or yours. I want to know if we can get past this! If you'll let us."

His nose is flared, his beautiful face contorted in anger, his voice passing decibels it never has with me. This is what I've made him become. My stomach sinks and I feel sick as I cry.

He approaches me and lifts my face to make me look at him. "Do I not make you happy anymore?"

My heart breaks that he thinks this is his fault. I love this man with everything in me, and I'd rather him be happy without me than unhappy with me. He doesn't deserve this. He doesn't deserve a woman who is so screwed up she can't function, who's so stuck on the past she can't bring herself to get over it and love her husband and rest in his support. That's not who he deserves. It's not what I promised him when we married.

"Chassidy, tell me what's wrong, please."

He's practically begging me, but my words are buried under fear, stubbornness, pain. I can't force them up, so I just cry. But he holds me, and he kisses my head, my neck, my lips.

"Just let me in," he begs.

His fingers reach my skin, climbing underneath my clothes, and they come off. His do as well, but I don't feel passion or yearning. All I feel is a secret between us. When I look into his eyes, I see the eyes of our little girl, and it freezes the fire that used to ignite between us. I can't concentrate on how good his lips feel on my neck, how warm and hard his body is, how he knows me inside out. I only notice how cold the floor is, how useless my body is, and how I don't know if we can ever get past this. My body becomes tenser, my breath shortened.

But he needs this. If I can give him this, maybe it will ignite something, or at least give me time to let him know I haven't checked out. I look at the ceiling and try to relax, but when he grips my chin, bringing my gaze to his, his eyes bore into mine and he stops. I panic because in his eyes, I see disappointment and frustration. He shakes his head, and he presses his lips so firmly together that they're swollen when he parts them. He pulls himself from inside me and sits next to me, his knees pulled toward his chest.

I sit up and wipe the tear from my eye. "I'm sorry." I feel terrible because he doesn't look angry, but sad and confused. "Let's try again."

I grab his arm, but he pulls it from me. He looks at me with a sad smile. "You didn't think I'd notice." His voice is sharp but distant. "You weren't even going to say anything. You didn't think I'd notice that you weren't here? You think I want to make love to just a body?"

He stands up, his body chiseled and defined, a gift to women, and I cover my face with my hands. I'm so embarrassed. He grabs his clothes off the floor, and I stand, grabbing my own clothes.

"I'm trying," I say, but it comes out flat.

He laughs, but it's full of annoyance and fury. "I don't want you to have to try. You know me, I know you. Should we be _trying_ at this point?"

He heads to the bedroom, but I don't follow him. I put on my clothes and sit on the couch, wondering how we got here, how I let things get this far. I just wanted some time and distance to clear my head.

After about twenty minutes, he comes out dressed and freshly showered. I start to ask where he's going, but I decide not to. I probably don't deserve the answer right now. He clears his throat, and I look at him, giving him my full attention.

"I don't know if you remember, but tonight we have dinner with Jax and Tiffany. If you can feel up to it, that'd be great." His tone is even and void of any emotion.

I nod at him, and he heads to the door. I search for something to say to redeem myself.

"Bryce?" It comes out urgent and panicked.

He stops, his hand on the knob, and looks at me. The words I want to say are blurred and seem stupid.

"Do you want me to pick up some wine?"

His face falls, and he chuckles. "Sure, Chas, whatever you like."

He leaves and slams the door, and I don't even jump. I deserved that.

Should I pick up wine?

I'm an idiot.

I try to drown my thoughts of today's disaster by answering all the emails I've neglected. It's been about three weeks since I checked my Facebook messages and cleaned out my author inbox, and I have about twenty messages from readers. I start with those, since they always find a way to make me smile. Responding to them distracts me for most of the morning and raises my spirit inch by inch.

When I'm halfway through, I check one of the writer forums I'm on and see success stories of those who have just released new books. I congratulate a couple I communicate with through cyperspace. Most people have been having good weeks—stellar releases, big promos from the most coveted marketing sites—so I add my congratulations to each. Toward the end of the page, I read a post titled "Sad and confused," and my heart sinks. My hour has been good and I don't want to give away that energy I've stolen for myself, but my mouser gravitates toward the post anyway. I don't recognize the user's profile name _pinkwriter92._ It seems they've only posted a few times. My eyes scan the text...

_I hate to bring the party down when it seems like everything is going so great for everyone. I'm a long-term member but have mostly lurked. I just feel lost. I wish I could say, or that it would make more sense to those who read this, that I've been doing everything right but haven't found success, but I have. I haven't hit any best sellers' lists or been recognized by major blogs or publications, but I have a strong reader base, my writing pays the bills, and I'm what many on this board would consider successful. I am blessed by so many standards... but I feel empty. I feel like what I write next won't be good enough. The joy I thought I would feel when I reached this point is absent. Many of you may assume that maybe I'm not a real writer, one who writes for the love and passion of it, but you'd be wrong. I've been writing since I could hold a crayon, and the love for my craft is with me, but something is missing and it's interfering with my work. I ask that you not tell me to set a higher goal, like hitting one of the coveted spots on Amazon or iBooks, or even the more elusive_ NYT _or_ USA Today _lists, because I've thought about that myself. Can you simply remind me why you love what you do, and why you keep going?_

I feel my chest tighten as I read the last sentence. I read the first response and see that someone's already begun the snark train. I exit out of the forum. I can imagine the type of responses _pinkwriter92_ will __ get. I go back to my happy place in my inbox and open the email I left off on.

* * *

_C hassidy,_

_My name is Davien Marx, and I'm with Gellar and Associates. I've been following your work and have to tell you, I was riveted. I was hoping to be able to discuss representation of your Blue Girl series. I know that you've done well with it on your own, but I would love to talk to you about some of the possibilities we envision for it. Please let me know when is a good time to speak._

* * *

My heart begins to pitter-patter. Way back when I wanted to traditionally publish and had been going through the grueling process of looking for an agent, their agency was at the top of my list. They represent some of my favorite writers. I stop before responding to the email and grab my phone to call Bryce. He's the first person I always share my good news with. But he doesn't pick up and the phone goes to voicemail. I refuse to let the disappointment grab hold of me. I quickly hit Reply.

* * *

_T hanks Davien,_

_I'm so flattered. Would love to talk. I'm free until six today. Mornings are always good if today doesn't work. Looking forward to speaking with you soon._

_Sincerely,_

_Chassidy Bell_

* * *

I can't help but giggle after I send it. I haven't felt this sort of thrill from an email in such a long time—not since I received my very first email from a reader telling me how much they loved my book. I tell myself not to get too excited—after all, I'm not interested in selling English rights to any of my books and that could very well be what they're interested in—but if they're talking about international representation or subsidiary rights, that's so exciting! I answer the rest of my emails, then hop in the shower. My phone dings and I see the email from Gellar and Associates.

* * *

_G reat, would 1:00 EST be good for you?_

* * *

I jump out of the shower, dry my hands, and tell him it's perfect. Before I can blow dry my hair, I get an email asking for the best number to call me on. I resist the urge to respond immediately and finish drying my hair before I send him the number.

I look through the closet, skimming through what to wear tonight. Bryce will usually tell me if they're hosting other people, which happens quite a lot since they both have very successful careers. Jax an investment banker, and Tiffany a lawyer. Dinner parties and wine seem to be required. Bryce didn't answer when I called and he's not the happiest with me, so I settle on a little black sweater dress. I'll take heels and flats just in case. I throw on a grey tank top and matching sweats and put my hair in a high messy bun. I'll straighten it later.

I have about fifteen minutes before it's one in New York, so I head to the kitchen, grab a banana, and turn on the television to kill some time. I'm halfway through my snack when my phone lights up. I almost choke when I see it's a Facetime call instead of a normal call. I quickly swallow, drink some water, and wipe my face. He didn't say it'd be a Facetime call, did he? I hop over to my desk, trying to appear somewhat professional, and realize as it connects that a messy bun and tank top with no bra doesn't exactly scream serious author. Before I have time to grab a sweater, it connects, and I'm a little stunned by the face staring back at me.

He's a man—of course, I knew that—but somewhere in my mind, I thought he'd be older and sort of overweight and in a suit. Instead he's young, tanned, maybe a little older than me, and has a full head of dark hair, dark eyes, and a million kilowatt smile. He's not what I expected at all.

"Chassidy Bell?" he asks with a hint of a flirtation in his voice.

I sit up straighter and fold my arms across my chest. "That's me." I wonder if I'm smiling too widely.

"I should have probably mentioned I'm a big Facetimer. When I texted you and saw you had iMessage, I just went for it. I have it on my computer so it's just easier sometimes, and it's good to place a face to a name." He has beautiful teeth and his voice is low, almost rough around the edges

"No problem." My eyes gravitate to the large windows behind him and a skyline that steals the show even from someone who looks like him.

"So I have to tell you. I'm a big fan of your work." His voice is casual, but his eyes are wide with excitement.

"Thank you."

"No, really, your series is so different from everything that's out there right now, but it fits perfectly with the genre, if that makes sense."

"Thank you again," I tell him with a laugh, and I don't know if I'm imagining it, but his eyes gravitate to my chest. "One minute please."

I set down the phone, grab an actual T-shirt instead of a tank, and pull it on. When I'm back, he's grinning and I feel myself blush.

"So let me just tell you about our agency and who I am." He leans closer to the camera, but in less than a second, he goes from playful and casual to serious, listing off the credentials of his agency. I was already aware of most of them, but when he names some of the clients he's represented and how the deals he's made in the last year total over five million dollars, I'm really impressed. "So even with all of those facts and figures, I'm sure you're wondering what I can do for you, right?"

"I'd love to hear it," I say, trying not to sound too impressed.

I listen to him as he tells me where I stand market wise. He talks about the potential he sees in my series and what he can do with it, which in his exact words are that he thinks he could make me a lot of money. The firm takes fifteen percent of whatever compensation they secure me. After the spiel, I'm nervous and wring my hands together, but he looks at me expectantly, waiting on my response.

"That all sounds great, Mr. Marx—"

"Davien. My dad isn't even Mr. Marx," he says, interrupting me with a smile that I'm sure has charmed many out of their sanity, money, and clothes. That's the smile of the man I want representing me.

"Davien, that sounds great, but I'm not interested in selling the English rights, ebook or audio." I wait for his spectacular smile to change into a frown, but his smile stretches further.

"You wouldn't have to do anything you're uncomfortable with."

The weight on my chest leaves.

"However," he adds, and I brace myself. "I ask that you be open-minded."

I laugh and rub the back of my neck.

"If I brought any deal to you, it would be worth your while. That I stake my reputation on."

I let out a sigh, but it's accompanied with a laugh. "As long as we're clear that I'm not interested in those types of deals and if you pursued them and I decided not to take them there won't be..."

"Any tension?" A grin plays on his lips as if he knows a secret.

I detect a hint of flirtation in his tone but ignore it. He probably uses it with everyone before they sign their life away. I know it's wrong to think, but I wonder how many deals he's made based on that smile and those eyes.

"Okay." I nod, planning to ask him for a day to think things over, but from the Cheshire smile on his face, I think he already knows he's got me.

"Can I send you over a contract?" he asks, probably purely out of tradition.

I nod, and he clasps his hands in triumph. I can't help but laugh at his excitement over little ol' me.

"I'll send it to the email address I have."

"That'd be great. Is it okay if I send it back to you tomorrow?" I ask. Tiffany is a lawyer, and since I'm seeing her tonight, it's perfect timing to have her give it a once-over.

"Actually, I'll be in Chicago on Tuesday. I'd love to meet the woman behind the computer."

That catches me off guard. "Umm, of course. I'd love to meet you too."

"Great! I'll send you the details by Monday if that's okay," he says, leaning back in his chair.

I wonder how tall he is. He has broad shoulders. _What does it matter?_ "Sounds good."

"Great. Look out for an email from me with all of my contact info, as well as my assistant's, and I'll be seeing you soon," he says.

"See you soon, and thank you again."

Wow. I have an agent.

Me.

And not just any agent—a fantastic one from one of the most respected agencies in the country. I glance at my phone and see that Bryce hasn't called me back yet. Still, I push my worries from this morning from my mind and perk up. Today is turning around. My phone buzzes with a text from my mother. She's downstairs.

I throw my head back and groan. Well, it was getting better. I cross my fingers that she's in a good mood, but since I didn't call her back earlier, I know I'll have to warm her up.

### Bryce

_5 Years Earlier_

* * *

"Her mother looked like she was going to rip our eyes out."

Jax is making a big show of telling our friends about what happened this morning, and I can't blame him. He was a good sport about it, and no one can tell a story like he can. He has a big audience today: Tiffany, our best friend; Jax's girlfriend, Kira; and my little brothers, Duke and Max. We're all at Geno's for our traditional Friday night pizza. Jax, Tiffany, and I have been coming here since our freshman year of college. Whether for celebrations after landing jobs or pity parties after failing tests, we've always gathered around this table. "Nothing cures a broken heart or shattered pride like pizza and beer," is my dad's favorite saying, and it's been my motto since I was seventeen and would sneak them from the fridge.

They all look at Jax in disbelief—he's been known to exaggerate.

"But I'd do it again in a second," I say with not a bit of shame. I grab a slice of pizza, ignoring their gawking.

"I can't believe it! You going all Shakesperian for a girl you hadn't even seen before?" Tiffany looks impressed with me. Since she's been my best friend since middle school and is a hell of a lot smarter than I am, I don't get that look from her often.

"I assumed you all were shallower than a kiddie pool," Kira grumbles before drinking some of her beer.

"Oh, you don't believe he really had no clue what she looked like?" my little brother Max says, totally fine with insulting me.

"I didn't."

He rolls his eyes and throws his head back dramatically.

"Yeah, right," his twin, Duke—my slightly lesser pain in the butt brother—adds.

"It just goes to show that the Bell boys can tell a girl's cup size from the sound of her voice," Kira says wryly, and they all laugh.

Max slaps the table. "So what does she look like? I mean, you've dated some hot ones, though not as hot as mine!"

"She's one of the most beautiful girls I've ever seen," I say with a smug grin.

"So how are you going to follow up after that romantic spectacle you made of yourself?" Kira asks, bitterness underneath her laugh. She doesn't speak out of fun the way everyone else does; her shots are always personal.

I take a swig of my beer before answering. The girl has a way of grating on my nerves—she's the type of person who could develop film by speaking to it. She always has something negative to say. You could tell her she won the million-dollar lottery and she'd start complaining about taxes. I really don't understand what Jax sees in her—besides that she was blessed with good genes. She's cute enough. Sort of reminds me of that stuck-up girl from _Pretty Little Liars,_ which Tiff makes me watch sometimes. I guess it's ironic, since she considers my brothers and me shallow, that the only thing I think is good about Kira is her appearance. We may appreciate the beauty of a woman's form, but we'd never deal with a girl whose attitude was beyond rotten.

"What do you mean?" I ask, trying to cover my annoyance.

"I mean you set the bar pretty high, Casanova, declaring your admiration for her in freezing weather in front of hundreds of people. How do you live up to that?"

The table quiets, and there it is, the famous downing of Kira Burns. She could bring down a cartoon.

"By being himself. If she likes him, great; if not, screw her," Tiffany cuts in, even though there's a bit of a slur in her voice.

It's crazy how opposite the women in Jax's life are. Kira's a stuck-up redhead who can find a flaw in anyone or anything. She claims to be our generation's Diane Sawyer, and if that turns out to be true, God help us. Tiffany has been like our little sister, but she's always had a crush on Jax. I think she even stayed here to go to Roosevelt with us in hopes he'd wake up and notice her, but he met Kira and we've all been paying for it ever since.

"If it was me, it'd just seem that anything that comes after that would be a disappointment." She shrugs.

Tiffany and I exchange knowing glances before ignoring Kira.

"So when do you get to meet Her Highness again?" Max asks.

"We're meeting tomorrow for coffee at the Starbucks on..." I stop myself from giving them the address. They've been known to crash dates before. "Starbucks."

"Total dud," Kira mutters.

"She actually picked the place," I say with a smug grin, and she rolls her eyes.

She raises both her hands with innocent eyes. "Hey, I'm just trying to help."

Tiffany rolls her eyes, and we share a smile.

"Well, I for one hope I get to meet the girl who has Bryce Bell so infatuated. You haven't even stared at the waitress's ass one time, and that ass deserves some staring at," Duke proclaims, raising his beer.

Tiffany, Jax, and Max all raise theirs and we clink our glasses.

"I'm kind of surprised too. I just might buy into this love at first sight... or word thing." Tiffany giggles.

"But we'll see how long it lasts," Jax says.

Tiff winks at him, and I don't miss Kira scowl at Jax.

"Come on, Tiff, you're always on my side," I say, giving her puppy-dog eyes.

She laughs and pinches my cheek. "I _am_ on your side, Brycie."

She always calls me that before she goes into lecture mode, which is pretty rare, but she's had a few to drink tonight.

"It's just... you're not one with a long attention span. You're always excited by new shiny things, but your attention has been known to wane... I just don't want this, possibly amazing girl to be ruined by your magnetic charm and short span of interest."

I gape at Jax, but he says, "She's right. You have been known to jump into things full speed ahead and then a week passes and it's like it never mattered."

I sit up straighter in my chair, a little offended. "Are you guys saying I'm a flake?"

They all avert their eyes.

"Come on, I'm not a flake," I say defensively.

"How many times have you changed your major?" Duke asks.

I scoff. "About half the times you have."

"Yeah, but I'm a screw up and had to. I didn't just get bored."

"Changing majors doesn't mean I'm a flake. Everyone changes their major once or twice," I say... even though I've changed mine about six times.

"Remember when we were kids and you got me all psyched to try out for the football team and we practiced and practiced and we got picked, and two weeks later you didn't want to do it anymore?" Jax sounds annoyed. We were twelve—he should be over that by now. "Or the time you decided you were going to be a chef and you spent almost a grand on cooking crap, and after a month, it ended up in a box in our storage locker?"

"Can't forget the time he decided he was going to be a video editor and bought a two thousand dollar laptop," Tiffany says.

"Hey, I'm still working on it," I tell them.

"What are you working on?" Kira asks, glad to hop on the "let's take a dig at Bryce" train.

"We know how excited you get about things in the beginning. You're impulsive, passionate. You'll never be dull to be around, but we've never seen you like this about a girl, especially one you've only seen once and barely talked to. With it being senior year and you taking that love poetry class..." Tiff says.

I stand up, tired of their jokes. They've basically called me a toddler who gets a new toy and throws it to the side after Christmas. "I'm offended."

They all snicker.

"Come on, Brycie, don't be that way," Tiffany pleads.

"You all think I'm a flake, and that I never follow through on anything," I tell them.

"Dude, no one called you a flake. You're not a flake. I just wouldn't sign any business deals with you." Duke laughs. "Wait, is her mom going to be there?"

They all burst into laughter, and I wave as I leave the table.

"For your sake, I hope not," Jax adds before I make it to the door.

Joke's on them—I didn't leave any money for my portion of the bill. Now that's a flake.

After the roast I unknowingly sat through yesterday, I'm nervous to see her. I'm never nervous about dates, but here I am, my palms sweating on my second cup of water. I hate coffee.

I can't get the things they said out of my head. Tiffany's careful tone, Kira's smug grin. Duke and Max were assholes per usual, but usually Jax will step in and defend me. This time he didn't—he jumped on "the pile on Bryce" train.

What if I imagined it? What if _Serendipity_ came on while I was asleep and sent subliminal messages to my brain? What if I created this ridiculous moment that seemed more life-changing than it was?

* * *

"Are you okay?" She asks, quietly.

I look up and she's there, the sunlight shining on her, wearing the same bright smile with perfect lips that almost distract me from her warm brown eyes. They're soft, welcoming, mesmerizing. She's more beautiful than I remember. This time her light blond hair falls down both her shoulders, and I notice that she has a small dimple on her right cheek. She's tiny but not in a creepy "she looks like she's twelve" way. She can't be over five two. I could pick her up in one arm. My heart thumps, and I feel high.

"I'm perfect," I tell her, and she smiles bashfully.

"You looked like you were zoned out." With a beautiful grin, she begins pulling out her chair.

I stand quickly and apologize and do it for her. She giggles.

"Thank you, Bryce."

I love the way she says my name.

"Long night," I tell her, embarrassed that she caught me in such deep thought.

She takes off her coat, which I take as a good sign. If she'd kept it on, that'd mean she wouldn't be staying long. When she takes it off, she reveals an off-the-shoulder sweater. She has a long perfect neck, and on her shoulder is a tattoo that looks like a book with pages flying out of it.

"I got muffins," she says with the best smile in history, setting them on the table.

"Thanks. I don't know how I missed you coming in."

"You seemed pretty deep in thought." She pops a piece of the muffin in her mouth.

I chuckle. "Not really. Just going over my day yesterday."

She nods. "Want to tell me about it?"

"I'd rather get to know you."

Her grin spreads fantastically wide, showing all of her perfect teeth. "Actually I'd like to know about you first." She tucks a piece of light-blond hair behind her ear and frowns. "How old are you?"

I can't help but notice she's eyeing me with fascination. "I turn twenty-two in three months."

"Are you in school?" she asks, and I tell her I'm a senior at Roosevelt University.

"Do you shower or bathe daily?"

I laugh. "Umm, yeah."

She bites her lips when our eyes meet. "Do you hurt small animals? Do you like to cross dress?"

I really laugh now. "I'm sorry, but what?"

She covers her face and giggles. "It's just that—I wouldn't normally tell a guy this, but since our meeting was sort of out of the ordinary, it only seems fitting—why would a guy w-who looks like you, who seems smart and fairly normal..." She smiles, but it's small and a small line appears between her eyebrows. "Why would you have to chase down a girl you've never even seen before?"

"I really don't know," I tell her, and she looks disappointed. I lean in closer and my heart does a cartwheel when she does the same. "Actually, do you believe in fate?"

She's quiet for a moment, taking time to contemplate the question. "I'm more of a fan of free will."

I love that answer. "I'm a big believer in fate. In both actually—fate and free will—but I think there are moments when we make connections or have ideas because the universe gave us a nudge to act and those moments are life-changing if we listen."

She looks at me a moment, her head tilted slightly to the side, as she pinches off another piece of the muffin. "So you're saying that moment of us meeting or you hearing me was life-changing?"

"I heard your voice and out of the millions I've heard before, yours snatched my attention. I heard you, and your voice wouldn't leave me alone," I tell her, being more honest than I ever have in my life.

She gives me the warmest smile I've ever seen. "Well, who am I to argue with fate?"

We talk for hours.

It's daytime when we meet, and evening creeps around before we leave.

Her full name is Chassidy Stevens. She's twenty years old, and a sophmore at Columbia College. Her major is fiction and screenplay writing. She's an only child. Her parents never married or were even a couple. She spent her childhood between here in Chicago and California. She loves to eat but hates Italian food—blasphemy in my book—but I forgive her because she loves action movies, even proving it by naming off her top twenty. It's a pretty great list. She minored in dance for a while but realized there were so many more naturally talented people, so she stopped and devoted more time to her love for writing. She likes ice cream but prefers frozen yogurt, and I'm in love with her already.

"Mom, what are you doing here?" I ask as she makes her way past me into the apartment.

"Something is wrong, and I want to know what," she announces as I close the door.

"Nothing's wrong," I say, trying to avoid her gaze.

"Chassidy Marie Stevens..."

I would normally correct her that it's now Chassidy Marie Bell, but her tone lets me know she's ready to argue. I'm in too good a mood to fight with her.

"I carried you in my body for nine and a half months. You were three weeks overdue, and it took me fourteen and a half hours to get you out. If you think that I don't know when something is wrong, you are delusional."

At this point, I notice the too-large-to-be-a-purse bag she's carrying, and I feel anxiety and panic creep up my spine. "What is that?"

"Isn't it adorable? I got it on sale. The girl said it's the in designer, Tory Butch," she says, twirling around to showcase it.

"Tory Burch, Mom. That's the same designer who made the sunglasses and scarf I bought you for your birthday." Shoot, I'm getting distracted. "I mean, it looks like you have a lot of stuff in it."

She glares at me—disapprovingly, might I add—and I shrink back into my sixteen-year-old self. "That's because I'm going to spend the week with you."

I hear the violins from _Psycho_ play. It's not that I don't love my mom. It's just that, well, she can be controlling and super overbearing and now is the absolute worst time for her to be here.

"Mom, you know that I love you," I tell her cautiously.

"Of course I know that. Why wouldn't you love the woman who brought you into this world—"

"After fourteen and a half hours of labor," I interrupt her, and she gives me a pageant girl smile. I can't help but chuckle. If I were to describe our relationship to a shrink, I'd describe it as teetering somewhere between nagging mother and overprotective sister. I wouldn't trade her for the world, and she's one of the coolest moms I know, but she can be too much sometimes. I take her coat as she slides out of it. "I just don't think it's the best time right now."

She arches a sharp brow at me. "I bet if Bryce's mom wanted to stay, you wouldn't have a problem accommodating her."

I scowl. We both know Bryce's mom would never stay here longer than to appease her son, which since we've moved here, has been less than an hour combined. His parents are loaded—his mother specifically, her family owns a brewery—and as nice as our place is, she turned her nose up at it on her first visit, asking when we'd be moving to something more presentable. As if a two-bedroom condo in one of the best parts of downtown Chicago is slumming it. My mother knows this, and tosses her hair.

"There is no such thing as not a good time for your mother to come help you," she says, and I sigh.

"Actually there is," I say a tad more sternly, ignoring the grimace she shoots me before she heads to the guest room. "I don't need your help!" I scream in my head.

"I don't know why you haven't made this an office yet. Maybe it'd give you more inspiration to get your books done," she says, placing her bag on the floor beside the guest bed.

I massage the tension out of my head. _This_ is why she can't help me, why I don't need her here. She tried to be there for me after I lost Logan, but she just didn't get it. She doesn't understand. She's never lost a child before, and she doesn't know what to do or say. All my life, she's been a resilient woman. When life hit her with crap—failed relationships, losing jobs, losing her parents—she just bounced back and she doesn't understand why I'm not doing the same. She couldn't possibly help me now. When I open my eyes, she's looking at me as though if she stares long enough, she could rifle through my thoughts like she does my closet.

"What's going on?"

"Nothing's going on," I say, my voice rising.

She folds her arms across her chest, and now gives me her super stare. I sigh and leave the room.

"You better tell me now. You know I won't let up on this!" she shouts, following me into my bedroom. She picks up my sweater dress. "What is this hideous thing?"

"It's not hideous, it's a sweater dress, and it's what I'm wearing to a dinner party tonight with Bryce," I say, snatching it from her.

"Who on earth would make a sweater dress?" Her face looks as if she just sucked a lemon. "You either wear the dress and be sexy and cold, or you don't. There's no in between."

I roll my eyes and sit on the bed. She sits next to me.

"Come on, honey bear, spill the pot," she says, pulling me to rest on her shoulder.

I sigh, and for a moment, I want to tell her. But it seems like so much has happened and she'll be angry and hurt that I didn't tell her in the first place. Then she'll just tell me it will all be okay and women were made for more than popping out kids and if Bryce doesn't like it, he can piss himself.

One of her favorite sayings.

She won't see my fault in this for pushing him away, and she won't understand why I can't get over it. She'll tell me my life is too good to complain about and go into the tirade of how different things were for us when I was younger, how she worked two jobs for us to stay in a nice neighborhood, how we are overcomers, strong women who don't get held down by what life throws our way. All of that I already know, all of that I've tried to tell myself, and all that makes me feel worse and more pathetic. So I swallow the truth and tell her a partial bit.

"Bryce and I had a fight."

Her lips turn down in a scowl. "About what? Is he not home enough anymore? I knew him being a pilot was just asking for trouble. Pilots are floozy magnets."

"It's not his job. Floozies aren't our issue," I say, unable to resist laughing at her use of "floozy." "He loves to fly. I'm proud of him."

The day he became licensed was one of the happiest days of his life. I was happy for him, especially after seeing him drift from career to career—mostly those his parents had pressured him into. Nothing was good enough for them, or more specifically for his mother. When my books started to sell well and I asked Bryce what he would do if he didn't have to worry about money. Without a second thought, he said, "Be a pilot." At first I thought he was joking, but then I saw the look in his eye. It was the same one he had when he told me that he loved me. I knew then he was serious and he'd be great at it, because he's always been great at loving me.

"Why doesn't he take you with him?" she says childishly.

"Because I'm not a co-pilot and it'd be pretty desperate to follow him around like some clingy puppy. I'm surprised at you, forward-thinking woman that you are, for thinking I should do that," I tease her with a nudge. But when I look at her, I don't see the irritated sneer she usually has when she refers to my marriage. I see genuine worry, and from her, it's sort of terrifying. "Mom, we're fine. Since when did you become team Bryce and me?"

"I'm not. I'm team 'I want my daughter to be happy' and Bryce makes you happy. Besides, you could have picked a worse member of the male species, so I'm choosing to look at the positive side of this."

I can't help but hug her. "Positive side?"

I'm a little surprised. My mom has never been like that. She's never been a complainer. She has always just taken life as it came at her, and refused to relent, but she's never been the type to see the glass as half full. She's more like, "If the damn glass breaks, clean it up and don't cry about it."

She grins a bit. "I think Adam is rubbing off on me."

My eyebrow shoots up. "Adam, the guy who asked you out a million times and when you finally caved in, you said he annoyed you to no end and you'd never see him again?" I recall the hour-long phone call she spent complaining about him after their first date.

"It was hard to avoid him since he owns my favorite restaurant, and well, the banana cream pie was too much to give up," she says haughtily.

I'm shocked, completely shocked. While I gape at her, she catches me up on how many times they've gone out—which is _a lot_ over the past four months. She even let him spend the night. My mom dated—well, she hates to use the word date—a man for a year without even letting him know what street she lived on.

But she gushes over Adam. She tells me he's a year younger than she is- fifty-six-, divorced, and has one daughter. He also has three dogs, which she hates, but as she talks about him, I see a look I've never seen on her before. I think my mother's actually in love. I recognize the look because I used to see it on my face every day. I miss it, and I kick myself for feeling a little jealous of my own mother.

* * *

I'm in the bedroom, slipping on my underwear, when I hear Bryce come in.

"Evelyn?"

I can hear the surprise and annoyance in his voice, which is shocking. Bryce has never been rude to my mother or showed any disdain toward her even when she deserved it. Yes, he's surprised, but if he had had his phone on, I could have warned him.

"Wow, your enthusiasm at seeing your mother-in-law is radiating off you so much, I could put your joy in a bottle and drink it up," my mother replies snarkily.

"You know you're one of my favorite people," he says with his usual charm, and I'm sure he's displaying a devastatingly handsome smile. "Is everything okay?" He sounds worried, and that perks me up a bit.

"I'm not sure. Is it?" My mother asks, and the perk I had was gone.

I grab the towel off the bed and make a beeline for the door before my mother starts grilling him. That will ruin the entire night, if I haven't ruined it already.

"Hey, sweetie," I sing, and their eyes dart to me.

My mom eyes me suspiciously. "I'm sure he could have waited until you'd dried off."

"Well I thought I'd butt in before the interrogation began," I tell her with a wink.

I walk over to Bryce and give him a quick peck on the lips. He looks stunned, and I realize it's the first time in weeks that I've initiated physical contact with him. I haven't seen his eyes this close in so long, and I see his longing, but it disappears quickly. His gaze breaks from mine, and it's almost like a shove in the chest.

"It's good seeing you, Evelyn, but I've got to get ready for this dinner. I'm sure Chas has told you about it." He gives her a warm smile, warmer than the plastered annoyed one he shoots me before heading to our bedroom.

"What was that?" My mom obviously detected his coldness toward me.

"It was nothing," I say in a loud whisper and follow him to the bedroom.

He's already in our bathroom. I go to open the door, and I'm shocked when it's locked. The entire time I've known Bryce—even when we first met—he's never locked the bathroom door on me. I start to knock, then stop midway. There's no way he's jumped in the shower that quickly. He's either getting undressed or using the toilet. Either way, he can see the knob attempt to turn and hear me trying to get in, and he hasn't bothered to open it or tell me he will.

My feelings are hurt. It's silly, and I don't know why I feel this way. Everyone, even married people, deserve their privacy. But my sadness turns into anger. Instead of asking him what the hell is going on, I swallow it for later. I don't know if he's really still mad from earlier, but I won't argue with him while my mother is in the other room.

Maybe that's what he wants—to argue. We used to argue over stupid things, nothing ever serious, and when they bordered on us being annoyed with one another, we'd spend the night making it to up each other. I walk away from the door and decide to keep keeping it all in. I'm becoming an expert at that. I pick up the dress my mother called hideous and decide to wear a grey pencil skirt and white blouse instead.

By the time he's out of the bathroom, I'm putting the finishing touches on my makeup. He's wrapped in a towel, water glistening on his chest, and I'm reminded of how good his body looks and how it causes my own to react. My body is warm for him and begging, so different from how cold and tight it was earlier, when he wanted me.

"You could have told me your mom was here," he says evenly, but the annoyance from earlier is still there.

"I tried, but you didn't pick up the phone," I tell him quietly.

He looks at me, and I swear I see guilt in his eyes, but his glance is brief before he turns back toward the closet. I wait for him to give me an explanation, but he doesn't. I don't say anything while finishing my mascara. Then I watch through the mirror as he puts on his pants and collared shirt.

"Is this about earlier?" I ask, turning my body toward him.

He buttons his shirt up, keeping his attention on his task and not even glancing in my direction. "Did you see something wrong with what happened earlier?" His tone is dull and mildly sarcastic.

Fine, if he wants to play that game, I can too.

"Not at all," I say tightly. I slip into my nude So Kate heels, give myself another once-over, and grab my tri-colored Celine bag off the bed. "I'll wait for you in the living room."

"You're fighting," my mom says in a sing-songy voice as I sit on the couch beside her.

I don't answer her but keep my eyes glued on the TV. _The Property Brothers_ is one of her favorite shows. She used to do real estate full time, but now she only shows a house here or there. I have a feeling she re-lives her heyday through HGTV without having to actually put in the hours.

"Whatever it is, fix it," she says, her eyes not leaving the TV.

I look at her, surprised and confused. Since when did my mother urge me to be the peace maker? "We're fine. It's nothing."

"It doesn't look like it to me."

"All couples fight," I tell her, chewing on my cuticle.

"Is this just a fight?"

I don't say anything. I'm not sure what this is.

"It only takes the right type of crack to ruin a foundation."

"Gosh, Adam must have done a number on you," I mutter.

The car ride to Jax and Tiffany's is as awkward and tension-filled as the time we spent in our room getting dressed. We don't say anything to one another. Bryce lets his Spotify playlist fill the silence. The tension between us is palpable, words that should be spoken are left unsaid, and I'm afraid they aren't just on my end anymore. That pushes us into unknown territory.

We pull into the ritzy suburb of River Forest, where million-dollar homes and cars that cost six figures aren't considered a luxury, but rather the norm. Tiffany and Jax live in the gated community of this already exclusive suburb, which just screams "I'm richer than you." Jax is a hotshot investment banker and Tiffany's a corporate lawyer, plus her parents own several car dealerships in the Chicago area. They're also two of the busiest people I know. It's baffling how they make time for each other, let alone for monthly dinners with Bryce and me. But without fail, we all meet up at least once a month.

After we pull up to their garage, Bryce turns off the music before turning off the actual car. "I don't want them to..."

I look over at him. His eyes are glued to his lap. "You don't want them to what?"

He lets out a long breath. "I don't want us to be weird in there."

I want to tell him I don't want things to be weird at all, that I'm just having a weird time and please don't hate me for it, but I don't because I know having this discussion outside of his best friend's house isn't the right place or time. So I just nod and quietly say okay.

He gets out of the car and walks over to open my door. It doesn't surprise me. He's always done that. So he may be locking doors he never has before, but he still opens them for me—there's small consolation in that, I guess. He offers to let me go first and I do, but I note the days when we would walk arm in arm or hand in hand, when we couldn't keep our hands off of each other.

The door opens before we reach the threshold. They obviously saw us pull up from their security camera.

"Hi!" Tiffany squeals, pulling me in for a big hug.

Jax is right behind her, giving Bryce the hug guys do, then we switch, everyone greeting one another. I can't help but notice the way Bryce's face lights up, his forest-green eyes almost amber. He's happy and looks so much more like the man I fell in love with than the one I've seen these past few weeks.

We follow them into their study. The fireplace is already going, and the burgundy plush sofa and arm chairs and toffee-colored walls make it warm and inviting. Jax and Bryce fall into their routine as if they just saw each other yesterday. Jax is already breaking out the cognac.

"I have wine in here, my dear," Tiffany says sneakily.

I smile way too wide but follow her into the kitchen, where she already has glasses out.

"White or red?" she asks as she heads to her wine cooler.

"Whichever's the strongest." I'm usually not a drinker, but today I really need something to smooth out my nerves.

"I've got the perfect thing," she says, her slanted grey eyes wide in excitement.

Tiffany is gorgeous, with perfect olive skin and thick black hair so long you'd swear she had extensions. She and Jax could easily be a couple on a nighttime soap. Jax, to me, looks like the long-lost brother of Collin Farrell, without the crazy eyes.

I watch the lush red liquid fall into the glass, and my taste buds anticipate the symphony of flavors. Tiffany chooses the best wine. I love wine but stick to the grocery store variety. Not because of the price, but because I choose so badly. Whenever I try to pick one randomly, I end up with something that tastes like cough syrup.

She watches in anticipation as I lift the glass, and when it goes down my throat, I can't help but moan. It's absolutely delicious.

"Yay!" she squeals.

I laugh at how excited she is. Her personality is so warm, you'd never guess she's a brilliant cut throat lawyer. "It's amazing. What is this?"

"You can take the bottle home. It's my favorite, and it's great with red meat."

We join the boys in the study, where she sits on the arm of the chair Jax is sitting in and I sit next to Bryce. I watch her put her legs over his lap, and he massages them as if it's second nature. As he talks, she runs her hands through his hair. I wonder if Bryce notices how stiff we are, sitting side by side like new acquaintances. I miss the easiness between us, when I didn't have to think before I laid my head on his shoulder or sat on his lap. Now it seems awkward and forced. You don't realize how the small steps you take away from a person add up until you're miles apart.

The conversation is easy and entertaining as always. Talking to them reminds me of how we used to be, and as minutes pass into an hour, things change. It could be the wine or the reminder of how we are on our best days or ghosts of our past selves who laughed and loved and even made love in this house, but Bryce and I fall into an old routine. First my hand touches his and he grasps it. Then he rubs my thighs, I bury my head into his shoulder when I laugh, and he steals kisses from my neck as we go over old stories. It feels so nice, so easy, and I wonder how or why we even got this far apart.

Tiffany finally corrals us into the kitchen for dinner. Their kitchen is large but has a small table where we always eat, instead of the one that stretches for miles in their dining room when they have other guests. The food is phenomenal, catered from Ditka's Steakhouse, one of my favorite places right outside of Chicago. The one near us is terrible, but Tiffany's firm is only a few minutes away from the Oak Brook location.

"This is so good," I tell her.

Bryce's eyes meet mine, and they flirt with me, as does his lazy smile.

"Isn't it? I've been craving this all week," she says before finishing the last piece of her fish. "Do you remember when Bryce told us he was going to be a pilot?"

I giggle and Bryce's mouth curves into a smile. His eyes are a little glassy from the cognac, but I can tell he wants me, and my body wants him.

"We thought he had lost his mind," Tiffany says through laughter.

"I thought he was crazy," Jax says, his words a bit heavy and slow from the cognac.

"Did you think he was?" Tiffany asks me.

I shake my head. "I knew he wasn't." I always knew when Bryce was serious. We could read each other like books.

"Only crazy for you," he tells me, his own words lazy, but his eyes tell me that even in our distance, love is still there. I have a feeling we'll make our way closer tonight. When he puts his hand on my thigh and trails higher, I don't stop him.

"Can I have another glass?" I ask Tiffany.

"Of course," she says, jumping right up, ever the gracious host.

She brings the bottle and pours the remainder in my glass. I've drunk the entire bottle primarily alone. I don't think she's had more than a half a glass.

"You're going to make me feel like a lush, Tif." I hear how my own words are hazy. I'm aware of my tipsiness and the tingles shooting through my body as Bryce's hand makes its way farther up my skirt.

"I'm limited to one glass," she says bashfully.

"Half," Jax interjects, and they exchange a smile.

I look over at Bryce, who seems as clueless as I am. Tiffany usually would be the first to refill her glass.

"We weren't going to say anything yet, but since you guys are our best friends in the whole world..."

My heart feels as if it's stopped beating, and Bryce's hand freezes between my thighs. He feels it, the change, the air being sucked out of my lungs.

She's so happy.

Jax is so happy. They're practically beaming.

I'm afraid to look at him. I don't know how I want him to look, but whether he looks genuinely excited for them or envious, there is no right way he can look.

I manage somehow to smile, but it feels fake and as if it'll break at any moment. I hear Bryce tell them congratulations, and my vision feels blurry. I tell myself it's not from tears, that envy and jealousy aren't twisting around my heart and rushing through my veins. That these are some of our closest friends and I should be happy for them, _so_ happy, but my hands are trembling and I know a tear is about to fall.

Bryce grips my hand, but I snatch it away. I gather up all the strength in me, stand, and ask to be excused. I can't even squeak out a congratulations. I make my way as quickly as I can down the hallway to the bathroom, lock myself inside, and cry so hard my whole body rocks.

I hate being this person, angry and upset and jealous! I hate feeling as though there's a hole inside me and that it's spreading into my marriage. I imagine them out there, Tiffany and Jax not understanding. When Bryce tells them I'm still not over us losing Logan because he doesn't know I lost our daughter, they, being the people they are, will pity me and apologize for not realizing I'm still hung up over our dead baby. They'll feel guilty for sharing their good news, and I hate myself more for ruining the night. I try to think of words to say, how to excuse my behavior without making things worse.

I hear a slight knock at the door, and I stand and splash water on my face. "I'll just be a minute."

The knob turns. Bryce is standing on the other side, and he slips in. He takes my hand and pulls me to him, but it's too much. His comfort makes things worse, and I shimmy out of his grasp.

"I'm okay, I'm fine, it's just... it's the wine," I say quickly, gripping the sink for strength.

"You're not fine."

Anger and frustration flood through me. "You don't know whether or not I'm okay! You don't even talk to me."

"And whose fault is that?" he whispers, but it's harsh and angry. His face is red and his expression hard.

"My fault, completely my fault, everything's my fault," I say sarcastically.

"I'm not going to do this with you here."

"Give me your keys."

He glares at me.

"Please! I-I can't face them right now," I tell him, allowing a shred of vulnerability into my voice.

He lets out a sigh, digs deep into his pocket, and hands me the key to the car.

"Tell them I'm sorry," I say, barely able to look at him.

I move past him through the door, and the hall is quiet without the chattering and boisterousness that was there before. I ruined everything. I'm grateful the study is on the opposite side of the house and I can slip out without seeing either of them.

I start the car and flip on the heat. The temperature's dropped below sixty, and I left my coat inside. I feel like a coward. I am a coward, a rude coward, but I can't stomach stealing another moment of their joy. I've already tainted their night enough.

Five songs pass as I sit in the car and wonder what the hell Bryce is doing. I assumed he'd be out here by now. I left my phone inside. My instinct is to blow the horn, but that'd just put a bow on a night I've already blown to smithereens. Two more songs pass. I'm antsy and annoyed and so focused on my irritation that I don't notice when Jax appears and his knock on the window makes me jump. What is he doing here? The whole point of coming out here was for me not to have to face them. I swallow the last ounce of pride I have and roll the window down. I look at him, but my eyes don't meet his.

"Hey, Jax." I sound like an eight-year-old after being punished.

"Hey, Chas," he says, leaning down to the window.

There's only a moment of awkwardness, but it comes down on me like a weight when I realize that Bryce was probably trying to excuse my behavior. I wonder what types of questions that may have led to and what answers Bryce gave. I think back to my earlier promise to him that I wouldn't make tonight awkward, and I feel a slither of guilt.

Then I wonder why Jax is standing here instead of Tiffany. Well, after I pretty much crapped all over her good news, so maybe she's rightly angry. Then I realize Bryce isn't heading out behind Jax. Does he want us to stay over? He can't think I'm going to stay here after what just happened.

"So... Bryce wants me to take you home." He says this while looking extremely uncomfortable.

I run the words through my mind again. I couldn't have heard them right. "I'm sorry, what?"

He lets out a sigh and shakes his head apologetically, his eyes glued to the concrete. "I think he just needs some time to think."

I open my mouth to respond, but I don't know how to respond. My first thought is to get out of the car, march in there, and tell him he's my husband and we're going together, or at the very least he should be man enough to drop me off, but what would that do? When he comes home, then what? We keep circling around each other.

I turn away from Jax and unlock the car for him to get in. When he does, I can feel him looking at me. I look out my window, and we don't say anything the entire ride. When we finally pull up in front of my building, it feels odd. Then it really hits me that Bryce doesn't want to be here with me.

"Thanks for bringing me," I tell him quietly.

"Oh, here's your phone," he says, pulling it out of his pocket and handing it to me.

I immediately check to see if there's a message or call from Bryce, but there isn't.

"You guys have to get through this." His tone is strained and pleading.

I give him a weak smile. "Did you tell him that?"

"Yes, in a much angrier way."

"Did he mention when he's coming home, when his next flight out is?" He shakes his head, and I sit for a moment in silence. "I-is this his way of leaving me, Jax?"

It's terrifying that I don't know the answer to that. When did this happen? How did things get so bad that this is even a question in my head?

"No, he didn't say anything about that. I think he's just confused and needs space to clear his head."

"We never used to fight or be mad at each other... I don't think we know how to handle it." I laugh, but it's mechanical, with absolutely no humor behind it.

He takes my hand and squeezes it. "You guys are going to be okay. I know it."

I let go of his hand. "Yeah, we always are, right?" I give him a weak smile, not believing my own words, and wave before exiting the car.

When the elevator stops at my floor, I remember that my mother is staying over. I think of the questions she's going to have when I return without Bryce, and I'm not up to answering any of them. So instead of going in, I sit in front of my door and rest my head on it, close my eyes, and wish that I could either go back in time to when I was happy or fast forward to when I'll be happy again.

"Hey."

I open my eyes and the light is in them. I forget for a minute where I am—especially when I see his face. Carter's squatting in front of me with a warm smile. It's not full of pity like Jax's, but almost amused. Maybe he thinks I had a great night and got drunk and couldn't get my door open instead of the disaster of the night I actually had.

I sit up a little straighter and smooth my hair. "Well, this is embarrassing."

"Did you lock yourself out?"

"No, my mother is in there." I sigh.

He still looks at me with that cute, amused smile, his blue eyes dazzling. "Are you afraid you're going to be punished??"

That I genuinely chuckle at. "She just might."

He sits down on my left, and we're only a few inches apart. His long legs are pulled in front of his chest, and there isn't any awkwardness or tension. It just feels nice to have someone here who doesn't really know me or my situation, who's not going to judge or lecture me. When he digs in his pocket and offers me a stick of gum, I realize how awful my breath must smell. I unwrap it and quickly pop it in my mouth.

"What time is it?"

He glances at his phone. "Ten after twelve."

So I haven't been out here long. It was only five minutes 'til midnight when I left Jax.

"So... why are you worried about getting in trouble??"

"Soo many reasons," I kid, and he gives me a smile that melts my worries away.

"Stayed out past curfew?"

"Yeah, let's go with that."

He grins, then his smile softens. "Bad night?"

I nod.

"Want to talk about it?"

I shake my head, swallowing the burning sensation in my throat. The last thing I want is for my cute next-door neighbor to play psychologist with me.

"Tell me about your day. Anything exciting happen? Did you save a life, meet a cute boy?"

"Wait, cute boy?" He scrunches up his face. "Um... why would that be exciting for me?"

"Well, I get excited when I meet cute boys," I tell him innocently....Okay, maybe he isn't gay...damn.

He laughs. "I don't get excited by cute _boys_."

"Noted." My cheeks heat up. So he does like girls. I let out a little sigh.

"Exciting things happen to me all the time though. If I told you about my life, you wouldn't believe me," he says this in a whimsical tone, but his expression is serious. "What about you? Anything besides your bad night happen?"

"Actually it did." I tell him about getting offered representation and how I'm supposed to meet my new agent. I'm really excited about it.

"That's fantastic! Congratulations!"

"Well, it doesn't mean anything until he actually sells something of mine, and I technically haven't signed the papers yet..."

He gives me a faux scolding look. "Be excited."

I smile. "Okay, I'm excited."

"You deserve it."

I playfully roll my eyes at him. "How would you know? What if my writing really sucks and I don't deserve it at all?"

"Maybe... I've checked out some of your stuff."

I swat his arm. "You did not."

He doesn't respond, but he looks serious.

"You really did?" I ask. "How did you...?"

"It is the age of the internet. I just googled you and your website came up and I checked out your first book. It was good. A chick book but good. It kept me reading," he says with a laugh.

"You read the whole thing?" I ask in disbelief.

He looks confused. "You do write books for people to read them, right?"

"Well yeah, but I... I just never... thank you," I tell him, still a little shocked.

I actually feel a bit uncomfortable. Reading someone's book is almost like seeing into someone's diary or reading a little piece of their soul, and meeting readers always makes me nervous because they know a few of my secrets.

"Don't shell up on me." He nudges me playfully. "It was good."

"Thank you." I cross my ankles over each other.

"I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable," he says apologetically.

"No, no, it's not that."

Carter has a smile that makes me want to smile, but his eyes make me want to talk to him. Like whatever I'll say, he can make me feel good about it. It's strange, because it usually takes me a while to warm up to people. Most people think that I'm stuck up, but I'm really just shy and keep my guard up, just like my mother taught me.

"Have you ever made a mistake but know you can't fix it?"

He's quiet for a moment, as if he's pondering his answer. "I don't think it's ever too late to fix a mistake."

"That's not true. What if you accidentally killed someone?"

"That's an accident," he says, shifting his body toward me. "A mistake is something you do because you made a bad judgment or you were wrong about something, and if that's the case, you apologize and forgive yourself."

I stare at him until he looks nervous and rubs the back of his neck.

"What?"

I shrug. "I don't know. You're just different than I thought you'd be. I sort of assumed you were a 'live and let live' kind of person."

He grins; it's sheepish and almost adorable. "So you asked me because you thought I'd give you a different answer? One that you wanted to hear?"

I smile guiltily.

"What's wrong with my answer?"

"Your answer is hard," I say with a pout, and he laughs.

"Well, the harder the task, the greater the reward." He stands, and he looks even taller from where I'm sitting. He reaches his hand out to me. "I think you've sat out here long enough."

I sigh and lightly bump my head against the door.

"Don't be a baby," he teases.

I take his hand, and it's warm and comforting. I push myself up and regretfully let his hand go.

"Your mom's asleep. Don't worry, it's all going to work out," he says with authority in his voice, and I believe him. Well, I choose to—at least for now.

He waits while I open the door. The lights and TV are off, and the door to our guest room is shut. I turn around and smile. "Thanks, Carter."

"Anytime," he says before heading to his own door.

We give each other a wave, and I close the door as quietly as I can. I head to my bedroom and sit on the bed before lying down. I think of Carter's words and start to call Bryce, but I see an email notification on my phone. I open it, surprised to see that the message is from Davien. It's pretty late, but he probably didn't expect for me to see it until the morning. He says that he's had a change of plans and asks if dinner tomorrow would be good. He suggests I pick the place and, since it's on the agency, there's no price limit. I'm a little shocked. When he said we'd meet up, I assumed it'd be over coffee or at Chipotle or something. I roll over to the nightstand on Bryce's side of the bed and grab my iPad with the keyboard attached.

_Tomorrow is fine with me, and since it's on the agency, how about Maestro's? Their food is phenomenal._

And hit Send. I strip out of my clothes and slide into one of my T-shirts as my email alert goes off again.

_Night owl, huh? Working I hope $$_ ☺

I laugh.

_Not working but I will get on it in the morning, boss._

I hit Send. Less than a minute later, there's a new message.

_You get a pass then. I'll have my assistant make reservations for seven if that's okay..._

It's sad how dry my calendar is.

_Seven is great for me._

A few minutes pass before I get an email back. I wonder what the big NYC agent is doing. Working after the clock or out at a bar just tying up loose ends with clients?

_How many should I make reservations for?_

The question makes my heart sink. A question I used to easily have an answer for. It should be simple. I'm married, so if my husband isn't working, it should be two. But now I don't even know his schedule or when he's going to be home. I push the creeping sadness from my thoughts.

_Just one on my end._

This time I get a message back almost instantly.

_Perfect._

_F our years earlier_

* * *

I love her laugh. I love the way when we watch movies, she finds a way for us to be wrapped around each other. I love the way she melts into me when I hold her. The way she calls me when she's angry and tells me that if I tell her it'll be fine, she'll believe it. I love that she comes to me with her secrets before anyone else.

"So I have a secret," she says with a mischievous smile, her nose wrinkled, and her eyes lit up.

I give her a quick peck on the lips, and when she moans, I capture her lips for a longer one. When I let her go, she looks at me as if she's surprised, and I love that about her.

"Are you going to ask me what it is?"

I smile at her. "What's your secret?"

She stops mid walk, and I pull her into my arms, lifting her off the ground, and she giggles.

"You have to tell me one of yours first," she says.

I kiss her neck, and she lets out a soft moan that drives me crazy.

"Make it a good one because mine is going to be better than yours," she promises, keeping her arms around my neck as I put her down.

I look at her eyes, warm like honey. They always make me feel better, regardless of how bad my day is, and I could kiss her lips all day. But even better than any physical trait she has, I love her mind, her voice, her thoughts, her sincerity.

"Okay, I have one, but I don't think it'll be as good as yours."

She squints at me in disbelief before returning my peck. "Okay, I'll take your boring secret anyway."

"I'm in love with you." My voice doesn't break because I'm not nervous. I've never been more comfortable or sure about anything in my entire life.

Her almond-shaped eyes that were smiling at me widen in shock. It's more of a shock to me to know that she can't see how much I'm in love with her.

"Your secret's way better than mine," she says breathlessly.

I hold her tighter. "How could that be? I thought it'd be more than obvious to you. I thought I sucked at hiding it."

"Are you sure?" she asks, her eyes watering.

I frown at her. How could I not be? I step away from her so she can see my face. "If I knew your mother wouldn't kill me for marrying you before you graduated, I'd do it today."

Her smile becomes enormous as she jumps into my arms again. "I've been wanting to say it. I've had to literally stop myself because I didn't want to scare you," she tells me between tantalizing kisses.

"Why would it scare me? You're the best thing that's ever happened to me."

She starts to cry. That's not the reaction I wanted, but she's smiling, so I'll take it.

"I'm such a crybaby," she scolds herself, wiping her eyes. "You're sure you want to love such a crybaby?"

I kiss each of her cheeks. "Cry whenever you want, babe."

She wraps her arm around me, and we start walking again.

"You owe me a secret," I tell her, and she shrugs.

"How do I follow that?"

"We had a deal," I remind her, squeezing her hand.

"Can I tell you mine tomorrow?"

"Why?"

She pouts, and it's adorable. "It's corny."

"You've said corny stuff before."

She gives me a little push. "I want this to be our 'I love you' day. I want it to be special all on its own."

I can't fight the smile spreading across my face, and her blush keeps it there. "You're right, that is corny."

She stands in front of me on her tiptoes and says playfully, "But you still love me."

She couldn't be more right about that.

### Chassidy

"Where's Bryce?"

I wake up to my mother standing over me. She's apparently already showered, brushed her teeth, done her hair, and flown around the moon several times. Since I can remember, she's always woken up before the sun.

"Why? What time is it?" I ask, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes.

"I didn't see him leave this morning, and I've been up since four thirty."

I sit up, realizing getting additional sleep while this woman is here would take a complete miracle. "He is a pilot, you know, someone who flies the planes people get on at all times of the day."

It's not a lie. As far as I know, he could be working today. I grab my phone and don't see any messages from him.

"And what if we were having wild sex when you just waltzed right in?" I ask, trying to throw her off topic.

"So he went to work from the dinner you went to?" she asks, not taking the bait.

"Yes, Mother. Why are you so concerned about my marriage all of a sudden? I know you have a boy toy now, but this is a little extreme," I say, and she scowls. "You're usually more concerned with my writing, my career. Now it's Bryce, Bryce, Bryce."

"You used to want me to talk to you about these things. Why don't you want to talk now?"

"I got an agent yesterday."

Her face turns from annoyed to pleasantly curious.

"No, you would have told me." Her voice is lighter and a smile is spreading.

I should have told her yesterday, but I wanted to tell Bryce first. We usually tell each other everything first, but things are different now apparently. "I wanted to, but you were sort of busy interrogating me about being a wife."

"Who is it? What agency? Tell me everything. Actually wait, you get in the shower while I make breakfast."

After I shower, I throw my hair in a ponytail and put on a tank and yoga pants. My mouth waters at the smell of omelets. Mom's never cooked much—growing up, our meals varied between cold sandwiches, frozen meals, and takeout—but one thing she makes well are omelets.

I sit at the island across from her, and we both dig in. I tell her about Davien's offer and how excited I am.

"Make sure you have someone look over the contract before you sign," she says.

I groan. "I completely forgot to have Tiffany look over the contract yesterday."

"Well, can you fax or email it to her? I'm sure it won't take her a half hour."

"But it will be so awkward after last night."

"What happened last night?" she asks, and I kick myself.

"Nothing, I'll send it to her," I mutter, hoping she won't push it.

"Chassidy, what happened last night?"

"I don't really want to talk about it."

"Is this why Bryce didn't come home last night?"

"Can you just drop it?" I plead.

"No, I want to know what happened."

"You're being so annoying. I don't want to talk about it. You get a boyfriend and all of a sudden you want to be pro happy marriage for me. It's silly!"

Her stern look softens. "I'm engaged."

She said it quickly, as if it wasn't an important fact. As if my mother, the commitaphobe, pro-independent, "all men suck or will eventually" spokesperson becoming engaged isn't something I should have known immediately. I don't even know what to say to her. My tongue is stuck to the bottom of my mouth.

"I was hoping that I could tell you and Bryce over dinner tonight," she mutters.

"I-I'm confused," I say, finally getting words again. "When did this happen? Why do you want Bryce there?"

She lets out a long breath. "I want you both to meet him. I want your blessing." She glances at me, then back at her lap bashfully, and again I'm at a loss for words.

After a few moments, I say, "Our blessing."

"Yes."

I look at her, still baffled.

"You're my daughter. Your opinion is important to me," she says, sounding almost annoyed.

"Wow, Mom," is all I can say.

"Also... I admire what you and Bryce have. You know I've never been a big advocate of marriage, but yours... well it, it made me see things differently."

My heart sinks and tears fill my eyes. My mom gave me the hardest time when I told her Bryce and I were engaged. We were too young, I was too smart and talented to settle down so soon—as if Bryce wasn't educated, smart, handsome, and kind. She told me I was ridiculous for wanting to settle down without living my life. Those words hurt me so much at the time, but I knew she didn't mean to be hurtful or cold. She'd never known true love, and she was afraid for me.

It all makes sense now, why she's worried about what's going on with us. She's accepted someone's marriage proposal based on Bryce and me, what we have... or had. If Mom sees that we're in trouble, I know she'll head for the hills.

"Awww, Mom!" I hug her, and she hugs me back.

The tears in my eyes become ones of joy. Knowing that my mom has found someone she believes she can spend her life with is amazing. Never in a million years would I have thought that she'd ever say the words, "I'm getting married."

The rest of the morning I bombard her with questions about Adam: his favorite food, his daughter's name, where he's from, things I never cared about before I realized he'd be my stepdad. I get her to talk about her dream wedding. She says they've already discussed a destination wedding in Italy, and my heart swoons. I didn't notice it before, but this is the happiest I've ever seen her. She has a glow. Was it there when she walked in? Did my own dark cloud make me not recognize it? I tell her how happy I am for her and she reveals how happy she is to me.

Turns out this visit and overnight trip was all because she wanted to tell me—or Bryce and me —about this in person. She wanted some reassurance. My mom wants me to affirm her. I never thought that day would come. So I do. I assure her that everything will be great, and marriage is hard but I wouldn't trade it for the world, and love is everlasting, and she'll never regret being married if she loves Adam.

None of what I tell her are lies.

Marrying Bryce was one of the best things I've ever done.

I wouldn't trade what our marriage once _was_ for anything in the world.

I don't regret marrying Bryce.

What's really true is marriage is hard. Harder than I ever imagined or was prepared for.

What I don't tell her is I think I pushed my husband too far, that I shut him out a little too long, and that I'm more lost than I've ever been. That I hurt, and it hurts too badly to hurt with him, so I hurt him by doing it alone, and now I am alone and I have no real clue what to do about it.

* * *

Nicole is who I call when I go shopping. She's the friend who will tell you when your butt looks too flat in jeans or if a color washes you out or when you look downright doable. Unfortunately—or fortunately for her—she's in Miami, planning some socialite's bachelorette party. But thanks to the internet, I'm saved. I've already texted her I need her fashion sense, and she picks up her Facetime, showing off her Tom Ford sunglasses, bikini-clad body, and sun-kissed skin.

"You look amazing and like you're having so much fun," I say with a pout.

"I told you to come. You're your own boss. You could be right here next to me, throwing back tequila sunrises," she teases.

"That sounds so tempting, but I am not allowing myself any vacations until I get this book done. I may end up being the waiter serving those if nothing comes to me soon."

"You'll be fine, you always are. So what are we dressing you for?"

I tell her about the representation offer and where we'll be having dinner, and she listens intently. Fashion is serious for her, and she takes in every detail like a doctor listening to a patient describing symptoms.

"Well, congratulations, honeybun!" she says with the enthusiasm only she could pull off without sounding insincere.

"Thank you, Nic"

"I'm so, so proud of you. Is Bryce going with you? Do you need to complement what he's wearing?"

I shake my head. "No, it'll just be me and the agent."

She takes off her glasses and gives me a serious look. "Isn't it weird for you guys to be meeting for dinner? Wouldn't lunch be more appropriate? What all could you possibly have to talk about? Are you doing all the courses? What if the conversation is stale and awkward?"

I give her the look Kelsey and I give her when she's being overly critical and negative.

"Forget what I said," she says cheerfully. The Miami sun and drinks have made her much less argumentative. "It really doesn't matter what you're wearing. They're impressed with your writing, so you could waltz in with overalls and you'd be fine." I know she's had more than a few drinks, because she's never said it doesn't matter what you're wearing in her whole life.

"I don't want to go in with overalls," I tell her pointedly, watching as she downs another tequila sunrise. I must be killing her beach weather buzz by standing in a room where my husband didn't even sleep. I wonder if she can feel the chill from here. "I want to look nice. He's this big shot from New York, and I'd like to impress him a little."

She sits up as if I have her attention. "How old is he? Is he cute?"

"He looks about our age, and he's handsome. I'm sure he could turn a couple of heads."

She raises an eyebrow at me. "What did you say his name was?"

I tell her again, and our Facetime call pauses. I sigh and roll my eyes. I'm sure she's googling him now.

When she comes back, she says, "You bitch! Turn a couple of heads? More like the entire room's head. Necks would break from the stares this guy would get."

She's so overdramatic.

"Of course you don't notice things like that. You're immune, since you get to look at Bryce whenever you want." She sighs.

"If it turns out he's single, how about I drop a mention of you?"

She perks up. "Okay, so are you going for sexy and 'so sad for you, can't touch because I'm married'? Or 'you better get me big deals because I'm hot stuff'?"

"Uh, the second one I guess." I laugh.

"Okay, open your closet."

I show her several dresses, most of which she refers to as grandma-ish. She only approves of one. It's grey and form-fitting, only showing a "peakage of cleavage," as she calls it. She tells me it's perfect.

"Thank you, hon. I think it's perfect. I'll make sure to bring you up."

"Only if it's natural, he has big hands, and he smells fantastic." She winks and blows me a kiss before ending the call.

I get butterflies in my stomach as the Uber pulls up to the restaurant. I couldn't bring myself to reach out to Tiffany by phone. Like a coward, I sent her an email with the contract and a lame apology regarding my behavior at dinner. Like the sweetheart she is, she told me I had no need to apologize, how excited she was for me, and gave me the okay after looking it over.

So I shouldn't be nervous. I shouldn't be. Davien and I've already pretty much agreed it's a go and really just a free meal. Who turns down a free meal? Not me, especially at one of my favorite restaurants.

When I walk into Maestro's, I'm engulfed by the smell of delicious food, and the live band beats along with my heart. I'm almost transported back to the days when Bryce and I came here. The creep of nostalgia becomes clouded with bittersweetness, and I push the feeling to the bottom of my stomach. I'll drown it with a glass of wine. Not too many, of course. This isn't the typical dinner, and I want to remain as sharp as I can.

I check in with the _maître d_ , and he informs me Davien's already here and waiting at the bar. The bar is more crowded than I thought it'd be on a Monday night, but it's easy to spot Davien. I walk up and tap him on the shoulder. He turns toward me, and I remind myself to swallow.

"Chassidy!" His voice is husky and smoother than it sounded over the Facetime call.

"Davien Marx."

He's in black slacks and a dark blue collared shirt that's rolled up to his elbows. His eyes aren't as dark as they seemed on our call, but grey, almost pale. His skin is perfectly tanned, as if he just left the beach. His hair is long but not messy, perfectly in place, and a dangerous line of stubble crosses his jaw. His shoulders are wide and broad, not slender as I thought from our video call. Those butterflies in my stomach have returned.

"I hope you haven't been here long."

"Only about fifteen minutes, but there's never too much time at the bar." He laughs, and it's rich like it comes right up from his belly. "I'll go let the hostess know we're ready."

He stands and squeezes through the sea of people. He returns quickly, following the hostess, and she leads us to our table. I go to sit, but Davien's quick to pull out my chair.

"Thank you," I say, noticing the goose bumps breaking out on my arms. He smells amazing, which isn't surprising since he looks as if he just stepped out of an Armani ad.

Our table is in the quieter, and frankly more intimate, section of the restaurant. The lighting is dimmer, and looking around, it seems as if most of the patrons are couples out for a romantic meal. I swallow hard. I wonder if that's what we look like to the outside eye. I wish I had made it a point to tell Bryce about this. He knows so many people and if someone spots me, they could misconstrue this meal.

"Is everything okay? Would you like a different table?" he asks.

My discomfort must be blaring on my face. "Oh no, this is completely fine."

"Are you sure?" he asks, with an amused grin.

I must be rather unconvincing. "No, totally. I just... I don't remember if I locked my door at home. I'll call the maintenance guy in a little while."

If he isn't convinced, he's a much better actor than I am. He gives me a million-dollar smile and says, "So, welcome to the family."

"Thank you." I pick up the water glass and let it lubricate my dry throat.

The man is gorgeous, and as I sit across him, I enjoy a firsthand view. His hair is dark, almost black, and he has the kind of thick long lashes that women pay for. His dark hair and light eyes are an odd combination but almost perfect. He's handsome in such a different way from Bryce and my cute next-door neighbor. There's something alluring about Davien. He has a presence that is large and consuming, and I realize that it may not only be his killer negotiation skills and good taste in literature that make him so successful. The right glance from this man could make a woman sign her life away.

His eyes watch me as if he's waiting on something. Oh of course, the papers.

"I have something for you," I tell him, pulling out the Kate Spade file folder Kelsey bought me for my birthday last year.

I take out the papers, and his grin stretches into a magnificent smile. He looks through them quickly, searching for my signature, and when he's satisfied, his attention turns to me.

"Looks like we're official." His voice is naturally deep, the kind of voice that could be on radio, but his face is too beautiful for that.

The waitress appears, tells us the night's special, and asks what we'd like to drink. I order a glass of white wine and he asks her for the bottle. The waitress seems entranced by him, but I can't blame her. I wonder if he knows the effect his eyes and smile could have on a woman. He has his own atmosphere that could easily suck a woman in. A single woman, that is. When the waitress disappears, I take another sip of water.

"So tell me what your author bio doesn't." he says, putting his elbows on the table.

"Um, well, I..." I draw a blank. What does my author bio even say?

He looks amused, and I feel myself blush. I probably seem like an idiot right now and he's only seconds away from rescinding the contract.

"Are you nervous?" he asks.

I'm a little taken aback. You don't ask a nervous person if they're nervous. "Maybe a little."

"It astounds me when such beautiful, talented women become nervous around me."

My mouth falls open a bit. Did he just say that?

"I shouldn't have said that?" he asks, displaying a boyish grin. I'm unsure if the question is rhetorical. "You have to forgive me. If I didn't make my agency so much money, I'd have been fired a long time ago." He says it casually, his confidence bordering on cockiness.

I tell myself not to let my eyes go to his mouth, which makes me do exactly that. Is this how all New Yorkers are? Confident, casual and saying whatever's on their mind?

"I'm sorry, it's just been a long day," I tell him, demanding the degree I spent a lot of money on to take effect on my verbal skills. At this point, I'd settle for my eighth grade diploma to kick in.

"I think the solution to that is arriving," he says with a grin.

The waitress approaches with the chilled bottle of wine and pours me a glass. As she attempts to do the same for him, he covers his.

"I thought you said you liked being at bars?" I ask.

"I don't go to the bar for drinks." He flashes me a flirtations grin. "Probably shouldn't have said that either, huh?"

This time I laugh because he's funny, not out of nerves. I can tell the waitress is suppressing a smile as well. He winks at her, making the poor girl blush.

"So what should I have?" he asks me, giving me his full attention again. Those eyes lock on my face, his head slightly tilted, looking at me as if I'm the most interesting thing in the world.

I clear my throat. "Their steak is magical. Bryce loves the lobster. Everything I've had here is fantastic." I perk up at the thought of the delicious food I'll soon be having.

"Well, who can turn down magic?" he says, his eyes sweeping over me. He bites his lip before he orders a steak done medium well.

I order the same, cooked medium.

"And for your sides?" the waitress asks, trying her hardest to keep her eyes off my dinner companion.

"How is the lobster mac?" he asks, and I laugh imagining it.

"Sinful."

"Definitely won't turn down a little bit of sin," he says, and I swear his voice sounds raspier than it was.

"They're large enough to share," our waitress adds.

"What do you say?" he asks.

I swallow harder than I intend to. "Why not just go crazy and have two?" I giggle like I do when I'm nervous, but it's better than when my laugh is inappropriately loud.

The waitress takes our menus and disappears, leaving us alone. I'm curious about what will come out of this man's mouth next, but I'm almost afraid of it too.

"So what do you see for your career?"

That makes me relax a bit. My career is a mildly tame subject, though I'd pay to see him have this conversation with an erotica writer. I tell him that I'd like to explore different genres, that I'd love to have my books translated into different languages. If I could see my book in stores, that would be a dream, but it's not a priority.

"You're too easy." He laughs, and I smile nervously. "What about the _New York Times_ list, a _Today Show_ spot, your characters coming alive on the big screen?"

If I hadn't already signed the contract, I'd think he was selling me. He speaks with such passion and conviction.

"I mean, all of that would be fantastic," I say cautiously.

"I can do that for you."

"Great!"

"Do you trust me?" he asks, and I think that's an odd question.

"Well, I've already signed the papers."

"So tonight we celebrate." He lifts his glass of water.

I pick up my wine, and we clink. "To celebrating."

_3 years earlier_

* * *

"You really ready to get married, man?" Jax asks as we sit on his parents' yacht while he smokes his self-confessed _last_ joint.

"I was ready six months ago."

He shakes his head at me for the fifth time since I've told him I'm going to propose. "I mean, Chas's great, beautiful, a sweetheart, and I know she loves you but..."

"That's the thing, there are no buts," I say, waving the smoke away. I haven't smoked pot in about two years, and I forgot how disgusting really good pot smells. Jax only grows the best. "She's the only person I want to be with."

"Yeah, right now." He coughs a bit and passes the joint to me.

I pass it over to Tiffany.

"I think it's amazing, Bryce. It's so mature and magical," she says before taking a puff.

I appreciate her encouragement, but she's high out of her mind right now. "It is magical, Tiff. Jax, when you find the right person, it won't seem so crazy to you."

"I don't know, man, the same girl year after year after year?" he says in the most depressing, confused tone I've ever heard him use.

"Forever," I finish for him.

"You make it sound like a bad TV show that stays on too long," Tiffany says with a pout.

"And why are we listening to Christmas music?" I ask as the chipmunks sing about Christmas. "It's the middle of June."

"It helps us relax," Tiffany says. She and Jax burst into laughter.

"I could probably do it if I could smoke every day," Jax adds, staring into the sky.

"Can I see the ring again?" Tiffany squeals.

I take it out and hand her the ring I've saved up four months for. I've had to restrain myself from giving it to her every day I see her. It's a princess-cut diamond with pink sapphires. Not too showy but eye-catching, just like my girl.

"So what if she doesn't say yes?" Jax asks.

Tiffany reaches over me and swats him.

"You're really negative on the herb, man," I say, annoyed. He seems like he's picking up more from Kira every day.

"She's going to say yes, and you guys are going to have tons of cute kids and a farm."

"Who said anything about a farm?" I ask.

"You need a farm for the kids."

"No, pigs, I think you're thinking of pigs," Jax tells her. "You know Kira thinks it's creepy that you want to propose on the yacht. She said if she says no, you're going to push her off, like that guy did his wife on their honeymoon."

"If I were proposing to Kira, I'd throw myself off," I tell him.

"Kira's not so bad."

"Dude, you can do so much better."

We both look at Tiffany in surprise. I knew she had some disdain for Kira, but she's never said it outright.

"You don't like Kira?" Jax asks.

I stand and pull them both up. "Okay, I've got to get everything ready for tonight, so if you two could kindly finish this conversation in the house, that would be great."

The weather is perfect, and the crew Jax hired is excellent. I wanted everything to be perfect for her, and I even picked up food from her favorite restaurant. It was all planned—then I got the phone call that she has the flu.

Her mom answers the door with the same suspicious look she's had every time she sees me. Even though I've been with her daughter for over a year and half, she always looks at me as if I'm a con man. "Hello, Bryce."

"It's always good to see you, Evelyn." I flash her the smile that's made every other girl's mother swoon, but Evelyn just glares.

"She doesn't want to see you. She looks terrible," she says dryly.

"I love her anyway," I tell her, and she gives me the slightest grin. After she lets me in, I head to Chassidy's room and knock on the door.

"Yeah?" Her voice sounds strained and cracked.

"It's me, babe."

"No, you weren't supposed to come. I look like death," she whines.

"Then death is the most beautiful girl I've ever seen," I say through the door.

"I'm far from beautiful right now. I'm disgusting."

"I'm coming in. Get prepared." I open the door cautiously.

She's hiding under a blanket. "I'm hideous, and I smell worse than I look," she says between sniffs.

I can't help but laugh.

"It's not funny," she squeals. I gently try to pull the covers off her, but she holds on.

"Can I see you?" I ask quietly.

" _No._ "

"Please?" She never tells me no when I say please. It's like her kryptonite.

I see her grip on the blanket loosen. I slowly pull it off her, and she's curled up in a ball. Her hair's in a ponytail, but barely. It's wild with loose strands everywhere. Her eyes are pink, her lips are dry, and her nose is Rudolph red.

"You look terrible."

She quickly pulls the blanket back over her head. "You're a jerk."

"You're still one of the most beautiful girls I've ever seen."

"Liar," she yells.

"Can you come out from under there?" I ask, trying not to laugh.

"No."

"But I can't give you your gift while you're under there."

"I don't want it. I'm a human bag of bacteria. Go give it to a healthy pretty girl."

"Well, I got it specifically for you, so I think that'd be a little rude."

She sighs, slowly peeking out from under the covers. Her stubborn pout lessens a little. "I'm sorry I ruined our date."

I pull her to me and hug her. "You didn't ruin it."

"I wanted to go on a yacht. I've never been on one, and it would have been so romantic," she says, resting her head on my shoulder.

Then she jumps up and bolts from the room. I can hear her throwing up. I head to the bathroom but stand in the hallway outside.

"Once she gets it all out, she'll be fine," Evelyn tells me as she puts on her coat.

"You heading out?" I ask.

"Showing a property. There's ginger ale in the fridge and soup in the cabinet, but I don't think she'll be eating for a few hours," she says before heading out the door.

Chassidy and I spend the rest of the night alone. She keeps throwing up, so I hold her hair, rub her back, and bring her ginger ale.

I wake up to her kissing my neck. She smells like strawberries. She must have showered and brushed her teeth.

"Thank you," she says with a smile I've never seen before, and I know because I could describe each one she's ever given me.

I kiss her, and it's slow and lazy and the best we've ever had. "Close your eyes."

She looks at me, obviously wondering what I'm up to. But she closes her eyes, and I pull her left hand to my chest.

"Keep them closed, okay?" I tell her, and she keeps smiling. I pull out the ring. "Okay, open."

Her eyes widen when she sees the ring, and she gasps.

"Today was one of the best days of my life," I tell her, and she begins to cry.

"I know you're not about to ask me what I think you are," she says, her eyes glistening.

"I'm not," I tease, and she smiles knowingly. "I want to tell you about how my life's changed since I met you. How I can't imagine my life without you. I want to tell you that you're who I have fun with, who makes me feel better when I'm low, and who I want to give the world to. I want to tell you about how when I see myself old and grey on a rocking bench, I see you next to me."

"What did I do to deserve you?" she asks through tears.

"You exist."

### Chassidy

"It probably wasn't a good idea to have that third glass of wine," I say, hearing the slur in my voice.

He's looking at me with that gorgeous smile of his. "I think it was a fantastic idea."

"No, I don't think it was." I take a deep breath and drink more water to flush out the alcohol.

"You're much more fun when you drink," he says suggestively. He's been pretty suggestive all night, I think.

"I think _you're_ more fun when I drink," I tell him, and he laughs.

"So..." He leans in across the table. "Why are you here with just me?"

I'm confused by the question.

"Where's your husband?" he asks.

As if I'm a child, I pout at him and roll my eyes. "I have no idea."

I laugh because I have a feeling I might cry if I don't laugh, and that would be the second rule I've broken tonight—the first was not to get drunk and I'm dangerously close to that.

"He must be a stupid man," he says, and his voice sounds good, not as good as he looks but close.

"He's not stupid, just sad... I think," I tell him, surprising myself. Is Bryce just sad? Is that why he's being a big jerk?

"How could he be sad with a woman like you in his life? I'd worship every part of your body as if I'd created it."

I remind myself to breathe.

His eyes take me in as if I'm a book, and goose bumps break out all over my body. He licks his lips, and I wonder if I'm on a reality show like _Punk'd_. This has to be a joke, but he looks dead serious. I down another drink of my water.

I slowly let out a breath. "You know how you said you shouldn't say certain things earlier? What you just said falls under that category."

"Why?" he asks innocently, his eyes gleaming at me.

"Because you just shouldn't," I say, my thoughts not entirely coherent.

He grins. "Give me a reason why."

"Because I'm married."

"Not happily right now." His eyes narrow on mine.

I frown. "You don't know that."

"Yes, I do. I can tell."

"Have you ever been married?" I ask, picking up my glass of water again.

He grins. "Never. Monogamy doesn't appeal to me."

"Well, maybe it doesn't matter if you're happy in marriage. Happiness is relative."

"I would make you happy." Innuendo bubbles beneath his tone.

"Right, Mr. No Monogamy, for, what, one night?" I ask sarcastically.

"One night might be all you need, all you could handle."

The speckles of lust in his eyes are almost overwhelming. I look away, laughing off the way my heart is racing and how warm my body is.

"Because I'm your client then," I say pointedly.

He gives a half shrug. "I could tear up the contract."

"You're crazy."

"Why? Because I told you exactly what I'm thinking?" His mouth twists into an almost dangerous smirk.

"Okay tell me this, how many of your clients do you try to pick up?" I ask, getting annoyed. He's handsome, yes, and sexy, no question, but this is ridiculous and unprofessional even in my slightly intoxicated state, even with him looking like the sexy stranger most women envision when reading my books.

"None of my clients are like you."

I roll my eyes, mustering up as much indignation as I can. "I'm flattered, really, but again, I'm married, and whether I'm happy or not is none of your business. Your business is selling my books. If you'll excuse me, I'm going to the bathroom."

As I walk away, I feel his eyes on my body as if they're hands. Gosh, what a conceited jerk. A really attractive conceited jerk.

As I wash my hands in the bathroom, I stare at myself in the mirror. I don't look any different. The dress is form-fitting, but I don't have a lot of cleavage showing. There's no reason for this man to be coming on to me as he is, especially since I'm his client. It just seems so stupid. I start to feel anger coursing through me too. If Bryce were here, I wouldn't have to deal with this. I wouldn't have had to defend my happiness. I wouldn't have to feel guilty for being so attracted to him.

I walk back out and sit down at the table. He's wearing the same obnoxious grin that doesn't look as obnoxious as it should because he's so handsome.

"I think one day I'm going to read about this in one of your books," he says smugly.

"So is that what this is, you trying to inspire me?"

"I can inspire you much better in other ways."

I roll my eyes even though my pulse picks up.

"Tell me you're not curious," he says almost as a dare.

My eyes graze over him. There's no denying that he's beautiful, that masculinity pours off of him, and even his brashness makes him interesting instead of overbearing, but this is uncomfortable... I would be uncomfortable if I hadn't had so much wine and if Bryce and I were in a better place.

"Look, I'm really curious..."

His eyes light up. Did I just say that out loud?

"No, I meant flattered. I meant to say flattered, not curious," I say, mentally kicking myself. "If I was single—"

He lifts a finger to his lips, and I'm drawn in by how soft they look. "Say no more. I'll never bring it up again." His tone is casual, bordering on dismissive.

I can't help but scoff at his resolve. "Good."

The waitress appears, and I order banana cream pie. He orders chocolate cake with vanilla ice cream, and we both have coffee. There's a tension between us. It seems odd to call it awkward, but the dynamic has changed. We casually discuss the changes in the industry with romance and ebooks in general, and we talk about the possibility of me writing the thriller I've had swimming in my mind. He's back to the man I spoke with on the phone—professional, knowledgeable, impressive—and it makes me even more curious about his behavior just a half hour before. I can't attribute it to alcohol since he doesn't drink, so I wonder if he's bipolar. Was his interest so superficial that after a few minutes of me refusing him, he decided I wasn't worth the effort?

Is this the sort of will he'll exhibit when trying to secure me deals? I find myself completely irritated, and I know it's irrational, but the feeling sticks to me as the bill comes. He pays with the company card, making small talk about the restaurant and which ones I should try whenever I'm in New York.

"I'm sorry, but what made you give up so easily?" I ask.

His eyes focus on mine, lighting up again, and the spark that went out between us earlier seems to ignite as he tilts his head and I silently scold myself.

"On convincing you to...?"

I shake my head. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked, but I want to make sure that your resolve is stronger than what you just showed me."

His smile stretches across his beautiful face, and he rubs his strong chin as he leans back in his chair. "You're interesting."

I'm stupid is what I am. I rub my hands on my thighs, then fold them on the table.

"Trust me, my resolve is completely intact. However, I think you make your decisions quickly, and once they're made, nothing can convince you otherwise. If you change your mind, it's something you have to convince yourself to do."

I push my hand through my hair. "I shouldn't have asked you that. Now I've given you the impression..."

"That you're curious," he says, leaning on the table, his eyes commanding mine to meet his. "It's okay to wonder."

His hand slides across the table and lands on mine. I go to move mine, but he grips it. Now my heart is beating a million times a minute.

"It's okay to touch," he says, his movement smooth and deliberate and awakening part of me that's been asleep.

I look around the room. It's only us and busy busboys tending to the tables. His hand moves to my wrist, and his finger draws a heart on it. Then he pulls me closer, making me lean forward. His cologne floats to my nose.

"Chassidy?"

I turn toward the voice. It's male and familiar, but it's not Bryce—it's Carter. He's dressed in a white button-up and black tie and slacks, just like the rest of the staff.

"Hi!" My voice is high and shrieky. I knock down the remaining water in my glass. "You work here?"

He smiles, one that I'm sure gets him plenty of tips. "One of my million jobs. I didn't mean to interrupt. Is this Mr. Bell?" He squints at Davien, who doesn't look a bit as frazzled as I am.

"Um no, uh, this is Davien Marx, my agent," I mumble, my face burning in embarrassment. Of course he'd think Davien was my husband. He's never seen Bryce, and I was practically about to kiss him.

"Oh yeah, you mentioned that yesterday." Carter gives Davien a hard glare before taking the hand Davien's extended.

"And you are...?" Davien asks coolly, looking between us.

"Carter's my neighbor," I say quickly. I wonder if Davien thinks I'm screwing Carter, that my whole loyal wife façade is a sham. I can't believe I almost let my agent kiss me.

They exchange looks as if they're sizing each other up and neither one seems impressed.

"We were celebrating," I say, my voice still not back to its regular not-guilty tone.

"I didn't mean to interrupt. I just thought it was you and wanted to say hi," Carter says, turning his back toward Davien and giving me his full attention.

"Yeah, it looks like you have a lot of work to do," Davien interjects with a condescending grin.

I shoot him a sharp look.

"I'm actually finished up here," Carter says over his shoulder.

"I'll see you back home then," I tell Carter, giving him an apologetic look for Davien's rudeness and the complete awkwardness of this entire situation.

"Hey, are you going back home?" he asks.

"Of course." I laugh inappropriately loudly, my nerves bursting from my body.

"You are?" Davien asks sneakily, and my face reddens again.

"Well, if you don't mind waiting a few, you could catch a ride with me," Carter says, giving me a friendly smile. How did he know I didn't drive...oh the empty glasses near me probably tipped him off.

I can't help but notice Davien glaring daggers into Carter's back.

"No, it's fine. I can take her. It's no problem," Davien says tightly.

"We live in the same building. Right next door actually," Carter says with a sliver of sternness.

Davien smiles tightly, his face hardening toward Carter. "Well it's up to Chassidy. _Her_ choice, right?"

I feel as if I should excuse myself so they can pull out swords and fight or something.

"Right, Chassidy, do you want a ride home with me or are you heading out with your agent?" he says almost with contempt.

They both glare at me. Davien's eyes are full of what I could only describe as promise. When I look at Carter, I see something I've never seen on him, almost sorrow, and for a moment, he reminds me of Bryce. It's eerie.

"It doesn't make sense for you to take me all the way home, Davien, I can hitch a ride with Carter."

Davien's face hardens like stone, and he almost looks like he's going to punch Carter, who is beaming.

"Great, give me about ten and we can head out," Carter says more casually than I expected. He looks as if he just won a contest. "Nice meeting you, _Davien_."

Davien's face is completely cold. "You too, _Carter._ "

When Carter walks away, I'm almost embarrassed to look at Davien. I don't even want to think about the moment Carter interrupted.

"I really appreciate you coming here to meet with me," I say, sounding robotic.

"Chassidy..." The way he says my name is full of authority and what I can only describe as desire.

I look at him hesitantly.

"No one would ever have to know."

I sigh, pretending to be aloof. "Know what?"

"My sister lives in Chicago," he says as the waitress returns with the bill. "Thank you, sweetheart." He gives her a wink, and she practically swoons before telling us good night. "I fly here a few times a month," he tells me, opening the folder and retrieving his card. "Business can be business, or it could be full of pleasure."

"I didn't meant to..."

He stands from the table. I would do the same, but my legs feel weak. I look at him with a weak, nervous smile.

He leans toward me until our faces are only inches apart. "Don't say anything now. Life is too short to not experience all its pleasures."

I shiver at how close his lips are to my cheek. He then stands straight up and adjusts his jacket.

"I'll let you know as soon as the proposals go out, and my assistant will keep you up to date every step of the way." His tone is casual again, as if this was a normal business meeting for him, as if he hasn't tried to seduce me and left me dizzy and confused.

"Thank you," I say just as casually.

He reaches into his breast pocket, pulls out a card, and leans next to me, placing it on the table. "You have my number, the personal one, if you feel the need to use it." His eyes twinkle at me briefly before he stands. "It was good to meet you in person, Chassidy."

"Have a safe flight," I mutter, but he's already too far away to hear it.

Davien left me at the table five minutes ago, but his presence lingers. The wine has worn off, but I still feel intoxicated, confused, and in disbelief. This night happened so differently from what I expected. Was I really going to let him kiss me? Was I flirting with him or encouraging him? Why was I disappointed when he seemingly gave up? My heart is beating so hard I can almost hear it in my ears. What would have happened if I had let him take me home? When did I start to look at men beside my husband in a sexual way? I'm terrified of who I was tonight. I'm not this person. I don't flirt and push the line and wonder what happens if I toe it. My husband is amazing and just as handsome as Davien. In bed, we're fine. He knows me and I'm never unsatisfied but...

"Chassidy?"

I look up and see Carter standing at the entrance. He waves, and his warm smile makes me feel better, like a glass of milk after eating something spicy. I stand, smooth my dress, and head toward him. He's out of the waiter/busboy uniform and in the T-shirt and jeans I've gotten used to seeing him in.

"Thank you for this, Carter."

"No problem at all." He says good night to a few of his coworkers as we head out of the door.

"Hey, Carter, we've got her coming around for you," the valet attendant says with a smile.

"Thanks, Jake." Carter slips him a large white box.

"You're the best," Jake says, and Carter laughs.

In less than a minute, a white Mercedes pulls around and another valet person jumps out.

"Man, she rides smooth. I love this car." I watch as Carter hands him a bill, then the valet driver makes his way over to open the door for me. "Let me get the door for you."

"I could have gotten that," Carter says.

"No, my pleasure," the valet driver tells him with a wink.

I smile to myself before getting into the car. The seats are plush and heated and the interior is already toasty, the perfect contrast to the whipping wind we escaped.

"I hope I didn't ruin any plans you had tonight," I tell him as we pull off.

"You didn't interrupt anything. I have an early morning tomorrow at work," he says.

"At the not-for-profit?" I don't want to pry, but I wonder why he works as a waiter. I know he probably gets great tips, but he has this car ,which is obviously expensive, and the rent in our building isn't exactly below market rate.

"Yeah, I work here a couple nights a week, and the real gig takes up the rest of my time," he says, turning down the music and letting me know he's open to conversation, which isn't surprising. Our conversations always are smooth and easy, as if I've known him for years.

"Why do you work there?"

He sort of shrugs. "It's good for networking. You never know who you'll meet at these types of places."

"Are people nice to you?" I worked for a couple of months as a waitress in college and most of my customers were terrible to me, and that was at a breakfast place. I assumed people would be snooty at a place like Maestro's. I wouldn't have imagined them networking with the waiter.

He laughs. "Generally, there's always one spoiled apple in the bunch. You really learn how to deal with people in places like that." He chuckles. Not only is he handsome, but there's something about him that could probably charm the bad attitude out of most people. "I could have chosen another job, but my father always stresses the importance of serving others. It really shapes your character."

"Are you close with your dad?" I ask, thinking he has to be to choose an entire second job based on his opinion. I didn't even used to want to eat the food my dad suggested.

"Yeah, I am."

"I hated waitressing. I did it in college and it sucked. I thought a place like Maestro's would be worse."

"It's not as bad as you think. Most people are good, I think." He shrugs. "Or want to be."

"Really?"

"You disagree?" he asks, but not in a challenging, condescending way.

"I don't know. I think people are more bad than good. Have you seen the news lately? It's so depressing that I stopped watching it."

"Yeah, but the world is a good place... or tragic, depending on who's looking." He sighs, and for a moment, there's a heaviness to him. But in a flash, it's gone. "But most people are good, they just make bad choices. They don't see the consequences of their terrible decisions. They only see that moment, never beyond it, and before they know it, the choices they've made have crippled their morals, shriveled their humanity."

I look at him, surprised. "Were you, like, a philosophy major or something?"

He grins. "No, people are just sort of my thing. I did take some psychology classes though."

I think back on the position he saw me in tonight and feel the need to explain myself for some reason, but I bite my tongue. Bringing it up seems awkward. But I know he has to be wondering about it. I let out a small sigh.

"Hey, what you saw tonight, it wasn't what it looked like," I say feebly, then I wonder if anyone who ever said that line was telling the truth.

"No judgment here," he says quickly.

"I actually just met him today. You remember me telling you that?"

"Do you want to know my honest opinion?"

My stomach sinks. I only want to hear it if it's what I want to hear, but if he started with that disclaimer, it's probably not what I want to hear. He glances at me and I smile. I guess he's waiting for permission.

"Sure," I say unconvincingly.

"If I were your husband, I wouldn't have wanted anyone's hands but mine on you like that." His face is hard, and my cheeks heat up in embarrassment.

I don't say anything because what can I say? How can I defend what he saw? I'm not sure how it looked, but I know how it felt.

"Were you okay with it?" he asks.

"He was just being overly flirty." I laugh. I see his face harden through the rearview mirror. "Nothing was going to happen."

"Isn't that unprofessional of him though?"

"It was. But his sales record is phenomenal. I really think he's going to be great for my career."

He nods. "I just would be concerned about how disciplined he is, if he can't even control himself at a business dinner."

The little voice in my head says he wouldn't have had to control himself if my husband was there, and another little voice tells me that I should have had better behavior whether Bryce was there or not. I think of all the days Bryce is gone to so many different places, with so many different people, how many women he meets and sees and how I would feel if this situation was turned around. How would Bryce feel...? But Bryce left me. He hasn't called me—he's abandoned me. Why should I think about his feelings now? Is he thinking about mine? I'm so lost in my thoughts that I didn't even notice us pull into our garage.

"Home sweet home," Carter tells me brightly as he parks.

We get out of the car and head toward the elevator. Our ride up is quiet but not awkward. We reach our floor, and Carter lets me walk out first, then he walks me to my door. I think of what would have happened tonight if Carter hadn't spotted me, if he hadn't offered me a ride home. I'd like to think that nothing would have happened. I'd like to believe that the moment of briefly considering what Davien was saying was just a moment of insanity, but how could I even come that close? Davien isn't the first man to hit on me since I've been with Bryce, or since I've been married, but this time it was different. I felt vulnerable to his temptation. I felt weak. I've never been at a place like this my entire life, and it's terrifying.

"Thank you for tonight. I really appreciate it," I tell him.

He gives me a half a smile. "It was just a ride."

I nod, sticking the key in my door.

"Hey—"

I turn around. His hands are in his pockets, and he looks nervous, which makes me smile.

"If you ever need someone to talk to—it doesn't matter what about—I'm here," he says, and he truly looks sincere.

"Thank you," I tell him, returning his smile. "I'll keep that in mind."

When I get inside, I pull out my phone and stare at the picture of Bryce and me, how happy we looked. There're still no missed calls or text messages though. I throw the phone on the couch and head into my bedroom to sleep alone, with only my memories of tonight.

_2 years earlier_

* * *

"Be honest with me. Tell me what you really think. Is it terrible? Does the plot line make sense? Are the characters one-dimensional? Is it a pile of garbage that should never see the light of day? Whatever you think, I want the truth," she rattles off nervously. When she's nervous, she tends to hold her breath or talk really loudly, and this time she's managing to alternate between both.

"Chas, you're one of the most talented people I know. I doubt it's going to suck."

She pouts and lets out a frustrated sigh. "No, you have to be tough. You have to be honest. I really want your opinion to be unbiased."

I can see how serious she is, how scared she is. I get that she's afraid to share her words with the world, but she doesn't have to be that way with me. "You're going to be my wife in three months. I'm sort of required to like whatever is a part of you, and these words are a part of you. If they really suck, I'm going to have to like every sucky one of them."

She smiles but fights it, letting her back fall onto the bed, and I fall beside her.

"I love that you love everything about me, but I need your unbiased opinion." She climbs on my lap and brings her lips to mine, but they don't touch. "I need to know my words are good, that you think they are because they are and not because they're mine." When I try to kiss her, she pulls back and laughs, her hands planted on my chest to keep me at a distance. "And I figured you might say something like that, so I thought it'd be good for me to give you three chapters of my manuscript and three chapters of a manuscript that isn't mine, and you give me your honest opinion on both." She gives me a wide, sneaky smile.

"But I hate to read."

She swats my chest. "No, you don't. You love it, liar."

She's right. I've loved to read since I was six years old. I went through a very brief stage of wanting to be a writer, but I gave up when I discovered I couldn't write a book as fast as I could read one. My dream of being an author died when I was ten, and I went on to my new dream of being a world famous baseball player. That lasted until I was fourteen and realized I only liked to play when my friends were on the team. When they didn't make the cut, it wasn't as fun as I thought it'd be.

"I'll read three hundred manuscripts as long as you promise to show up at the altar," I say as I trail my fingers down her stomach and reach for her waistband.

She jumps off me. "I'll let you know once I read your critique," she teases me before giving me a brief kiss.

"Okay," I say with a groan.

I can't believe this woman is agreeing to be mine forever, that I'm the last person who will ever have her, make her smile, hear her laugh, make her mad and make it up to her for the rest of our lives. I think back on Jax's words about being with the same woman for the rest of my life, and I can't think of living my life any other way.

She grabs her laptop and plops back on the bed. I can see the excitement all over her.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"Getting everything ready to send to you."

"You want me to read them now?"

"Well you don't have to," she says, looking at me with big puppy eyes.

"Okay, go in the living room. I can't focus with you here," I tell her grumpily.

"Yay!" she squeals, clapping. She bounces to the door, then runs back over and jumps on my lap. "Did I tell you you're the most fantastic fiancé in the history of the world and even in the history of book boyfriends?"

"No, you haven't, as a matter of fact," I tell her, rolling on top of her.

She cups my chin and kisses it. "Well, you are."

"Better than Travis Maddox?" I ask, remembering how she talked my ear off about him when I first met her. I think he's the first fictional character I've been actually jealous of.

"Hey, let's not go that far."

I tickle her, and she wiggles out from under me.

"Call me when you're done," she says before slipping out of the door.

I adjust some pillows behind my back, plop her laptop on my lap, and open the first manuscript. This isn't the first time I've read Chassidy's stuff. Usually it's only things that she writes for class, but I know this is different. She didn't write this for a grade; it's what she's put her blood, sweat, tears, and dreams into. What she's sacrificed time with me, her friends, and her family to create.

I know she wants to be a writer more than anything in the world, and if it doesn't happen for her, I don't know what she'll do, who she'll be. It's the one thing I worry about for her. Not that she's not talented enough to make it. I know she can do whatever she puts her mind to, but she's not good at recovering from the blows life throws you. She shuts down. Two months after we started dating, the store she worked for shut down and she was in a funk for weeks. I know she loved working there, but it took a lot of pushing and encouragement to get her to get back on the job horse.

I allow my eyes to scan the page and fall in love with her words all over again. It takes me about four hours to finish making notes and giving her the detailed critique she wants. It's not hard for me—I began my college career as an English major. I send her a text that I'm done, and in less than a minute, she's back with a wide smile. I keep my face like stone, and she squints at me, her smile lessening a bit.

"Have a seat," I say in my best professor-esque tone.

"Look at you being all critique-y," she says teasingly as she sits.

I let out a tired breath, and she chews her lip, concern taking over her face.

"It was that bad?"

I let out another stressed sigh. Her face goes blank, and I see her inhale as if to brace herself. I set the laptop on her lap, kiss her forehead, and leave the room, shutting the door. I sit on my sofa and turn on the television.

My brothers, Duke and Max, come in like a whirlwind, loud and boisterous as they always are.

"Well what do we have here? Its Thing One without Thing Two. Pigs must be about to fly," Duke jokes as he heads to the refrigerator.

"Isn't that ironic coming from Tweetle Dumb?" I say. "And actually, Thing Two is in my room, so can you guys try to not act like farm animals?"

Duke gives me the middle finger. "I can't wait until you're out of here so this place can be the bachelor pad it was always meant to be."

They high-five.

"I'm going to miss her food though," Max says, grabbing a casserole dish full of beef stroganoff that Chassidy made and popping it into the microwave.

It wasn't easy being the big brother of twins, especially when they outgrew you by five inches and a combined total of four hundred pounds. I had to learn pretty quickly how to outsmart them. Chassidy says we all look alike and they're just bigger and sort of scarier when they're around food, which I can't argue with at all as I watch them fight over the last Krispy Kreme doughnut.

"Could you ask Chassidy if she could make a chocolate cake?" Max asks after losing the battle over the donut neither of them bought.

"She's my girlfriend, Max, not your personal chef. If you got the football out of your brain, maybe you could keep a girl around long enough to trick them into cooking for you."

"You tricked me!" We turn around to see Chassidy smiling, her eyes wide with tears in them.

I can't fight the smile on my face. "How did you read through all of my notes that fast?"

She wraps her arms around my neck and pulls me into one of the best kisses of my life. Max and Duke catcall from the kitchen.

"You knew they were both mine?" she says breathlessly.

"I knew your voice the moment you spoke. You think I couldn't recognize the words you've written?"

"Duke and Max, unless you want to see an embarrassing amount of affection, could you excuse us?" she says, her eyes locked on me.

"Only because we like you," Duke says as they make their way to the door.

"Hey can you bake, Chas?" Max asks.

I glare at him to get him to leave, and he makes kissy faces at me.

"An embarrassing display of affection?" I bite her lip.

"Sickeningly so," she promises before pulling me to our bedroom.

### Chassidy

"Hey."

Whenever I hear his voice, no matter how long it's been or how mad I am, it always passes through every part of me. I never realized how much I missed his voice, but after being deprived of it, I'm reminded of how it can heal the little broken parts of me bit by bit. His smile would let me know everything would be okay.

I close my eyes and take in his voice. His tone is dry, but there's a hint of surprise in it. He didn't expect me to call him. I probably shouldn't have, since he's the one who left me outside of his friends' house after I had an emotional meltdown.

"It's so good to hear from you." Sarcasm radiates through my tone, but I do mean it.

He's quiet. I don't know if it's out of frustration or if he doesn't know what to say to defend his actions. "I didn't know if you wanted to talk to me."

"Where are you?" I ask, anger and hurt peeking through my words.

"I'm still at Tiffany and Jax's."

"I thought you might have been working."

"No, I've actually had the past few days off. I fly out again tonight." His voice is matter-of-fact with a hint of frustration.

I can't help but feel he said that as a jab. I think of the last time he had a week off, how once upon a time, we'd spend those days together, wrapped in each other's arms, talking and making love for as long as we could. Now it's normal for us to be apart, for him to not know what's going in my life and me to have no clue what's going on in his.

"So are you just going to live there, go back to the old days?"

A little voice inside me tells me I'm being ridiculous, should tell him I miss him, and shouldn't pick a fight because this stalemate we're in isn't just because of him, but the stubborn part of me wins out, as it has been recently. He lets out a frustrated sigh, and I can see his face in my mind, his lips pressed together in frustration.

"Why didn't you tell me about the agent?" His voice is sharp and cuts through me.

How does he know? Did he see me? Did someone see me with Davien? My heartbeat drowns out my thoughts.

"You didn't think that was a pretty big deal? You didn't think it was embarrassing for me to have to find out from Tiffany?"

Right, it was Tiffany. I'm flooded with relief. "I planned on telling you. I wanted to, I just..."

"You _planned_ on it? What happened?"

"Well, you abandoned me at your best friend's house, that's what happened," I spit back, anger burning away my guilt.

"I don't know what to do, Chassidy. I'm trying, but you won't let me help you! Do you know how bad it hurts me to see you hurting and you won't let me in? You don't think it rips me apart and makes me hate myself that I can't fix this because you won't even let me try?" His voice breaks, and tears fill my eyes. "What happened to us?"

I have to cover the microphone so he can't hear my cries. My sobs are shaking my body. A part of him died inside me, not once but twice. How do we recover from that?

"I'm sorry," I tell him so quietly that I'm not sure he can hear me.

"I want to come home, but I'm afraid to."

Silence flows between us.

"I can't see you look at me how you have." His voice is broken and vulnerable. "It's like each time you see me, you only see loss and regret."

I'm sitting on the floor, my legs to my chest, as my tears soak my shirt.

"I can't keep feeling like this, Chassidy."

My heart twists in my chest. I've never seen or heard him cry, not even when we lost our babies, but it sounds as if he's dangerously close.

"I'll fight for us, but I can't fight against you," he says, sounding defeated.

"What do you want me to do?" I ask, my body trembling.

"What do you want me to do, Chas? Tell me. Anything, I'll do it."

But I don't know what to say. I can hear from his breathing that my lack of an answer is frustrating and making him angry.

"I don't know how to get through to you anymore." He sounds as if all of his emotions have dried up.

I can see his beautiful face in my head, his green eyes and dirty-blond hair and dimples so deep I could swim in them. Except now I know that smile has gone cold. The strong man who has always been there for me is weak, broken. I did that, and I have no idea if I can repair him when I'm so broken myself.

"I don't know either. I'm sorry." It's one of the most honest things I've said to him in such a long time.

Is it too late for us? Is this the end of us, as far as we go, the end of our story? The old us would scoff at the idea—there was nothing we couldn't get through, especially together—but now being together is like salt on an open wound. I keep trying to see past what broke me, what was meant to bring us closer together but is pulling us so far apart that we might as well be on opposite sides of the world. The silence between us is the loudest, most terrible sound I've ever heard. It used to wrap around us like a warm blanket. Now it's smothering, suffocating us both.

"I still love you," he finally says, and my frozen heart melts a little.

"Love has never been our problem," I say with a sniff. "I-I think I just need some time."

"Time?" He sounds shocked and almost afraid to say the words. I can practically see his brow furrowing through the phone. "Time apart, you mean?"

I don't even recognize my own words, but they came out so easily. "I don't know. I think so."

Do I want time apart? I want him here, I do, but I can't lie and say that it doesn't hurt when he is. I can feel his frustration and confusion with me, but he only sighs.

"Okay. If you want time or space, I can give you that," he says, his voice full of apprehension, confusion, and frustration.

"I don't know what's wrong with me, Bryce, but I have to figure it out on my own. I don't want us to keep going how we've been. I want us to be better, how we were," I tell him through tears.

"I get it," he says, his voice short and quick. "How much time?"

It's a reasonable question, one I should have had an answer for before I made the request.

"A week, a month?" he cuts through my thoughts.

"I don't know." The words come off my tongue lightly but land as if they weigh a million pounds.

He lets out a long, mirthless laugh. "Whatever you want, Chassidy."

I cringe—he never calls me Chassidy. I look for something to say, something that will make things better, but I can't think of anything. I want to tell him that I still love him, but saying that now seems like it will make things worse. It's ridiculous how much I miss him, but feel suffocated around him. His absence has been like a person in our home, one that taunts and comforts me.

"I'll send Jax by to get some of my things." His voice is defeated and tired.

Tears well up in my eyes. I put my phone on mute, sniffle and clear my throat, and take the mute off. "You don't have to do that. You can come. I'd like to see you." I know how hypocritical I sound, but I'm so confused.

He sighs. "I'll let you know." His tone lets me know our conversation is coming to an end, and I feel relieved and saddened all at once.

"Okay," I say quietly. I don't hang up and notice that he hasn't either. I watch the numbers tick by on the phone.

"Congratulations on the agent, Chas," he says sullenly.

My heart speeds up and I fight a weak smile. "Thank you."

I watch the call end.

* * *

I wrote five pages today. It's been one day since Bryce and I had our call, and I wish I could say that I feel better or worse, but I don't. I just feel numb and anxious. Like a jerk, I want to pity myself, but I end up hating myself instead. In a year when we're sitting in divorce court over irreconcilable differences, I know it will be my fault. He's giving me space now, but how long will it last for? Will having him gone, really gone, make things better? Does absence really make the heart grow fonder? Or does it just make it colder, indifferent?

I walk to the window, my favorite place in my apartment. It used to be at least. Being able to look out over the entire city and see the people used to fascinate and excite me. I could feel their energy, and it used to inspire me. Now it's almost depressing. Yet I'm still drawn to it, maybe out of habit, maybe because I keep hoping I'll get that inspiration back. My phone vibrates, and I walk over and glance at it—it's an unknown number. I hit 'ignore' and slide in front of my computer and stare at the blank screen.

I scroll to the top of the document, and as I'm about to turn off my Wi-Fi, I see an email pop up from Davien. My skin flushes as I think back to the other night. I open the email in record time. He's letting me know that my series is on submission to publishers in Italy, Spain, France, and Germany. The idea that my words could be read in a different languages is surreal. It's thrilling, an excitement I haven't felt in such a long time.

I quickly respond with my thanks, then I toggle back over to my blank document and type several sentences. They're okay. Not great, but a start. Thirty minutes pass, and I write a page and a half. It's not complete drivel, but I don't have a connection to it yet. I won't know if it's worth continuing until I hit about page fifteen. If the characters become alive and start to speak to me, hopefully I can speak back.

If Davien is able to sell my work to foreign publishers, it would be good to have more for them to consider. This story is only an idea half formed in my head, about a girl who falls in love with a rich guy who is a jerk and ends up _really_ being a jerk. Then she meets a poor guy she wants to risk everything for. Poor guy happens to work for rich guy, and both are equally handsome. Not sure how it ends yet, and I need a twist—it's sort of been my signature—even if it's not a jaw-dropping one. I scribble a couple of ideas on the notepad I haven't touched in weeks, and I smile.

My phone rings, and I scold myself for not turning it off. It's Kelsey. I ignore her, then she calls again. I wonder if it's important. Kelsey will usually shoot a text if I don't pick up. I think back to when we talked earlier last week. I've avoided her other calls and have only texted back since then. Hopefully she'll realize I'm avoiding the topic and she will too. I poured out a secret I'd held so tight to me, but she knows me so well that she can smell when something is wrong, and that stench fills this apartment.

I finally relent and pick up.

"Hey, hun bun!" she says, as cheerful as she always is.

I relax, glad her tone indicates that nothing is wrong. "Hi," I say, trying to match her energy.

"What are you up to today?"

I feel one of her infamous girls' trip invites about to be extended. Kelsey's girls' trips usually include searching for things at Ikea, Home Goods or Hobby Lobby so that she can make something she saw on Pinterest, and of course it always turns out exactly like the Pinterest picture, instead of being a complete failure like it does for the rest of us normal human beings. She does always treat for lunch though, and she has the best listening ear in town. Except there are things I don't really want her to hear right now.

"I was actually writing," I tell her with a small grin.

"Oh, yay! I'm so sorry to interrupt you!"

"No, it's okay. What's up?"

"Well, I've been sort of working on something I wanted your opinion on," she says nervously.

"Please tell me it's cookies!" She's one of the best bakers in the world.

She laughs. "No, but I could bring you some on Friday if you'd like."

"You'll make my week," I tell her as I see a text message pop up at the corner of my screen.

"Done. But it's actually a book."

My eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "Really? Wow, that's great! Why didn't you say anything? How far are you into it? What it is about?"

I'm not surprised because I didn't think she could write one, but she's never expressed interest in writing. Plus her world revolves around two small people and a husband, so I'm wondering how she came up with the time.

"Well I didn't want to bother you with it until I knew I was serious, and it's not a book like yours. It's more of a short book, only about a hundred twenty pages."

"Wow, that's so great!" I say while I open my text app on the computer. My heart beats faster when I read the words. It's from Davien.

_I wish our story the other night had a different ending..._

My chest tightens. I don't know what to say or how to respond. My heart is beating so loudly in my ears that I can hardly pay attention to what Kelsey is saying.

"So it's just sort of a memoir-ish type of thing about my marriage and kids, the struggles and trials and how we got through them..."

"I'm sorry, what did you say?" I ask, closing the text message and demanding my thoughts be on what my friend is saying and not Davien or that night or how I thought the same thing about it.

"It's a memoir, really personal, but it's been on my heart to share with the world, and since you're my best friend and a great writer, I wanted to get your opinion on it. If you're uncomfortable doing it, I totally understand!" she says quickly.

"I'd love to help! I'm flattered that you want to share something like that with me," I say even though I wonder what trials or losses she and David could have suffered that would be worth writing about. Their marriage is perfect, her life is perfect. If anything, I wonder if normal couples who don't wear rose-colored glasses can relate.

"That would be amazing. There's no rush to send it back to me or anything," she says.

"Don't be ridiculous, I'll get right on it," I tell her, my thoughts drifting back to the text message I received.

"Still, no rush or worries. So what's going on with you? How are you doing?"

I swallow hard, feeling guilty. The urge to tell someone about what happened that night with Davien battles with the need to hold it close. Guilt and embarrassment stitch the words to my throat while I have to admit excitement and curiosity try to force them out. But out of my friends, Kelsey isn't the one I can share this with. Not that she's judgmental, but I don't think her words will be different than the words I keep telling myself, and I'm craving to hear something different.

"I asked Bryce for some space," I blurt.

Crap! I didn't mean to say those words. I throw my head back, not believing how ridiculous I am.

"What?" she asks, surprise and shock all over her voice.

"It's not a big deal. I just... I'm tired of hurting him because I'm hurting. I don't want him to be a casualty. He doesn't want to be a casualty," I tell her, trying to keep my voice light and casual as though it's not a big deal. But in Kelsey's world, it _is_ a big deal.

"Is that what you really want?" she asks. I can tell she's trying to suspend her disbelief.

"I'm not saying it's forever. It's not even, like, an official separation or anything." I laugh to try to mute the seriousness of the words.

Kelsey is quiet. "Is this... is this about you losing the baby?"

I press my lips tightly together.

"I'm coming over," she announces, and I sigh.

"Kelsey, no, it's not a big deal. Couples take time apart all the time."

"And it's almost never the answer," she retorts, her voice firmer than I've heard it in a long time.

" _Almost_ never. It's _our_ answer, my answer, and I didn't even say how long for."

"That's what scares me." Her voice is strained and raised, and it's bringing me down.

My eyes water, taking my thoughts to a place I don't want to go right now. "It's not a big deal, I promise. Bryce's schedule has been really hectic, so we weren't seeing much of each other anyway."

"Are you home for the day? I can be over in about two hours." I can hear their dog barking and her trying to appease her.

"I am, but I plan on getting some writing done and starting your book, so today just isn't a good time."

"Friday then? When I bring the cookies, we'll talk?" she asks with disappointment in her voice.

"Yes, Friday, I'm all yours. Promise. But don't worry about this, Kelsey. I shouldn't have even said anything," I sort of mumble the last part.

"Yes, you should have. I'm your best friend, Chas. What hurts you hurts me," she says, her voice sort of breaking.

I sigh. "No one's hurting."

"Liar."

I bite my lip. "Wish me luck on hitting my writing goal today, hon." I want to end our conversation on a positive note.

"You've already got it," she says, only a hint more cheer in her voice. "I love you."

"Love you too, Kels."

I hang up and sit still for a moment before clicking back on the text message. There's another one.

_A writer with no words... ;)_

I swallow hard and remember I have my read notification settings on. I grab my phone.

_None that you want to hear._

I text back with a grin.

I see the bubbles move across my screen, and I wait with almost bated breath.

_I think you just don't want to share them._

I see the email from Kelsey pop up in my notifications. I mentally put it on my to-do list.

_I think you're afraid too._

What am I afraid of? Nothing really. So what if I tell him I do think about that night, that I pondered what would have happened if Carter didn't take me home? I'm afraid of those thoughts, but there isn't any harm in telling him that, right? Words are just words and thoughts are just thoughts. Without action, they're nothing. I work up my courage.

_Maybe._

It's a simple word.

I've done so much with words, created worlds, people, and stories. I ignore the gnawing feeling that this word is different. I feel almost as if it's starting a new chapter in my real life, changing the direction of _my_ story.

No. It's just a word, a non-committed word at that. It's simple, not life-changing. It won't affect anyone or anything except allowing me to pass the time with a small spark of something I haven't glimpsed in a long time. A word. It's a stupid, silly little word.

Then I hit Send.

_2 years ago_

* * *

"Brycelin, you're being ridiculous. Get up, we're going to the emergency room." It's my mother's stern voice, the one she used when I was five years old and didn't want to go to school and was trying my best to get out of it.

My stomach feels like it's been thrown off a roller coaster and swept up in a tornado. My heartbeat is chaotic, confused about if it wants to speed up or slow down.

"I can't. I'm getting married today," I tell her, forcing air out of my throat.

"You look terrible. You've caught some type of bug in this godforsaken city," my mom says, disgust clear in her voice.

My mom always dreamed of me getting married in a big church with hundreds of her and my father's friends and business associates around. Now she has to depend on one of her twins—who can't even remember a girl's name long enough to date, let alone marry—to have the wedding she's been dreaming to throw. It doesn't matter to me, but Chassidy wanted something simple and fun. Vegas seemed perfect for that.

"Son, you look terrible. I don't think you can make it down the hall, let alone an aisle, without help," my dad says. He's always been the casual one, since my mom is high-strung enough for them both.

"I'm fine." I get myself together enough to stand up, but my knees instantly wobble.

"I think this is a sign," my mom mutters.

"It's not a sign," I snap, but my voice comes out weak like my legs.

"I'm telling you, Brycelin, this could be God's way of telling you she isn't the one," she tells me. Her whisper is loud, but it's meant to be.

"Jeanine, please stop it," Dad tells her sternly.

"What, Roger? I told you, I don't like her," my mom snaps back.

"Well it's a good thing you don't have to marry her." I feel terrible, but I finally get myself to sit up straight on the bed. "Bring me my tux," I tell Jax.

He's sitting in the big lounge chair, quiet as a mouse. He always gets like that around my parents. They have a way of making adults feel like children. He gets up, heading to the closet, then my brothers burst through the door. I've never been so glad to see them in my life. One has two liters of ginger ale in hand, and the other has Pepto Bismol, Tylenol, and about every other over-the-counter medicine you can think of.

"Don't tell me you two are entertaining this nonsense. He needs to go to the doctor," my mom demands.

"Aww, come on, Mom. He's just hungover with a side of drunk," Duke says.

"With a dash of possible food poisoning," Max chimes in with a chuckle.

"This isn't funny, you two. I am very worried! Does this hotel have an onsite doctor?" my mom asks.

I grab the ginger ale from Duke, pop the liter, and begin to chug.

He and Duke chant, "Chug, chug, chug!"

"Ridiculous, you all are ridiculous," my mom says before making her dramatic exit from the room.

I come up for air after binging on the ginger ale. "Through sickness and health, right?"

My brothers and Jax whoop and clap as I down the rest of it and finish it off with a travel size bottle of Tylenol.

"Son, you look terrible. I admire your determination and commitment for today, but I'm sure if Chassidy knew how you were feeling, she'd be okay with waiting one more day," my dad says, the lone voice of reason in the room. "Your mother and I will cover the cost of the cancelation, flights, and rooms of your guests."

Then the ginger ale and Pepto Bismol mix I just chugged comes up all over the room.

"Bryce, are you okay?"

I try to lift my head to look at her, but it feels too heavy. Her fingers cup my face, and I feel her head on mine.

"I can't see you. It's bad luck," I say, keeping my eyes closed.

"I'll take it from here Mr. G," she says.

"He's all yours," Dad calls back to her before the door closes.

"It's not bad luck if we aren't getting married today," she says as she crawls into bed next to me.

"No, we are. Sickness and health."

She giggles. "Yes, but you look like you're about ready to skip ahead to the 'till death do us part.."

Her head rests on mine. The room is quiet now. My father must have cleared out my brothers and Jax.

"Whatever you need me to do, even if it's disgusting, I'm here," she promises me with the beautiful grin I fell in love with.

"I'm sorry, babe," I say as she rubs my head.

"There's nothing to be sorry about. It's not like we planned on getting married today or anything," she teases before kissing my cheek.

"Tomorrow. It'll be the best day of your life, I promise." I close my eyes. Her touch is almost healing by itself.

"Want me to tell you a secret?" She giggles, and I turn my body so my head is facing her.

"Is it about my mother?"

Chassidy and my mom get along even less well than I do with her mom. While Chas's mom is upfront about her indifference bordering on dislike of me, my mom does disapproval with underhanded comments and glares paired with a hundred-watt smile.

"No, it's not, but your mom will like it... maybe. I hope at least."

I look at her hard. Her eyes are big and hopeful, the same eyes I fell in love with—after her voice and her words. I try to think of what would make my mom happy—other than us calling the whole thing off—as I feel another shooting cramp in my stomach. I hop out of bed and sprint to the bathroom. After everything comes up, I feel so much better and hope it lasts for more than a few minutes this time. I grab the mouthwash and gargle.

Chas appears at the door with a wide smile and barely contained enthusiasm. "Can I tell you now, or do you want me to wait until tomorrow?"

I know that she won't be able to wait. "Tomorrow," I tell her just to see her pout.

Instead she smiles even brighter. "I'm pregnant."

"You're kidding." The numbness in my stomach disappears as energy shoots through my entire body.

"Nope," she says, wrapping her arms around my neck.

Just like that, life changes. Everything I ever imagined for my future—and let me tell you, I imagined a lot of scenarios—changes with the drop of a hat. Never have I ever imagined that life would be this good. I kiss her, hoping I don't smell like an old mop bucket. I kneel, lift her shirt, and kiss the space below her belly button.

"I'm going to be a dad." I beam at her. "We'll have something that's a part of both of us, living, walking, breathing." And a small part of me is terrified that things are too good to be true.

### Chassidy

He knocked.

It's eerie and foreign, but I know it's him.

We set this up—or rather, he texted me a half hour ago that he was coming to get a few of his things. Two days ago, when I told him I wanted space, my words didn't seem like they were mine or had the power to do what's about to happen. When I open the door, my heart still jumps for him.

"Hey." His voice is clipped.

I search his eyes for contempt and anger, but I see none. His eyes dart from mine quickly, as if he'd rather look anywhere but at me.

"Hey," I tell him, stepping aside for him to come in.

His footsteps are heavy and seem to echo through our apartment.

It's still _ours,_ I tell myself.

Even though the folded up cardboard boxes under his arm are saying something else. I close the door and watch as he looks around the apartment as if he doesn't recognize it anymore. I stand still as stone, moving my hands awkwardly from my hair to my stomach. When did this happen? When did we become uncomfortable strangers? How did I let this happen?

"You brought boxes," I say dumbly.

He turns around and looks at me. He looks rightfully offended by my casual tone, and I feel like an idiot. "Yeah, needed to carry my stuff."

I let out a deep sigh and command myself not to cry. "You're mad." I say it so quickly I can't stop myself.

There was a time I never censored myself with him, when I would tell him my deepest secrets without shame or judgment. But now things are different.

His hard stare softens a tad, but then it returns. "What do you think, Chassidy?" His voice is stern but as casual as mine was earlier.

"I wish you weren't," I say.

He lets out a low growl and heads into our bedroom. I know it's a stupid, inane request. With a frustrated sigh, he heads to his closet and pulls out his uniforms and a few pairs of shoes.

"I'd ask you how much I should actually take, but I'm guessing you still don't know how much space you need." His voice is snide and quieter than I expected.

I hate that I don't have an answer for him. He breathes out a low, bitter chuckle.

"Can you not hate me? I just want to figure things out," I say, walking toward him.

He turns toward me. There's a struggle in his expression, his brows drawn together. I can see it in his eyes—he's battling between pity and anger. When he squints at me, I know anger has won out.

"What happened to _us_ figuring things out together?" He strides toward me, and I'm reminded of how tall he is, how his lean body has stretched out over our three years of marriage.

I keep my eyes glued to his chest. The truth is, I can't look in his eyes. When I do, I see the eyes of our baby boy we lost. I see eyes filled with disappointment that they'll never hold our baby girl, even though he didn't know about her.

"This is different," I mutter, and his frustration radiates off of him.

I watch him construct the boxes and then he begins to throw his things in them. I want to say something to make this better, but each thing I say only makes it worse. He stands up, stacking the two boxes.

"Are you staying at Jax's?"

"Does it matter to you?" he throws back at me.

I bite my lip. I know I deserve this. I asked him to leave his home—it used to be a home at least. Now it feels like exactly what it is—an apartment. So many emotions swirl around in me. The urge to tell him to stay fights against a sense of relief I know I'll feel when he leaves. How is it possible to feel so confused? He sets the boxes down, and we both reach for the front door knob. Our hands touch and linger. I wonder if, even in his anger, he misses my touch as much as I miss his, but then he pulls away.

"I've got it," he says coldly, opening the door.

My phone rings on the couch. I glance back at it.

"Go ahead," he says, walking out the door, but I follow him.

"I wanted to at least walk you to the elevator."

He turns around and drops the boxes, his eyes full of fury and hurt. "Why? Why walk me to the elevator or down the stairs? At the end of it, I'm still leaving!" He's loud and angry, and tears fill my eyes while my cheeks flush. "Now you get to cry because you're the only one hurting, right, Chas?"

"Fine," I say with as much anger as I can muster, but it's weak.

I hear him slam his hand on the button. I walk back to my apartment and glance behind me to see if he's looking at me, but he's not. Why should he? The elevator opens, he storms into it, and I stand there watching.

"Everything is going to be okay," Kelsey tells me softly.

While she strokes my hair, I rest my head on her shoulder, my tears and cookie crumbs falling in her lap. I'm an idiot, a terrible friend. She was supposed to come over for me to talk to her about her book, but instead I'm crying on her shoulder and apologizing for not even opening the manuscript she sent me. I sniff, eating the last cookie she brought. If it wasn't Kelsey, I'd swear she'd put drugs in her cookies. They're almost enough to distract me from my crumbling marriage.

"You have to talk to him though, hon. You have to tell him why you're doing this," Kelsey says before taking the empty container into the kitchen and washing it.

"I can't tell him I was pregnant, didn't tell him, and lost our child, and I really can't tell him that every time I look at him I see our dead babies." My voice attempts to crack at the last part, but I manage to hold myself together for a few seconds before I break down again.

Kelsey's back in a flash, wrapping her arms around me. "You and Bryce can get through this. You just have to let him in, honey."

I rock in her arms, feeling like a wounded child instead of a twenty-six-year-old woman who should get over this. "It hurts to be around him. I miss him, but his presence makes me feel awful. When he's not around, I feel better but miss him like crazy."

I remember when we lost Logan, how Bryce comforted me the same way Kelsey is when the doctor told us that...

"What if I can't get over this? What if I really lose him, if I mess this up for good?" I'm trying to catch my breath, but the air is leaving my lungs quicker than I can take it in. I move away from Kelsey, my body tightening and my heart beating too fast.

"Chassidy? Chassidy!" she shrieks, her eyes wide and panic all over her face.

Am I having a heart attack? No, no, no.

"Put your head between your legs," Kelsey demands.

I do, and she tells me to close my eyes and breathe, but it doesn't seem to help. I'm crying, my blood feels hot, and all I can think of is how much I want Bryce. Kelsey grips my shoulder and yells at me, but I'm confused, can't hear her clearly. My heartbeat pounds in my ears. When it goes away and I feel my body untighten, Kelsey looks so relieved and hugs me.

"Amen," she says breathlessly.

I stiffen in her arms and frown at her. "Were you praying?"

She laughs. "Well, yeah, I didn't know what else to do." She lets out a deep breath and sits on the floor next to me.

"Um, call the ambulance! What if I was having a heart attack or a stroke?" I ask her accusingly.

Her larger-than-life smile falters for a moment before she gives me a playful swat. "You were not having a heart attack."

I push myself off the floor and away from her. "Don't do that to me. Ever again."

She looks at me and laughs, but her smile disappears when she realizes I'm serious. I walk to the bathroom and wash my face. When I look up, I see her standing in the doorway, looking confused and almost offended.

"Are you really mad?" she asks.

I scoff. "Kelsey, I love you. I respect that your faith is important to you and I don't try to change it, but I don't believe in a God, Allah, Buddha, or your Jesus. So I'd very much appreciate you not chanting fables at me when I'm in a potentially life-endangering situation."

"Fables?" she asks, looking taken aback.

"Whatever you want to call it, I don't believe in it!" I say, my voice louder than I intend. I feel a twinge of guilt when she looks hurt but covers it quickly.

"Okay," she says, and her voice is even.

I expected her to say more, but she doesn't. Awkward tension comes between us though.

"You're okay now?" she asks quietly, and I nod.

We walk back to the couch and quickly change the subject from Bryce and me. I tell her a bit about my self-publishing journey, including detailing the steps she may have to take, and give her the names of a few writers who have written novels about their life that she might want to check out. We watch a couple of episodes of _Iron Chef_ before her phone rings. She beams at the caller ID, and I know it's her husband. I try to swallow my jealousy.

She gets off the couch and gestures that she's heading to the bathroom. I imagine them talking and laughing, making plans, talking about their beautiful children, and I curse the envy crawling around my heart. She pops back out, unable to hide how happy she is. But knowing Kelsey, I know she's trying.

"Everything good?" I ask, already knowing the answer.

"Yeah, he was just calling to ask me to pick up some things from the store," she says, grabbing her purse.

I stand to walk her to the door. "Thanks for coming by, Kels."

"Anytime!" She pulls me into a hug and squeezes me tight. "If you ever need to talk about anything, no matter the time, call me."

I nod and smile. "I'm going to start your manuscript too, I promise."

She gives my shoulder a squeeze. "I told you it's no rush." She steps outside the door, her warm wide smile softening. "But I have to say something before I leave. God loves you. I know you don't love him right now, but he'll be ready to listen whenever you want to talk... even if it's just to yell at him."

Anger rises in my chest, but before I let it burst out, I swallow hard. I don't want to ruin my relationship with my best friend over her invisible imaginary friend.

"Bye, Kelsey," I say shortly and close the door harder than I intended.

I walk back over to the couch and flop onto it before flipping through the channels, trying to ignore the anger prickling my skin. How could she say something like that to me after what I told her earlier? I feel my chest starting to burn as pressure builds in my head. Of course _she'd_ believe in God. She grew up with her father, she has a happy marriage, and her so-called God never took her babies away from her. She has a fantastic life.

I grab my throw from the edge of the couch and pull it over me. I ignore the stinging in my throat and flip to _How to Get Away with Murder_ , wanting to focus on someone with more problems than myself. I try to shake her words from my head, but they stick to my thoughts like glue. My phone vibrates, and I pick it up to see it's a text from Davien. I sigh when I see it says.

_hope you're smiling beautiful._

I resist the urge to tell him I wish I was. Instead I text him back.

_Sell any books lately?_

_Always luv._

Then I get a text from my mom.

_When's dinner? Talked to Bryce about his schedule yet?_

I get a sinking feeling in my stomach. I completely forgot about that. I think of Bryce and the way he looked and spoke to me earlier. There was a time he'd do anything for me and I'd never be afraid to ask, but it seems as though that time has passed now.

_Bryce is out of the country for the next two weeks_

It's a lie, maybe... I don't know where he is or where he'll be.

_Can you talk?_

That text is from Davien.

_Sort of busy. Is it about work?_

_It could be if it lets me hear your voice._

I try to suppress the smile wanting to break out on my face. Why should I though?

_Two straight weeks?_

That text is from my mother.

I let out a frustrated sigh, and my phone rings. It's Davien. My heartbeat picks up. I think about that night at dinner, how easy it was with him—dangerously easy—and how it's been so long since I've been attracted to someone other than Bryce. At dinner when I looked at Davien, I didn't think of losing Logan or Anna. He didn't remind me of my inadequacy as a woman. He made me feel wanted, desirable, sexy.

My mother is calling on the other line. It's easier to lie to her via text than over the phone, but if I don't pick up, she'll know I'm lying.

I won't have to lie about not picking up if I'm on the phone with Davien...

That's what I tell myself. I pick up the phone, staring at his name, but decide not to. My mom calls again, so I set the phone down, grab my laptop, turn off the TV, and open a blank document. It's not a lie if I tell her I'm writing, but I'll actually have to write.

I type one sentence. It grows into a paragraph, then a page, and for the first time in a while, I'm in the zone, a place I haven't been in so long. It's where I've longed to be, a place in my mind where the picture appears and people come alive and they talk to me. It sounds crazy, but as a writer, I long for the people inside of my head to speak to me, to tell me their dreams and wrap me in their thoughts.

Tonight they're named Malory and Jason. Their names can change, but I connect with them—at least right now I do. They tell me their secrets, and I listen and beg for their pasts. They show it in glimpses and I write it all down. By the time they're quiet, I've written fifteen pages in under two hours and I'm shocked. There was once a time when I could write ten pages in an hour, but I'm grateful for what I've done now. I grab my phone, a smile etched on my face, and call Bryce. My heart drops when I realize we're not supposed to be talking.

I hang up before the second ring. I fight the whimper crawling up my throat and the tear about to fall. I miss him so much. It hits me all at once that I've not only asked for space from my husband but also my best friend.

My phone rings. It's Davien again. I watch as it rings. Once it's done, I press Bryce's name on my phone. I listen to each ring, then it goes to voicemail. I set the phone back down, and it vibrates with a text of a sad face from Davien. I let out a light laugh.

It rings again and I watch Davien's name flash across the screen. I find myself smiling, and this time, I pick up.

_1 year ago_

* * *

She's never looked more beautiful than she does now, with our son in her stomach. She glows. She sings to him every hour and reads to him every night. She's in love with a face she's never seen, and I once thought it'd make me jealous, but it makes me fall even more in love with her. I love knowing that she's carrying a life we created, and that life has bridged a gap between our families.

My mom, who I thought would never truly accept my wife, calls and talks to her twice a day, sometimes hurrying me off the phone to hear firsthand how her grandchild is doing. Her mom, who demanded to come along to the first ultrasound, looked at me for the first time without contempt after she heard our son's heartbeat. She even hugged me and told me she loved me!

Granted, it was probably due to her excitement about her grandchild, but I'll take it. Now our mothers communicate, coordinating things like who can go to what appointment with Chassidy when I'm working, making plans for showers and birthday parties that don't even exist yet. Chassidy is in disbelief, as I am, at how things have worked out. We knew having a baby would bring us closer, but we never thought it'd bring our families closer. Even Max and Duke have bought sports jerseys in the smallest sizes I've ever seen. They're already arguing over who will teach him how to throw a football, as if I won't be around to show him.

I never really imagined myself with kids, but before Chassidy, I never imagined myself loving a person with everything in me and being able to put someone else's happiness before my own. She's changed my life and my thinking in ways I never thought possible.

"I'm glad you and Annette can come down too. I'll be so glad to see you." She's beaming as she talks to her dad, Richard.

She doesn't see him often since he lives in California, but I know she loves him to pieces. They talk and Skype all the time, and he was a helluva lot nicer to me than her mom was pre-baby.

"Yes, call me afterward. I'll be up. This little soccer player keeps me up all night." She giggles, blowing a kiss at me.

I kiss her neck. She hangs up the phone and returns her attention to me.

"What about Brad?" she asks.

We both rub her stomach as we watch _A Baby Story._ She's obsessed with it. I kind of like it. Not that I'd ever tell her, but she knows. She knows me better than anyone.

"I was thinking Bryce the Second," I tell her in a serious voice.

She laughs so hard, she throws her head back. "Or Matthew."

I know that's because of her crush on Matt Damon. "At least let's name him Jason. He's cooler than Matt Damon."

She looks at me with an easy, innocent smile. "What about Jameson?"

I arch my brow at her. "It sounds sort of pretentious."

"And Brycelin isn't?" she teases.

"Hey, I didn't pick my name." I pout at her, and she squeezes my palm.

"I love your name, but it'd get confusing. What about Travis?"

"I could live with Travis," I admit, ignoring the fact that she wants to name our baby after the only guy she loves as much as me. Good thing he's fictional.

"I don't want you to live with a name. I want you to love it," she whines.

"Logan. I like Logan," I say, remembering my best friend in kindergarten's name.

"I like Logan too," she says excitedly.

"And who's cooler than Wolverine?"

She shrugs. "Well, maybe Iron Man."

I scoff. "There's no way Iron Man is cooler than Wolverine."

"Whatever you say," she sings.

I pull her on top of me, her baby bump safely resting between us, and tickle her until she squeals and laughs, grabbing my hands. I look at the ring shining on her finger. It's still surreal that not only am I a husband, but I'm a husband expecting a kid. She leans her head back on my chest and sighs.

As the woman on the show goes into labor, I feel her body tense.

"You're going to do great."

"I can't wait to meet our little guy." She rubs our hands together underneath her belly button. "The labor part terrifies me though."

* * *

"If I could do it, you know I would."

She nudges me. "The thought of his life depending on me to get him here, it's so scary."

"It's not just you, Chas. You'll have doctors, the best," I reassure her. My parents made sure of that.

"I know. I just..."

"Everything is going to be fine." I kiss her forehead.

She nods, but there's still a crinkle in her forehead. She's worried, and I wish I could take it away.

"I love Logan. I really do," she says cheerfully. The nervousness in her voice is gone, and she's back to herself.

She shifts in order to get up off the couch, and I can't help but chuckle. Looking at her from the back, you can't tell she's pregnant, but when she turns around, she's huge. Before we had our ultrasound, I swore she had two babies growing in there.

"What are you getting? I can get it."

She waves me off, heading to the kitchen. "Just some popcorn with jalapeno juice. Walking's good for the baby. Remember what the doctor said?"

My phone rings. It's the doorman telling me Jax is downstairs, and I clear him to come up.

"Who was that, babe?" she asks, and I hear the popcorn popping.

"Jax." I get up to open the door.

"What's his drama now? He's banging his new assistant and things have gone haywire?"

I can't help but laugh. After Jax broke up with Kira our senior year—which was the smartest decision he's ever made—he hasn't been in a relationship with anyone, bouncing from one girl to the next, and has settled into being a playboy pretty well. I walk over to our island, after unlocking the front door, and wrap my arms around Chas, and kiss her neck. I try to remind her how much I want her because for a while, she was self-conscious as her flat stomach ballooned and her face became fuller.

"Don't start anything with Jax on his way in." She giggles, pressing herself into me.

At that moment, Jax bursts through the door, his eyes wide and looking flustered.

"Are you okay?" we ask almost in unison.

"I'm in love with Tiffany." He sounds almost exhausted, confused, and scared.

Chassidy giggles.

"You're just now figuring that out?" I ask.

He looks at us as if we've lost our minds. "Wait, what?"

"It's not very difficult to see." Chassidy gives me a kiss on the cheek, grabbing her popcorn off the island. "Congratulations, Jax. I was about to give up on you." She gives him a quick hug before disappearing into our bedroom.

He scratches his head, looking at me. "So why does it seem like I'm the last one to know this? How did you guys know and I didn't?"

I casually grab a beer from the fridge and take it to him. "Because, my friend, you look at Tiffany how I look at Chas. Welcome to the club of being a lovesick puppy," I say jokingly, and he frowns. "Don't worry, it's not as bad as it seems." I glance in the bedroom.

Chas is lying across the bed, her belly big, eating popcorn and spilling it all over the bedspread.

I smile. "Not bad at all."

### Chassidy

_"I don't remember exactly when things changed for me. I guess it would be best to explain in a way someone like you could understand... There was a before, and to really grasp what I'm going to tell you, you have to understand that. I wasn't always like this. I've been called a lot of things in my lifetime: a myth, a liar, a killer, someone who steals lives, who drains the life from you to keep her own. It's quite a pun, when you think about it, since life is relative to someone like me. It's so easy to take. But it wasn't always. So the best way to get you to understand is to start from the beginning, like all stories do, or at least from where things changed for me. So I will. Then, my name wasn't Red. It was Carrie. Normal, drab, scared little Carrie... A girl who wouldn't exist—much sooner than she thought."_

* * *

I hold my breath, waiting for his response. It's been such a long time since I've felt this nervous about someone's response to my work. I haven't felt this way since I released my first book and saw my first review on Amazon.

"Is that it?" he asks, his voice high and excited.

It makes me smile. He wants more, and nothing feels as good as that.

"It's really different from anything I've written." I giggle, pulling my legs to my chest, a Cheshire cat smile on my face.

"We're going to have to up that word count a bit, love... but I like where this is going. A lot."

I feel myself blush at the innuendo in his words. It's been a week since our texts turned into phone calls, him scolding me about my lack of writing and how wasted words are like leaving money in the bank. He already has my books with the senior editor of a big publishing company in Italy, and he said she's been sending him emails telling him how much she loves my work. It's scary to think how great this could be. It's been so long since I've allowed myself to reflect on the possibility of something being good and not falling apart. I kick out the ghost of a mourning thought that wants to unravel my mood.

"Thank you. It's not typical for me but... I've been inspired to be different lately," I say as I read over the last sentence and tweak it a bit.

"I wonder who caused such inspiration." His words drag though his sensual lips.

I don't respond, which has become sort of a response in itself. I can't lie and say that I don't enjoy our emails, texts, and conversations. They're all centered around work of course, but a glimpse of something else always peeks behind it. He hasn't been as overt as he was the night we met, but the invitation is always there, floating behind his words.

"I really want to try to kick things into gear. Everything has been coming together, and I'm going to try to do eight thousand words every day next week."

"That's my girl!" he says, excitement ringing through his voice. It's contagious.

"No promises though," I say, hearing a knock at my door. No one called me from the front desk to let me know I had a visitor. "Hold on, Davien."

I put the phone down and head to the door, a little annoyed. The front desk has been really off lately with letting me know when guests are coming up. I open the door, and Carter's standing there in a white T-shirt that's hugging him like an adoring fan. He gives me a lazy smile, hand in his pocket.

"Hi!" I say excitedly. I haven't seen him in about two weeks, and I've sort of missed our random encounters.

"Somebody put a package in front of my door for you," he says, handing me a small Amazon box.

"Oh, thank you! It's probably the agenda books I ordered."

"Hey, you there?" Davien calls from the speakerphone.

"Yeah, I'm here," I tell him.

"I'm sorry, I'll let you go," Carter says.

"No, it's just Davien," I say with a laugh, and his face scrunches up.

"The guy from the restaurant?"

I swallow hard, suddenly feeling a load of guilt land on my back and wrap itself around my shoulder.

"I'm just the guy from the restaurant?" Davien says, a smirk in his tone.

"Agent guy, I remember," Carter says loud enough for him to hear.

"Oh, your neighbor. The waiter boy. How are you? Not working too hard serving those tables, are you?" Smugness shrouds his tone.

My eyes widen, but Carter just grins. "Um, let me call you back, Davien." I quickly hang up the phone. "I'm sorry about that. He's, he can be..."

"A jerk," Carter says sternly.

"I was going to say sharp, but your take is more honest, I guess. Do you want to come in? At least let me give you a beer or water for the ride."

He smiles and it's wide and genuine. "Sure, I'd like that."

I step back, allowing him to come in. He takes his seat at the island like he did the last time he was here. I head to the fridge, pull out a beer, and offer it to him.

"Actually, that Pepsi looks pretty good," he tells me with a brilliant crooked smile.

"Coming up." I replace the beer with a cold Pepsi and grab a bottle of water for myself. I sit down across from him and watch him absolutely chug it.

"So how is it having an agent?" he asks.

I don't miss the way his voice tenses up when he says the word agent. I realize he and Davien got off to a pretty awful start. I take a sip of my water. "Pretty good, actually. I've been writing more than I have in such a long time. I think it sort of helps, having an accountability partner, someone to bounce ideas off of."

He nods. "Yeah, it helps to have that."

I can't help but notice the tightness in his expression, and I think about our talk on the ride home the last time we were together. The back of my neck becomes hot, and I can't shut out the voice that says my husband should be my accountability partner. It's weird that the voice in my head sounds like Carter's voice.

"Can I ask you something?"

He nods. "Shoot."

"Have you ever been in love?" The question comes out easily, much easier than it should.

It's the most personal thing I've asked in a long time, and it should be awkward and uncomfortable since I don't know Carter that well. He's nice and has been really helpful, but he's still not someone I'd call a friend. Yet there's something that's easy about him. He has the something doctors, police officers, and teachers should be required to have.

"Like with a person?" he asks, sounding so innocent that I can't help but giggle.

"Don't tell me you're one of those guys who has only ever loved his dog."

"I _love_." He blushes with a mesmerizing smile, then it softens as his eyes dance and I realize how spectacular they really are—ice blue, almost grey.

"I love with every fiber in me. I've experienced true and unconditional love, forgiving, love that doesn't end, that's infinite."

My legs feel light, and I force air out of my lungs. His answer has caught me off guard. If he wasn't sitting directly in front of me with the most genuine expression I've ever seen I'd think he was running a line to get me into bed or was about to break into a fit of laughter. I don't know what to say. I swallow hard and think of how to respond to that.

"Can I use that in one of my books?" I half chuckle, and he grins. "Um... I don't know how to follow up to that answer." I sigh.

He leans closer forward. "I'm sorry. What did you want to ask?" His skin flushes, and he glances furtively at me, then his charming smile is back.

"It was silly." I roll my eyes, gripping the bottle of water in my hand.

"There's no such thing as a silly question. Trust me," he says, giving me a reassuring smile.

After hearing Carter's version of love, I wonder if I've ever had that type of love with Bryce. Is that type of love even possible? Then I think about my babies and I quickly try to push those thoughts away. I clear my throat, head to the garbage can, and toss the bottle.

"I was just going to ask if it's possible to fall out of love. I've heard about it happening all the time, but I used to listen to them and think, 'It doesn't work that way.' I thought that they weren't really in love in the first place, because love as I always imagined it... I just never imagined anything coming between us, diminishing the love." I smile nervously. "I'm sorry if this is too personal or heavy. I invited you in for a drink, something that should be fun and easy, and I get all philosophical."

He shakes his head, dismissing my apprehension. "Real love, I think, never goes away. I believe that most times, circumstances, events, people just surround it and we lose sight of it, but it doesn't go away. It just gets harder to see."

My eyes glide over the wedding picture of Bryce and me. "And what about if something terrible happens? Do you think love can be tainted?"

"No." His answer is simple and stern.

"Wow, your mind sounds pretty made up."

"True love, if you believe in what love _really_ is, it can never be tainted. It's always there. It's not the diluter, it's the absolver."

I feel my brows stiffen. "Okay, so you're saying if a man cheats on his wife but loves her, his love for his wife or her love for him won't be tainted?"

His slouched figure straightens a bit. "No, because love is forgiveness. If it's real, it can get past anything."

I shake my head.

"Okay, look at it like this. A mother loves her son, she truly loves him, and he shoots her."

I cringe. "That's sort of morbid."

"Even as she's dying, she'd still love her son. She'd be confused about why he shot her, she'd be disappointed, devastated, she'd probably blame herself instead of him, but she'd still love him." His conviction is astounding. He says things as though he's one hundred percent sure that he's right. It's admirable but intense.

"Well, I'm not a mother, so I don't have that luxury." I smile away the stinging in my throat, but before I catch them, tears have formed. I blink, turning away from Carter and wiping them quickly. I fix a big smile on my face. "Who have you loved like that? Unconditionally, infinitely?"

"I didn't say I loved like that. I've received love like that."

I laugh, unsurprised. "I'm sure you have lots of women who have loved you like that. Those poor girls." I chuckle.

"This is about your husband?" he asks hesitantly.

"I guess the question is sort of transparent, huh?" I shrug.

"Where is he?"

I pause, wanting to choose my words carefully. I don't want to make Bryce the bad guy. I'm the bad guy, I think. I asked him to leave. It wasn't the other way around. "We needed some space."

"Oh." His response is surprisingly simple for what he's said throughout this conversation. "Space is good for married people?"

The question seems condescending, and from any other person, I'd think it would be, but he seems to be genuinely asking.

"Hopefully it will be for him and me." I feel my cheeks heating up. "It's not that big of a deal. He's a pilot anyway, so he's gone a lot. I just needed definitive space to clear my head." The words sound nonsensical, but I say them confidently.

"Oh."

I frown a bit at him. "I'm starting to think your 'oh' is when you want to say something but you don't want to argue." He arches a brow, and I grin. "When Bryce doesn't want to argue but disagrees with me, his 'if that's what you think is best' sounds like your 'oh.'"

He shrugs. "I just don't understand how space makes things better?"

Bryce doesn't either.

"There _are_ things that can taint love," I say quietly.

My phone rings and I glance over. It's Kelsey. I roll my eyes. I haven't spoken to her since the day she was here, and I don't really know what to say to her.

"Did you want to get that?" he asks, gesturing to the phone.

"No, not at all," I say bitterly, crossing my arms and scowling at the phone.

He tilts his head, briefly studying me with a lopsided grin. "Is that your husband?"

"No, one of my friends. My best friend actually."

"Are you sure you don't want to get it?"

My blank stare makes my answer obvious. I imagine how I look right now, telling him that my husband and I need space and I'm avoiding my best friend like the plague.

"It's okay." He chuckles, grabbing his bottle and tossing it in the trash free-throw style. "What are you doing Tuesday night?"

I think of all of my exciting plans, or more like lack thereof. "Probably a date with my laptop, a few glasses of wine, and if I'm lucky, takeout." I smile and wiggle my brows at him.

"You should come down to the restaurant. They have this _supposedly_ awesome singer from Philadelphia coming in."

I shrug. "I don't know. I'd be all by myself."

"I'll be there. Well, sort of working, but it'll be fun. Invite your friend," he offers.

"She wouldn't be able to make it. She has two little kids and it's last minute."

"You only have one friend?" he chuckles.

I pout at him. "Fine, I'll give my friend Nic a call and see if she's free. Thank you for the invitation."

He stands, stretching his long sculpted limbs. "Good. Do you have my number?"

"Um, no." I grab my phone, and as he rattles it off, I put his number in my phone.

He opens the door and turns around before he's fully out. "If you need anything, I'm only next door."

I smile. "I'll keep that in mind. Thanks Carter."

With a little wave, we both disappear into our apartments.

_O ne Year Ago_

* * *

_S omething doesn't feel right_.

Those are the words that began this nightmare. Everything was fine. I thought she was being paranoid, overreacting, having first pregnancy jitters.

It shouldn't be happening like this.

When we woke up, the sun was shining. We had breakfast with my parents. We were supposed to celebrate that I'd gotten my pilot's license, that she'd hit publish on her third book. Tonight she was supposed to sleep in my arms with my hands resting on her stomach as I counted the days until we'd meet our son.

Instead, what's supposed to be the happiest moment of our lives has turned into a nightmare.

It began the moment the doctor told us our son didn't have a heartbeat. My entire body felt frozen and my heart collapsed. My eyes shot to hers and she stared at him, her face unreadable, blank. She didn't burst into sobs, didn't begin to hyperventilate or scream and curse.

Chas looked as if she didn't understand or hadn't heard what the doctor had just said. I told him he was wrong. I demanded he do something.

He was supposed to be the best OB-GYN in the state—my parents made sure of that—and he couldn't tell us what had happened? He couldn't tell us what we were going to do to fix it? He just sat there with a somber look full of pity?

It took two orderlies to keep me from destroying the room when he told her she would still have to deliver him, to go through the full process of labor.

She said nothing.

After I calmed down and I went into the delivery room with her, she held my hand and smiled, saying she still had hope. I think that's what hurt the most, the hope she still had. I knew it took everything in her to believe this was a mistake.

Even after he came into this world and didn't take his first breath, she still smiled and kissed his forehead. Horses stampeded on my chest as I did the same, and then she broke. Her emotions exploded into the most painful wails I've ever heard. The same voice that had made me fall in love made me see the crack that ran through our life. Our little miracle, with his mother's hair and my nose, lay dead in her arms and there was nothing I could do to fix her. I wanted to take her pain and swallow it. I could handle it, but I knew that she wouldn't be able to handle it. I wanted to carry the burden for both of us, but that was the one thing I couldn't do.

I had to tell her mom that her grandson had died and it looked as if he'd taken her daughter's soul with him. Her mom and I have never been close, but we cried together as if she were a part of me. Chas's dad and stepmom looked as if they'd been hit by a truck. Hearing her dad call her sister and tell her was draining.

My parents took it better, and by better, I mean they didn't show how devastated they were. They told me it would be okay and we'd have other children. I know their words were meant to comfort, but if Chas had heard them, she would have ripped my parents apart.

We had a small service with our families and close friends. They all really stepped up, informing everyone that the baby shower was canceled and to please give us time to grieve. Kelsey, Nicole, Jax, and Tiffany were invaluable help.

You never think of how to handle loss, how to explain it to people that you normally wouldn't think it mattered to.

I had to go to the manager of the building and ask his staff not to bring it up to Chas. I had to talk to our dry cleaner, the Starbucks Chas frequented, even her favorite grocery store. You don't think about how you'll have to return all of the gifts and things you purchased for the person who was supposed to grow out of them. Who won't ever get a chance to wear them. You never think about all the things you have to do when the promise in your life dies.

No one gives you instructions for that.

No one tells you how to put the light back in your wife's eyes, how to fix her spirit, how to help her believe that each smile isn't a betrayal of the child she lost.

I'm supposed to go back to work today. I'm all dressed and prepared, but looking at her sitting on the couch and staring at the television stops me cold. It's been a month since it happened. If she wanted her mom or friends to come over, they would, but she says she'll be fine. She hasn't been fine though, and I doubt today will be the day that changes. I don't want her to break down here alone.

I sit beside her on the sofa, and she gives me a ghost of a smile. One that's a pathetic imitation of the ones she gave me before everything happened. I pull her to me, wrapping my arms around her and hoping that it helps some. It's four in the afternoon, but she still has on her pajamas. She's started to shower again though. It's a step in the right direction.

"Hey you."

She nuzzles her head between my neck and shoulder. "You smell good."

"So do you," I tell her.

She sighs. "Liar. I'm not wearing anything."

"You smell like laundry detergent. You know how much Gain turns me on," I joke.

For a second I think I'm going to see it, the real deal, the smile that has been missing for so long, but she bites her lip instead, almost commanding herself to not let me see it. She lets out a deep sigh and sits up, moving out of my arms.

"I got invited to a conference," she says.

I perk up. She's checked her emails? That would seem trivial to most people, but it's a big step. "That's awesome, where is it?"

"Dublin," she says casually.

"Chas, that's fantastic!" I hope my excitement can crack through the wall she's had up lately.

"I was invited already actually, but I declined because Logan would..." Her voice sounds delicate, and I hear her breathe deeply. She covers her face and groans, and I see her shaking her head.

I pull her onto my lap and cradle her in my arms.

"I'm fine. It's just... I..." Her sobs are quiet, but each one cracks my heart.

I don't allow any tears to fall. I've numbed myself pretty well.

"I just don't know what we did wrong. Why us?" she says between sobs.

"I don't know, but we're going to get through this."

"Why our baby? What did we do? Why did this happen to us?"

She's crying so hard we're rocking. I hold her tightly, not saying anything. I don't know the answers to those questions. I don't think anyone would. I just do what I've always done—tell her I love her, plan to show her how much, and hope that it's enough.

### Chassidy

"So tell me about this neighbor guy." Nicole purses her lips in the mirror while pushing up her breasts—which are already sitting up and winking at me—in her bombshell bra even higher.

It's been a while since Nicole and I have gone out. Nic can get wild sometimes, which was fun when we were younger, but after I met Bryce, I only wanted to get wild with him. After we married, Kelsey and I started to hang out more without Nic, since we were a little over the bars and nightclubs she still frequents. But every once in a while, Nic would pull me out and I'd pull Kelsey out with us, even though Nicole says that Kelsey can suck the fun out of an amusement park. Not true. Kelsey has just always sort of been our moral anchor—an anchor Nicole would like to throw over the ship.

"He's really nice." I apply my own nude lipstick.

"How does he look?" she asks pointedly.

I laugh. That's Nicole, cutting straight to the point. "He's handsome."

Her smile brightens even more. "What is handsome? Can I get height, weight, eye color?"

"Would his blood type help?" I joke as she rolls her eyes.

"Everyone's not insanely in love and happily married. Some of us are on the hunt for a guy who can make the bedroom spin like the Wheel of Fortune," she says, dramatically throwing herself on my bed, carefully avoiding messing up her hair and makeup.

I do a once-over of myself. My white bandage dress clings to my body, haltered to show just the right amount of cleavage without looking like a porn star. I slip on my heels. "First off, I don't even know if he's single."

She groans, throwing me a teasing glance. "Look, I didn't say I wanted to marry him."

I scoff at her, but that's not unusual. Nicole never asks men if they're single or not since she says she's not looking for anything serious. It's something she and Kelsey fight about constantly. I'm usually the buffer. If cheating happens, I put more of the blame on the committed guy than my non-committed best friend, though since I said "I do," her indifference toward a man's status bugs me a bit more than it used to.

"He sort of looks like a blonder version of Liam Hemsworth."

Her mouth falls opens. "Jesus, woman, you've been holding out on me!" she squeals and smacks my butt. "Why don't I get neighbors as hot as celebrities? You want to know what my neighbor looks like? A poor woman's version of Sean Connery."

"Poor Nic and her first world problems," I tease, giving her my hand and pulling her off my bed.

"Hook us up, since you're being all stingy with your agent guy."

I feel my face and neck flush. The last I mentioned about Davien was the text I sent her saying he was a jerk.

"Hey, what's that look?" she asks, her eyes narrowing on me.

"What look?" I laugh.

"Like you're hiding something. You suck at keeping secrets—it's obvious you're a writer. 'I'm keeping a secret' is written all over your face."

My stomach clenches. I wonder which secret I want to tell her: that I've asked Bryce for space, or that I'm on the border of having an inappropriate relationship with my agent. One thing I love about Nicole is that she never judges. Still, I hate to even say the words out loud.

"Come on, am I not your best friend? Because every so often, I wonder if Kelsey's really your only best friend and I'm just your hot little flunkie," she teases.

I sigh. "I've asked Bryce for space."

"What!" she says, shock covering her face. "Space? Can married people even have space?"

She grabs my hand and pulls me onto the bed, demanding more information. I take a deep breath and tell her about how things have been since I lost Logan. I don't tell her about losing Anna, because I know things like that make her uncomfortable, but I do tell her about how it hurts to be around Bryce and how distant we've grown.

"So what are you going to do?" Nicole's always been a problem solver, a bottom line type of girl, and I've never loved her more for it than at this moment.

"I'm hoping I fall back in love," I tell her with a weak laugh, shrugging.

She tilts her head to the right. "You know I've never experienced anything like you have. Loss or love, not like how I saw with you guys. I just can't imagine being around someone who causes me that much pain though." She shakes her head. "I don't see how you've been doing it this long."

I fight the frown that's attempting to climb over my face. I didn't expect that answer. Well, from Nicole you never know what to expect. "So are you saying I should just throw in the towel?"

"No, I can't tell you to do that. No one can really, but as your friend, I think you should be happy. If you're not happy with Bryce anymore..."

An eerie quiet fills the room following her words. Should it be that easy? I'm not happy anymore, so I just walk away?

"Ugh, I didn't want to kill the night. Did I just kill the night?"

I flash her a quick smile. "No, not at all. I just... I've never thought about ending it. You make it seem so simple." I press my lips together as a stale taste fills my mouth.

"Well it sort of is... why stay with someone if you're going to be miserable and ultimately make them miserable? You both are too great of people to do that to each other. My parents did it to each other, staying together for years _allegedly_ for me and my brothers, but we knew they hated each other and it made us hate them. I wish they would have gotten divorced so we could have had two Christmases and birthdays like all my other friends did." She nudges me playfully, and I burst out laughing.

"So what else have you been holding out on me?" She eyes me suspiciously, and I nibble on my cuticle. "There's something."

I look at my lap and bite my lip. "There is something. It's not a big deal... I just, well..."

I tell her about Davien. About our dinner, how flirtatious he was and sort of still is, about our calls and texts, how I haven't felt this "light" in such a long time. Her eyes are big as if she's in awe.

When I finish, I take a deep breath, feeling as though a weight has been lifted off my chest. "I'm terrible, it's terrible, right? I should have been setting him up with you, but instead I'm acting like—"

"A girl with a crush!" She sounds so excited that it scares me.

I look at her in shock. "You're not mad that I didn't pass him to you? I mean, you're actually single and would look really good together."

"No! I mean, when I see him in person I may change my mind, but you look... happy!" She pushes my shoulder.

I rub the back of my ear. "You don't think it's wrong that I'm doing this, that I'm wasting his time like this?"

She squints at me. "Are you wasting his time?"

"Yes! Nothing would ever happen between us," I tell her adamantly.

"I think that's what so many unhappily married women say." She stands and grabs her little black bag. For a minute I'm offended, and she sees it on my face. "Don't get all self-righteous on me. You just said that you're unhappy." She grabs my hand and pulls me behind her into the living room.

"Yes, but there's still a line I'd never cross."

She rolls her eyes. "Look, I just want you to know whatever makes you happy, I'm all for. No judgment here. If you want that, call Kelsey. I don't think it's wrong that you have someone who's been taking your mind off things, and if he happens to be hot and makes you feel all bothered, then that's a bonus." She grabs our coats and my hand and pulls me out the door.

"I didn't say that."

She giggles as I lock up. "You didn't have to say it. And he's helping you get words down, so how could this be a bad thing?"

"Because I'm married," I mutter.

* * *

The restaurant is alive with music when we walk in. We're greeted by the hostess quickly and taken to our table. Nicole's already shimmying her shoulders and swaying her hips to the beat as the drummer and sax player bring down the house. I can't shake her words from earlier. They're like a tiny shatter in a glass.

"We're going to have fun tonight!" she yells over the music, her excitement contagious.

The waiter arrives, and I'm a little disappointed it's not Carter. But he's friendly and cute enough for Nicole to flirt with while ordering us smoked salmon and a bottle of Moscato to start.

"You're doing wine and not a cocktail?" I ask teasingly.

"Oh, there will be cocktails. Trust me," she says with a big wink.

We're halfway through the bottle and tales of Nicole has been entertaining me with stories of the shenanigans at her firm when Carter comes out. He's not in the black shirt and slacks the other servers are wearing but in a black T-shirt, jeans, and a beanie covering his locks. When he walks to the mic, I almost pass out.

He's the singer.

Nicole follows my shocked gaze, and when the music starts and his voice croons, I think everyone's head snaps toward him. It's smooth and lulling, and with the bass, piano and sax accompanying him, he sounds almost hypnotic. And he hasn't even made it to the chorus yet.

"That's Carter," I tell Nicole with a nudge.

Her eyes grow as big as a cat's. "Oh, I'm moving into your building!"

The next song he sings is more up-tempo, and Nicole and several other girls are out of their chairs, dancing along to the music. Nicole pulls a twenty out of her purse and saunters over to the stage, almost colliding with another woman trying to put money in the band's tip jar. I can't contain my laughter. Carter is a professional with a melodic voice that reminds me of a mix between Justin Timberlake and Robin Thick, and he doesn't get distracted by anything as he plays to the crowd.

Nicole finally makes her way back over to me. "I have to have him."

I roll my eyes.

"I'm serious, I want him worse than the new Tom Ford boots I've been tracking down for the past month," she says in my ear.

"Easy, girl," I say, patting her head, and she sticks her tongue out at me.

"Thank you, ladies and gentlemen," Carter says before announcing a break.

He receives a standing ovation from the majority of the room, along with hoots and hollers from his fan club of women and a few guys.

"He's coming over!" Nicole says, squeezing my arm.

"You're the singer from Philadelphia!" I say to him, poking his chest, and he smiles bashfully.

"Ahem." Nicole stands up beside me and extends her hand.

"Carter, this is my best friend Nicole Maguire. Nicole, this is Carter."

"You were absolutely amazing!" Nicole says, lingering in their handshake.

"Thank you, I really appreciate it." He gives her a panty-dropping smile, and she swoons.

"You have to have a drink with us," she says, wrapping her arm around his. She's always direct, but she's upped it two notches from her usual brashness.

"Sure, if it's okay with you ladies." He takes a chair and pulls it between us.

I roll my eyes when she mouths that she's in lust.

"So, Carter, you're so talented. What brings you to Chicago? I'd just assume someone with your talent would be in LA or New York," Nicole asks, already taking control of the conversation.

"Well, I'm sort of in the family business. I travel and move around a lot where I'm needed."

I notice that he's looking her in the eye, and doesn't let his gaze drift to the tiny straps across her breasts.

"What's the family business?" she asks flirtatiously, trailing her finger around her glass. I've seen Nicole in action before, but it must have been a while because this is glorious.

"Sort of not-for-profit work."

"Oh wow, that's amazing! I'll have to give you my card. If you ever need help with throwing events or marketing, that's what I do and I'd love to help. Charity is so important to me."

I have to stop myself from laughing. The only charity Nicole cares about is funding Tom Ford's kid's college fund.

"That's really nice of you. We have a pretty solid team though," he tells her warmly, and she pouts. "But I do a lot of volunteer work. If you're interested, there're causes that need a helping hand."

She lights up again.

"I'm so glad you came out," he says, directing his attention to me.

"Good music and food? I wouldn't have turned it down."

"How often do you sing here?" Nicole asks.

"It depends. Usually they have scheduled singers, but there was an opening in the schedule and I didn't want to leave them in a bind, so I said I could do it."

"Yes, you sure did," Nicole says flirtatiously.

Carter smiles in a way that is completely unreadable. I can't tell if he's into her or just being polite. I watch them continue their banter, Nicole hitting questions to him and Carter answering with ease. I'm a little baffled by it. I love Nicole to death. She's beautiful, smart, and successful and I don't understand why she hasn't had someone lasso her up, but I don't see her and Carter clicking. I don't know what his type is, but based on what I know about him, he seems... I don't want to say too good for Nic as in better than her, but he's truly good. Not that Nicole is bad, but Carter would seem more traditional than... my heart flips. All the air has been vacuumed from my lungs. My face feels cold. Make that my entire body is cold.

"Chas, are you okay?"

Nicole must have noticed that every bodily function I have has halted, and now Carter's looking concerned.

"Bryce," I mutter. Saying his name is harder than I ever imagined.

They both turn to look in the direction I'm facing. Bryce is sitting in a booth with a brunette opposite of him. Her hair is long and twirled up in a bun on top of her head, and she's leaning across the table and laughing as if he just told the funniest joke on the planet. He's smiling, dressed up, wearing a grey button-up. The watch I bought him for his birthday gleams under the stage lights. He looks amazing. He looks happy, so happy. It's as if everything is in slow motion—until she puts her hand on his.

I stand, all my nervousness and disbelief replaced with anger and confusion. I push through the crowd to the table. "Bryce!"

He looks up, still smiling. "Chassidy?" He sounds more surprised than guilty, and his eyes sweep over me. He frowns as they land on my chest..

"What are you doing here!" I shout at him. I turn toward the woman on the other side of the booth, and my blood runs even colder. "Kira?"

"Who the hell is this, Bryce!" Nicole shouts from behind me.

"Calm down!" Bryce says, grabbing my arm.

I snatch away from him and stare at Kira, the woman he supposedly _hated_ in college. Jax's ex-girlfriend!

She's in a tiny maroon dress showing off her long swan-like neck. Her teal eyes squint at me as if she's confused why I'm yelling at her—as if sitting across from my husband with her cleavage on display isn't enough.

"Chassidy." She smiles, but it's awkward—no, guilty. Really guilty.

"Let me talk to you," Bryce says through gritted teeth. They're perfect and his five o'clock shadow is perfect around his strong jawline, which is jutted out.

They look perfect together, a beautiful couple not weighed down by life and death. The girl we couldn't believe Jax could stand. My mind is racing. I don't even realize I've picked up her water glass until I've tossed it on her.

I hear gasps from the tables around us.

"I can't believe you just did that," Kira shrieks, her face almost as red as her dress.

"Chassidy, what the hell is wrong with you!" Bryce yells.

"What's wrong with me? I find you on a date, holding her hand, and you ask what's wrong with me?" I shout.

"Chas, let's go," Nic says, pulling my arm.

The music has stopped and all eyes are on us. I'm in the middle of a scene, and Carter is here behind us. He could lose his job for being connected with this.

"I'll take care of the bill," Carter says.

"I'm so sorry," I tell him as Nic pulls me behind her.

Bryce stands, shaking his head at the table, while Kira wipes herself off with a cloth Carter's just handed her. I want to scream.

As we stand on the sidewalk, waiting for the valet to bring my car around, I screech, "What just happened?"

"Men! They are bastards, every single last one of them! That's why I don't take any of them seriously. But wow, Bryce? In this place? I'm shocked."

I'm confused and hurt and embarrassed. Why isn't he out here? Why hasn't he come after me? That makes me angrier.

"You knew her, that slut he was with?" Nicole asks, looking as baffled as I feel.

"Yes, she's Jax's ex-girlfriend." I try to stop the tears coming from my eyes.

The valet brings around Nicole's white Tesla.

"Get in, hon, I'll tip."

I practically throw myself into the front seat of her car and cover my face.

When she gets in the driver's seat, she's already talking. "This was your sign. If there is anyone out there who listens to us, they're telling you to screw him. That you don't have to be miserable anymore!"

But I don't really hear anything else she's saying. My chest is so tight my heart might as well be tangled in thread. My thoughts are sporadic and crowded. Memories clash against stories my brain has begun to spin. Did I push him too far? Did I cause this? Is it my fault? Has this always been going on? He's given up. He's given up on us, and can I blame him? Should I blame him? But how disrespectful for him to take her to _our_ restaurant in _our_ city. He's a pilot, for goodness sake. He could have met up with her anywhere without the risk of bumping into me. I cringe when I remember how her hand rested on his. How he smiled for her, how he was relaxed and carefree with her. My heart feels as if it's being ripped out of my chest and there's a hole where it was.

"Chas, you want me to stay over?"

My thoughts are truly a blur, because I don't remember getting out of the car or even coming into my apartment.

"He didn't come after me." My voice sounds hollow, a child's version of its normal self. I sound weak and pathetic and it's an exact reflection of how I feel.

"Oh, hon." She pulls me into a tight hug, and I hear her use several expletives referring to Bryce and men. But after a while, the sentences run together and it's not making things better but worse.

"I'm fine. I just want to sleep. I'll call you in the morning."

"Are you sure? I can stay, go get us some more booze." She's wearing a sympathetic grin and her expression is hopeful.

But I've never wanted to be alone more in my life. I'm holding myself together because she's here, and I really just want to fall apart. I walk her to the door. "Yeah, I just need some sleep."

"Don't let this get to you. We're going to figure this out. I just... ugh! I can't believe it."

I nod, opening the door for her. "Call me when you make it home, k?"

I'm on autopilot, reading from a script. Where did things go so wrong? I'd never in a million years think that Bryce would cheat on me. Is it cheating if I asked for space? Is he in love with her? Has he slept with her? Was he going to? Is there a difference? Would it matter? Which is worse?

My heart won't stop beating against my chest as if it's fighting to get out. I'm at a loss. I remember Nicole's earlier question. She asked if I wanted to make things work, if I had given up. Now I wonder if I even have a choice anymore. Before the past had pulled us apart and I had no clue if I could make it back to him. Now a tangible being has separated us, and I'm suffocating.

My hope in us, the small flicker left, has gone out. After today, my life will never ever be the same. My heart was broken, but now it's as if it was stolen. My phone vibrates, and I hope with everything in me it's Bryce calling to give me an explanation, to tell me it wasn't what I think it was, that he'd never break my trust like that.

* * *

It's Davien.

I put the phone back down. My throat is too constricted for a word to come out, my breathing too fast for me to speak to anyone. But tomorrow I'll answer Davien, and I won't feel a bit guilty about it.

_6 months ago_

* * *

"Life is good man," Jax says, clinking his beer glass against mine.

Life is good. It should be. From the outside looking in, my life looks beyond good, almost perfect.

My wife's beautiful. She has a successful career making beautiful words, and it never surprises me, because I fell in love with them the first time I heard her voice. I have my dream job, flying through the skies. We have a great life. We don't want for anything.

Not materially at least. But from the inside, you see that my wife is growing further and further away from me each day, that the loss of our son created a black hole that seems to be consuming every moment of joy we have. Look closer and you'd see that sometimes when she looks at me, it's as if it hurts her, that I'm a reminder of the loss of the greatest thing we could've ever had. She tries to hide it, and that's what hurts the most. It hurts and makes every other aspect of my otherwise thriving life seem meaningless. I feel useless because I can't fix what's wrong. I can't fix that the doctors can't explain why we lost our child or tell us that it won't happen again. And if we did have another child, I really don't know if it would make things better, because her pain is so deep, buried somewhere no surgery can fix.

I haven't talked to any of my friends or family because they wouldn't understand, and it seems like a betrayal to her. I should be grateful for what I have, what we have, but I wake up every day feeling as if I'm in mourning, not just for my child but the love of my life. My friendship with the person I promised to love most in the world. I mourn each day because I'm losing my hope that things will get better, that we will get through it.

I hoped when she started to talk to the grief counselor that it'd get better, but she said she only felt worse. I tried to get her to come to support groups, because they'd helped me, but she refused, saying that no one could understand her pain, not even other mothers who had suffered losses. She said that hearing their stories was overwhelming and she just needed time. But each day, I don't see _time_ making things better, but worse. Time isn't healing anything. It's a countdown to a bomb that's going to explode, and the only other fear I have is that when it does, it won't matter because there'll be nothing left to destroy.

Of course, I don't tell Jax any of that. I clink my glass against his and swallow a few sips. Keeping up the façade that life is great is exhausting.

Things are great for him. He and Tiffany are living in newlywed bliss. He's got an amazing job at a brokerage firm, and Tiffany is a lawyer at one of the most prestigious firms in the country. They look how Chassidy and I used to look. He just received his first big promotion at his firm, and I'm happy for him. I'm glad I get to be happy for someone, because I hate who I'm becoming. I'm the guy who hates to be at home, not because he hates his wife, but because he hates what is happening to them and he doesn't know what to do about it.

"How's Chassidy's next book coming along? Tif's excited about it."

"Um, I don't know. She hasn't been doing much writing lately," I say casually.

"The girl who is in love with words hasn't been writing lately?" He laughs.

"Nope." I take another drink.

"Is she okay?"

His question is casual and simple. I could say, "Yeah, she's fine," but I can't bring myself to say it. Jax and I have been friends since we were kids, and he'll know the minute I lie.

So I let out a long breath and scratch my head, and tell him the truth, "I don't know."

It's all I can do. After a while, I glance at him and he's staring at me, looking confused. He should be—I've never told him anything was wrong. We've both been so busy, this is the first time we've had a chance to hang out, just us, in about three months.

He nods, his expression partly offended and partly pitying.

"It's Logan, I think. She just hasn't come back from it, man," I say, sliding the empty bottle between my hands.

"Is she talking to anyone?"

"She went to a group a few times but..."

"What do you need? What can we do? You name it."

I let out a short laugh. "I don't think _I_ can even do anything."

"No way, I don't believe that. You and Chas, if anyone can get through to her, it's you."

"I used to think that," I mutter, and I signal over the bartender. I order some house hot wings, Jax and Chassidy's favorite. "Tonight's about you, man, not my problems. We're celebrating you."

"No, if there's an issue, we're going to figure it out. That's what family does. I'm not okay if you aren't okay, and if Chassidy's not okay, I know you aren't."

I want to tell him I'm fine and it's just the beer and sucky bar nuts, that I'm overreacting, but I start to feel that burning in my throat that feels like tears. I take a deep gulp of air and shake my head, staring at the baseball game playing in front of us.

"It's okay, man, we'll figure it out." He squeezes my shoulder.

The rest of the night, Jax does a lot of figuring, and between that and the beer, I sort of feel hopeful, and I'm too buzzed to think it's an illusion. We tumble into an Uber and choose my address, since it's only a few blocks away. I offer him our guest room, but Jax insists on getting back to Tiffany. Since I'm the more sober of our duo, I input his address into his Uber app and tell him to enjoy the rest of his night.

The ride up the elevator is long, and with each floor, I lose a little bit of hopefulness. I fight to hold on to it until the elevator door opens and I walk over to our apartment door. I turn the key, but before opening the door, I stop and rest my forehead on it as tears break out. I clench my fist and kick the wall beside our door. I take several breaths, trying to pull myself together before I go in.

"I don't know if anybody is listening. If you are, I'm not sure if you accept requests while intoxicated but..." I almost stop talking, realizing how ridiculous I'll look if someone sees me. I'm not even sure what I'm really doing, but I know I'm desperate and I'm out of answers. If some old dude in the sky can help me, I don't have anything to lose. "If you're listening, please help me. Save my marriage. I've lost my son. Please don't let me lose my wife."

I wipe away the tears I didn't realize had fallen and gather myself together. The last thing I need is for Chassidy to see me like this. Maybe I should see a therapist. When you start muttering to yourself, it's definitely a problem.

### Chassidy

The knock on the door is like a pounding in my head. I don't remember drinking that much, but I could be dehydrated after all of the crying I did. I get up and swing open the door, not realizing how terrible I look until I see Carter's worried expression. I rake a hand through my hair and glance down. I breathe a sigh of relief that I'm not mistakenly flashing any body parts at him.

"Hey." His tone is soft and easy, as if I'll crumble into a thousand pieces if he speaks too loudly.

"Hi." My own voice sounds cracked and raspy.

He holds up my purse, and if my cheeks weren't already stained red, they would be now as details of the disaster of last night pass through my thoughts. I cover my face in shame before taking back my items.

"Thank you," I mutter, heading into my apartment. I leave the door open, allowing him to decide if he should come in or not.

After some hesitation, he comes in, quietly closing the door. I flop on the couch, feeling numb. He probably shouldn't be here. He's young and nice and too handsome to be in my messy world. He should be in some normal, sane girl's bed, someone who doesn't have a cheating husband and myriad of issues swirling around her.

"I'm so sorry about yesterday. You didn't get in trouble, did you?" I ask as he sits in the big sofa chair across from the couch I'm sitting on. The chair Bryce sits in when he's home, when I used to climb onto his lap and feel like it was the best place in the world. I was sad last night; today I'm bitter and angry.

"No, it's not like glasses were thrown or tables flipped over, we've had way worse happen," he says with a wink, but I find that hard to believe- it's _Maestro's_ not _Friday's,_ but I appreciate him trying to make me feel better.

I can't fight the small smile on my face, but it doesn't stay long. "I'm so embarrassed. I can't believe that happened."

His smile softens, and he looks at his lap. "Do you really know what happened though?"

A frown settles on my face. "Of course I know what happened. I saw him there with Kira, a girl we used to know. They were dressed like they were on a date and holding hands." My tone is on the edge of sharp.

He pauses as if waiting for me to continue, and when I don't, he sighs. "But I'm just saying, if..." He glances at me from under his thick lashes. "If he had seen you and your agent the night I did, he could have assumed the same thing." His tone is gentle, but his words are sharp and prickly to my ears.

"It's not the same thing at all!"

"You didn't really give him a chance to say anything to you," he says.

I scowl at him. "Don't be one of those guys."

"What do you mean?"

"The type of guy who always sides with the guy whether he's wrong or not. Please don't be that guy."

"That's not what I'm trying to be. I'm just saying that everything happened so fast and escalated so quickly that you really don't know what it was. Just how your situation could have been misinterpreted..."

"Nothing about my situation could have been misinterpreted. I was having a business dinner. Bryce is a pilot. There is absolutely no reason for him to have been there with her, dressed liked that, and holding her hand! He couldn't stand her in college. She's his best friend's ex-girlfriend! I can't believe he'd betray Jax like that, me like that!" I say, becoming angrier by the second.

Carter just continues to sit there calmly, his eyes on his feet.

"Bryce tells me everything," I say, my voice finally draining of venom. "He used to, at least. We used to tell each other everything but now..."

But I didn't tell him about Davien. He doesn't know about the new book I'm writing, and I have no clue what's going on his life. How long has it been since we went out to dinner with one another at our favorite restaurant?

"He didn't come after me. If it was a big misunderstanding, if I somehow had things completely wrong, why didn't he come after me?" I ask, needing to feel vindicated, needing the guilt climbing up my body to be shaken off. "If he had seen Davien and me at dinner and freaked, I wouldn't have let him leave thinking it was something that it wasn't. Why didn't he?"

Carter looks at a loss.

"We had dinner at his best friend's house a few weeks ago and I had... an episode. I didn't act in a way I probably should have, and you know what he did? He let me leave. No, he sent me away without even letting me know he wasn't coming home. Those aren't the actions of a man who's in love with his wife. That's a man who wants his wife as far away as possible so he could be with his mistress!" I shout, and soon after, I realize I'm punishing Carter for something he has no part in. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be discussing this with you, let alone scolding you about it."

"It's okay," he says with a smile that makes me want to smack myself for being such a complete witch.

"All you've done since I've met you is be nice to me, and all I've done since you've met me is load my issues onto you."

"Well, it's only fair since I loaded you down with a box when we first met," he jokes.

"I promise from this day forward, no more Lifetime drama from me. I'm going to be like a football game, sports 24/7, you know the channel I'm talking about?"

"ESPN?"

"Yup, I'm going to be fun like ESPN. Down with Lifetime!" I say, giving a fist pump.

"Hey, Lifetime isn't that bad," he says with a wry grin.

"When are you free again? I want to take you to eat. A disaster-free late lunch, somewhere fun and not stuffy. Like Hooters! Or Dave & Busters," I say excitedly. That's where carefree people go, people who don't have to worry about whether their life is falling apart or completely shifting in a way they never thought it would. It'd be a day I don't have to be me, not this me. I could be who I was before—no stress, just food, alcohol and fun.

He laughs, his gaze intensely focused on me but his smile easy. But it makes me nervous when he does that. His stare makes me feel as if he can read my thoughts, that he not only knows my problems but, wants to solve them for me.

"Okay, but only under one condition," he says, looking away, and I nod. "You have to come somewhere with me first."

I feel my brows knit, but without hesitation, I say, "Okay." I don't know why I trust Carter, but in the short time we've known one another, he's been nothing but kind to me.

"Cool, how about tomorrow?"

I nod. "Nothing on my schedule right now." I stand after he does, and I follow him to the door. "Hey, I sort of forgot to ask with all of the drama yesterday, but how did you like Nicole?" I'm almost on pins and needles.

He lets out a breath that's a combination of a laugh and sigh. "I don't think I'm necessarily what she's looking for right now." He grins, and so do I.

"I think she'd doubt that highly."

He laughs loudly and rakes his hand through his locks before opening the door. "I can almost guarantee it."

"What are you looking for?" I ask him teasingly.

He smiles as if he has a secret he's on the verge of telling me. "I'll let you know when I find out."

* * *

On Wednesday, Carter ended up having to work a double and asked if lunch could change to dinner and asked me to meet him at our secret destination at five. The address is only about a ten-minute walk from our building. It's a little gloomy out, but for Chicago, the high sixties in October isn't something you waste.

I look at the address again. I'm on the right block, but I can't imagine why he'd want me to meet him here. I don't see any restaurants or bars on the street. There isn't a movie theater or bookstore either. Initially I thought that that was his surprise, a bookstore tucked away in downtown Chicago. That would be pretty impressive. But when I see the address and people heading into the big building in the center of the block, I have to laugh. The building isn't funny, but I can't believe life would be this cruel.

"No way," I mutter as people hurry around me into the Corner Stone Community Church.

I sigh and grip my forehead. I look at the address for the fourth time. Maybe I transposed the numbers; I even try to convince myself that the street is wrong. I see two girls approaching. They look like young high schoolers, maybe, but they seem friendly.

"Hi, excuse me?" I call.

They stop in their tracks, greeting me with friendly smiles.

"Is there, like, a concert or something going on tonight? Like, does the church rent out one of its facilities to bands?"

They both sort of laugh. "No, tonight's Bible study. There's music though."

I nod mechanically. "Oh. Okay, thanks."

Walking down the church steps, I dial Carter's number.

"Hey, Chas, did you make it yet? I'm only a few blocks away. It was crazy tonight," he says.

"Um, I'm standing in front of the address and I'm looking at a church. Is that right?" I ask, trying to make my tone sound more amused than annoyed.

"Yeah, I'll be there to meet you in a few. I'm walking as we speak."

I try to figure out how to say what I'm thinking without offending him, but I feel the words pushing up my throat. "Okay, is there a reason why I'm standing in front of a church?"

"You can go in. No one's going to bite," he jokes back.

My heart beats faster as I lose the small thread of hope that we'd just be meeting here for some odd reason before we went to the place we were really going to. "Um, I don't... I don't do church." I hear silence on the other end of the line.

"Ever?" He doesn't sound shocked but curious.

"Pretty much. I don't see a point to it because I don't believe in God," I say, moving away from the steps and feeling as if all eyes are on me.

"Um, hold on, I'm, like, one block away." His breathing picks up as he's obviously started to walk faster or jog.

I look back at the large brick church and feel uncomfortable even standing in front of it. I think of what a waste it was to build, how much it costs to run it—all for an invisible being, like an overrated Santa Claus except worse. At a certain age, you realize Santa isn't real, but with God, no one ever wakes up from that fairy tale.

"No, Carter, don't rush. I'm heading home. Enjoy your... time." I hang up.

I feel sad as I walk away. I liked Carter. He's such a nice guy, and I saw us being friends. I don't know how he's going to take me not wanting to go to church with him, if he'll still want to be friends with an atheist. Except I've never really attached myself to that word. I used to think of myself as spiritual. I didn't affiliate with any specific organization or religion but I did believe in something. __ Until __ I lost Logan. Then it was solidified when I lost Anna. There's nothing, no one out there when you need them, when you call to them, when you pray, and if for some reason there is, he, she, or it likes to play favorites. Some people getting the so-called blessings like Kelsey, and the rest of us get the leftover scraps.

I walk to the next block and call an Uber. The weather doesn't seem so nice anymore.

"How about tomorrow at seven?" my mom asks, the irritation in her voice not the least bit hidden.

This is her third time trying to pin down a date so Bryce and I can meet with her and my future stepdad. Wow, that sounds weird. Stepdad. I never thought I'd say those words.

"Friday won't work. I told you Bryce's schedule is really hectic, Mom. But I can meet him."

I can practically hear her eyes roll. "I told you I want him to meet the both of you."

"Gee, Mom, I'm sorry just me isn't good enough," I say, trying to guilt her into relenting, but I know she won't buy it.

"You know that has nothing to do with it. I told you why this is so important to me. Did you tell Bryce? Maybe I should talk to him, see if he'll take the day off."

"No!" I practically shout.

"Chassidy, what is going on? I want to know right now."

"I just... he's really stressed, and I don't want you to guilt him into coming, with work being so crazy for him."

It's surprising how easy that lie comes out. It's not like I've never lied to my mom. I told her white lies, things that would make both our lives easier when I was younger, but this isn't a little white lie. It's big, but it is for her good. She's just accepted a proposal based on my supposedly happy marriage. She has no clue that I've pushed my husband into another woman's arms and we're not speaking to one another.

"I'm starting to feel like there's something going on that you don't want to tell me about, and it's so offensive to me," she says icily.

I close my eyes and sigh.

"I raised you to be strong, freethinking, and honest. I don't feel like you're exhibiting those qualities at all right now," she snarls.

"Well, I'm sorry that you feel like I'm not living up to your life code, but I have a lot going on right now."

"Great! Tell me about it!" she says, using a tone similar to what she'd have used when I was five years old.

I hear a knock at the door, and I know it's probably Carter. I'm relieved, but at the same time, I'm anxious. I don't know what he's going to say. I'm worried that he will just wash his hands of me after I hung up on him earlier, but at the very least, his visit is an excuse for me to end _this_ conversation.

"Mom, I've got to go, my neighbor's at the door. I'll call you tomorrow morning, okay? Love you," I tell her, hanging up on her mid-sentence. Before opening the door, I whisper, "Please don't let this be awkward."

As I expected, it's Carter wearing a small smile. "Hey."

"Hi."

"Can we talk?"

My smile widens a bit as I move aside and allow him to come in.

"I'm sorry about today," he says, and I'm surprised. "I should have told you where I was inviting you. I didn't mean to keep it a secret. I just... I thought of it as more of a surprise." He laughs, sitting in his designated seat at the island.

"You don't have to be sorry. You didn't know my belief. Or lack thereof." I chuckle to lighten the mood.

"If I offended you, I apologize."

I nod, letting him know I accept. "I'm sorry too. I could have handled it better." I grab two Pepsis out of the fridge and hand him one before sitting across from him. "It was just when I was standing there and all of the people were going in and I was so shocked, it overwhelmed me a little."

He nods, seeming to understand, and opens his bottle. He takes long gulps, and by the time he puts it down, it's half empty. I wait for a big belch, but none comes. I take a small sip and cover my mouth as I burp.

"So..." For the first time ever, I feel a patch of awkwardness between us.

His bright blue eyes are on me and shine as usual. That eases me a bit, reminding me that he's Carter, my next-door neighbor who is easy to talk to and seemingly there when I need him.

"Do you just play there, or are you like... a..." I try to find the right words as I spin the bottle cap of my pop.

"A Christian?" he finishes the sentence for me, wearing an amused grin.

I chuckle. "Yeah. I guess."

"Well, I'm both. I play the guitar in the band most services, and yes, I'm a Christian."

My lips press together as I try to think of something to say. "Oh, okay. So... you're not going to get in trouble for associating with someone who doesn't believe in God?" I ask half-jokingly, and he smiles.

"I'll probably get a write-up and have to spend some extra time praying, but nothing too big," he says, and my eyes widen. "I'm kidding."

I laugh at myself. Carter looks so different from the people I saw in my dad's church the few times I went with him, when I was younger. Then I think of Kelsey and her husband. They're both young and they go, but they're married, not young and single. Carter's cool—he seems like it at least. I just never would have thought he'd be into Christianity enough to invite me into it.

"If you have questions or anything, you can ask me. We're not a secret cult," he says playfully.

My cheeks flush. "I don't really... just... you really believe all of that stuff? I mean, like, about God and the world being made in a few days and a person living in a whale..."

"A man being brought back from the dead, and a guy parting the Red Sea?"

I nod.

"Yeah, I do."

"Wow," I say, hoping it doesn't offend him. "That's nice," I add awkwardly.

He laughs, but it's not in a condescending or angry way. "Can I ask you a question?"

I sigh, but it's only fair if he gets to ask after I did. "Shoot."

"I know believing in all of that takes faith... but is it so hard to believe in a supreme being, that there's an intelligent designer of the universe?"

I can't help but chuckle. "Yes, it is, because if there is some creator, they suck because this world isn't the greatest place to live in. If that being exists, they're not someone I want to talk to or 'worship'."

"I've found that most people who say they don't believe, actually do, and they're angry with things he allowed or didn't allow to happen." His warm sparkling eyes are soft, but this time they don't comfort me.

"Most people who are angry I'm sure have a good reason for it," I tell him quietly, ripping my gaze from his.

My phone rings, and I smile when I see it's Davien. He's one of the only things making me smile lately.

"I've got to take this," I tell him, thankful for a break.

"Oh, no problem," he says, standing from the barstool. "I'll show myself out."

I hate that he's leaving when nothing's been resolved. I wish he had never invited me. Then things wouldn't be weird and seem unresolved.

"Um, what are you doing tomorrow?" I ask.

"Working."

"How about coffee in the morning? A muffin at Starbucks?" I ask, hoping he sees it at an olive branch.

"Sounds like a good way to start my morning." His smile is back, bright and brilliant.

"Great, eight-ish okay?" I ask.

"It's perfect."

Just like that, the awkward weirdness is gone, and I'm so glad.

_3 months ago_

* * *

It's funny how life works. When Jax realized he was in love with Tiffany, it was one of the happiest days of my life. My best friend finally knew what I felt with Chassidy. He realized I wasn't crazy or obsessed or no longer myself. I was just a man who had fallen in love.

The other reason was because that meant Kira Jacobs was officially out of my life. Kira wasn't terrible, but she had a way of grating on my nerves by being super critical of everyone and everything.

Jax always said I didn't appreciate her dry humor or her "sarcastic wit." I didn't. Nothing about it impressed me. What I did give her credit for was the way she could spot a person's weakness. What I didn't give her credit for was the way she could lock onto it and chip away at that person, comment by comment, critique by critique. So it's ironic that what I couldn't stand about her is also the reason why I'm meeting with her, why I need her.

That critical voice I couldn't stand landed her a job as one of the most up-and-coming editors at Gillard Publishing, making her the perfect person to help me with what I _need_ to do to save my marriage. I was surprised that she agreed to meet with me, but Jax says she still has a soft spot for him. Whatever it is they still share got me a meeting with her, even if it is costing me dinner at one of the most expensive restaurants in NYC.

She's late. Not by much, but it irks me because I've been here for twenty minutes. I remind myself that she's the one doing the favor and I have to swallow my bias against her.

"Bryce Bell."

I look up and am a little taken aback. She's still Kira, but she's older. The short bob she used to wear is gone, replaced with long dark curls. Her thin face is fuller, which takes the edge off what I thought were sharp features, and she's dressed in a form-fitting grey, blue, and white blouse. The condescending stare she used to give me is replaced with a tiny grin.

I stand and extend my hand, but she waves it away and hugs me. She's surprisingly warm, as if we're long lost friends instead of old tolerable acquaintances.

"It's so good to see you!" she says cheerfully, more upbeat than I remember her being.

"It's great to see you too. You look great."

"Thank you," she says, walking to her side of the booth. "You do too."

"Thank you for meeting with me."

"Oh, no problem. When Jax told me what you're doing, it really touched me. I'm so glad he thought of me to help out. I want to be of help in whatever way I can," she says, sounding completely genuine. "So tell me all about you and Chas."

I swallow hard. I know for her to do what I need her to, she has to know it all. I knew that before I even asked to meet with her, but I still hesitate.

"Okay, how about I start with life as Kira knows it?" She tells me about her life in New York, how she fell in love with the city but gets homesick a lot, how she began to climb up the ranks of Gillard Publishing, and that she has a puppy named Maddy, a Morkie.

While she talks, I'm taken aback. Who is this person? This can't be Kira "Mean Girl" Daniels. Her whole aura seems different. What happened? I'm starting to wonder if Jax was the problem. Whatever's changed, I feel more at ease sharing things I've kept close to me, things that even my family or Jax don't know about.

When I finish, I feel like a jerk for monopolizing our conversation, but she doesn't look at me with contempt or exasperation—I know those looks from her well. I finally finish before dessert, and I'm shocked when I see her wipe away tears. No, she's definitely not like the Kira I knew in college at all.

"Wow! I'm so sorry, Bryce. Chassidy didn't deserve that. I can't imagine what you both must be going through." She takes my hand and squeezes, and it's comforting. I feel as though a weight has been lifted off of me. "We're going to fix this. If she doesn't feel like you understand her pain, this will show her you know exactly how she feels."

I nod, hopeful and desperate to believe it will work. That it will give me my best friend back. She'll have to see how much I love her and that I get it. Hearing someone else think the same, that it's not crazy or a waste of time or can't be done, is the reassurance that I need.

"Thanks, Kira. I really appreciate this."

"I'm not saying it'll be easy," she tells me, her eyes soft but her tone warning.

"I don't need it to be easy. I just need it to be possible." I wonder if she sees the desperation in my eyes, hears it in my voice.

"Yes, it is."

"Then let's do this."

### Chassidy

"How much have you got down, luv?" Davien asks as I flop on my couch after Carter's left.

"Not much more than when we last talked. I've had some distractions, but I promise it will be just me and my laptop for the next few days."

"That actually makes me sad for you." His grey eyes dance as he smiles.

"Don't be. It's probably what I need the most right now." I sigh, thinking of how every time I've ventured out of the house lately, it's pretty much been a disaster.

"Married life not as exciting as I hear?" he asks, his voice sitting square between amused and sarcastic.

Since Davien and I started talking, I've reprimanded him a couple of times for referring to my marriage in any way other than respectfully, but after seeing Bryce with Kira, it all seems pointless.

"It might be a little more overrated than I thought it would be," I say quietly.

"Really?"

"Really."

"Enlighten me." For the first time, his voice isn't sarcastic, flirtatious, or amused.

I wonder if it's appropriate, then I think of Bryce in our favorite restaurant, holding hands with Kira. I think of how he didn't come after me, how he hasn't even called me to try to explain or apologize, and I spill.

I don't mean to tell Davien as much as I do, but it pours out in waves. Everything from how we met to our marriage. I even tell him about how I lost Logan, how Bryce makes me feel when I'm around him, how I asked him for space, and the debacle at Maestro's. He doesn't interrupt once or ask any questions. If we weren't on Facetime, I'd have thought he'd have hung up, he's so quiet.

"I'm sorry about..."

I feel badly for putting him in a position where he has to find the words. I wonder if I've unintentionally crossed a line. "No, it's fine. Not fine, but well, I'm just trying to look forward."

He leans back in his chair. "I think you need a break."

I laugh. "You're the guy who just told me to buckle down and write."

"No, I mean a real break. Put a pause on real life," he says with a smile as wide as Lake Michigan.

"Are you offering me drugs?" I kid.

"Depends on what gets you high."

I roll my eyes. His voice is deep and melodic, intoxicating as it always it, but I've been trying to become immune to it.

"You should come to New York."

I laugh, but when I look at him, I see that he's completely serious. "I-I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because..."

"Don't say because you're married. You and Bryce aren't even sleeping in the same place." He says it so casually, but it stings.

"Look, you just need to step back and forget about all of the problems you have, the weight you've been pulling around. Come to New York. I promise you, all your problems will seem minuscule when you get back home, and if you can't be inspired here..."

"I just, I don't think it's a good idea," I say, more to myself than him.

"Why? Scared you'll have too good a time?"

I swallow hard. I look at the screen, but I avoid his eyes. That's exactly what I'm afraid of.

"You deserve some fun, and you get me in tow. How can you say no?"

"I'll think about it," I say, feeling butterflies starting to fly in my stomach.

"The best food, the best museums, the best people, the best wine," he continues.

I laugh at his pitching skills. "I'm so glad you're my agent."

"Oh, I haven't even began to convince you yet," he says huskily.

The butterflies in my stomach have invited their cousins over.

"Just say yes now and let me convince you in person."

But I can't go to New York, especially not to see him. It's one thing to talk to him on the phone and text and flirt. It's a whole other thing to get on a plane to another state to go see him. I can't do that. _Can I?_

"Don't you feel suffocated where you are? Why not take some time away? Let go, stop thinking so much, regroup."

Honestly, it sounds like exactly what I need. "I promise to really consider it."

He groans but looks at his watch. "You'll let me know in 24 hours?"

"Okay," I say with a nod.

When our Facetime ends, I shoot Nicole a text.

_Are you free?_

I wait a few minutes before my phone rings.

"Hey, babe! How are you doing? I've been so worried about you, I was going to bust your door down as soon as I made it back in town." Her voice is full of empathy, and I realize I didn't call her back after the dinner fiasco.

"I'm fine."

"Have you talked to Bryce yet?"

I feel dumber by the second. "No, he hasn't even called me."

She inhales sharply. "That bastard! I can't believe him. I never would have thought he'd be like this. What do you want to do, hon? I know a ton of divorce lawyers."

"Nicole, slow down a minute. I wasn't calling to talk about Bryce... I was actually calling you to talk about Davien."

"The agent guy?"

"Yeah. Um, he invited me to come to New York." I feel as if I'm holding my breath.

"Get out!" she says, her tone going from urgent and empathetic to excited.

"Yeah, and it sounds nice and exactly like what I need but..."

"There is no but. It's exactly what you need. Revenge! I think it'll help a lot. If he wants to go to fancy dinners with other women, you can go out of town with another man."

"Really?" I don't know why I ask that. Nicole always says exactly what she means the first time.

"Yes really! And if you happen to screw him, well, things happen."

I cringe.

"And you'd better not feel a shred of guilt about it!"

I laugh, but my thoughts drift to Kelsey. She balances our little trio, and she'd be screaming right now if she heard what Nicole just said.

"I was thinking of going to sight-see, have dinner, not hopping into bed with him."

"Okay, whatever you say, hon. I don't judge. But speaking of hopping into bed with people, how is your adorable neighbor? I'm pissed at Bryce for making us go all psycho in the restaurant before I got the chance to let him know how welcome he was to take me out on a date."

I bite my lip and sit on the bed. "Well, he came over the next day to return some things I left at the restaurant and we talked, and guess where he invited me?"

"If you tell me he's into you, I'm going to scream," she says, her voice dropping an octave.

I laugh. "No, that's not it at all. You wouldn't guess in a million years where he invited me."

"If you say to a gay club, I'm going to throw a freakin' fit," she growls, and I really laugh.

"No, at least that would have been entertaining."

"Okay, where then?"

"To church."

"You're kidding," she says, letting out a short laugh.

"No, not in the least. He said it was a surprise. Well it wasn't really a surprise, but he didn't tell me where we were going. I assumed it'd be somewhere fun, like a bar or a club he was performing at. I guess it was technically, since he's a member of their band."

She's laughing so hard, I can't help but join in.

"Wow, how was it?" she asks.

"I didn't go in. I told him I wasn't into it and sort of ran away."

She bursts into laughter again. "I can't believe you did that! You just ran off?"

I nod even though we're on the phone and she can't see me. "Like you would have gone in."

"Um, yeah, I would have. Did you see anyone else there? Because if they're making guys like that, maybe I should go check out a service," she teases.

I scrunch up my face. "You don't go to church."

"No, but if someone invited me, I wouldn't have run away screaming."

"So you think I overreacted?" If this was Kelsey on the phone, of course I'd expect to be scolded, but I didn't think Nicole would make fun of me about this.

"Uh, yeah. Why didn't you stay?"

"I don't believe in that stuff. It seemed more respectful for me to leave than stay and think about how pathetic everyone was for being there."

"Well if you put it like that..." She giggles. "Have you told Kelsey about this? If you haven't, I have to be there when you do."

The sinking feeling in my stomach comes back. I haven't told Nicole that I've been pretty much ignoring Kelsey because I'm still pissed about our last conversation. "No, not yet. I'm still shocked that you would have gone in."

"Because I'm obviously an evil witch and would burst into flames the moment I stepped in?"

"You know that's not what I meant. I just thought..." I try to think of the best way to say it.

"I can understand you being caught off guard, and if it's not your thing, that's okay, but to just leave him hanging was a little rude, maybe? And since when do you not believe in God?" she asks.

I swallow hard. I don't want to go into the subject I've been trying not to think about. "Since when did you start believing?" I don't ever recall her talking about faith or going to church or anything like that.

"I never said I don't believe in God. I don't believe in religion, but I don't think we're here by accident. I just don't want to get caught up in names and rules and all of the other things that make this world a much worse place to live in. So if someone invited me to church, mosque, or temple, I'd go, especially if they're as hot as Carter."

"Wow, now I feel like a big jerk."

"More like a weirdo than a jerk," she teases. "Have you talked to him since?"

"Yeah, he sort of apologized. We're supposed to go for coffee tomorrow morning."

"Make sure you put a good word in for me. Tell him I'd be happy to be of service to him any time," she says suggestively, and I roll my eyes.

"Good-bye, Nicole," I say with a laugh.

"Booo. Call and let me know what you decide about New York."

"I will," I promise.

I'm going.

Well, I'm thinking of going.

I've been back and forth for the past two days. I've decided that if I do go, it would only be for the weekend. Fly out Friday night and be back home bright and early Monday morning. That's _if_ I go.

I look at my packed bag hidden in the back of my closet. I'm not even sure who I'm hiding it from. Bryce isn't here. I haven't even heard from him, and that's a thought I've been burying under the floor in my mind. After everything that's happened, I'm not sure why I'm still questioning going. I'm a woman who found her husband on a date with another woman and hasn't heard from him since.

It's a trip to NYC, somewhere I've never been and where my agent is. My agent who is flirtatious and attractive and seductive. He's a character straight out of a romance novel, but I'm not single and open to being swept away. If I were writing this story, it'd be easy. My character wouldn't be married but newly single, fresh out of a terrible relationship. Davien would fall deeply in love with me and change all of his ways, and we'd live happily ever after together.

But this isn't a story I'm writing. This is real life, and I'm the main character, married to a husband who was supposed to be my Prince Charming. Except in this reality, he's not acting like a prince, and I don't deserve to be a princess, and our kingdom is full of regret, guilt, and loss. That's why I need to go. It's why I need to get out of this house and out of this state. It's too much.

I grab my laptop and refresh the Expedia page I've been looking at. Ticket prices haven't gone up by much from the first day I started to look. I move the package I've been stalking to the cart and stare at it.

"It's not a big deal. It's just a trip, you've booked plenty of trips," I tell myself.

But my heart never beat so fast when I booked a trip before. I never felt as tense as I do now, but underneath—or maybe above—the tension is excitement, a rush of adrenaline. It's exciting but scary at the same time. I hear Nicole's voice telling me not to be a baby. I ignore all of Nicole's other words though, take a deep breath, and hit Submit.

After only a few seconds, I'm directed to the confirmation page, and just like that, I feel relief. I don't feel dread, anxiety, or worry. Nothing's happened, the world didn't explode, I didn't explode, and...

I feel better.

What I worked myself up to believing was a monumental decision is ordinary, just like millions of other decisions I've made.

"It's just a trip," I tell myself, feeling much better.

But it's time to go meet Carter for coffee, so I grab my wristlet and give myself a once-over in the mirror before I head out. When I arrive, he's already there. The Starbucks isn't crowded—only about six people total in what would usually be a packed house. I make my way over to him feeling a sense of de ja vu, but I shrug it off.

"Hi!" It's always good to see him, but today I'm excited.

"Good morning." He sounds just as excited, but Carter always looks as if he's running on fresh coffee by thought alone. He looks great in the natural light, his skin flawless and his dimples looking deeper.

"You picked a good day. It's usually packed in here."

"Yeah, it's always low-key around this time. What are you having? My treat."

I give him my order and watch as he walks to the counter. Two young girls' heads follow him. They smile and giggle to one another, no doubt talking about his movie star good looks that he seems to be completely oblivious of. He's back in what seems like an instant with my piping hot coffee, and I notice he has ice in his coffee.

"So what's new?" I ask as he sits down.

"Nothing much. I was thinking of giving your friend Nicole a call."

My eyes practically bug out of my head. "Really?" I ask, trying to contain my shock.

He looks at me with confusion. "You don't think it's a good idea?"

I swallow hard. "Um, no, I just... no, it's great."

Wow! I didn't expect to hear that. I guess I shouldn't be surprised. Nicole is beautiful, smart, and opinionated, but she's so different from Carter. I guess I didn't think she'd be Carter's type. But then again, Carter is laid-back and opposites do attract.

"She'll be excited. She really likes you. She actually wanted me to put a good word in for her with you," I tell him, then immediately feel guilty, as though I've broken some sort of code. He's already expressed interest, so I didn't need to add any of that. But Nicole's not the average woman. She makes it known what she wants without any of the games that most of us play.

"Oh, you mean like dating her?" he asks, his face scrunched up in confusion.

I frown. What else would he be talking about?

"I meant for the non-profit I work for. She said she'd like to help and we've had a few things come up she could do..."

My face heats up in embarrassment. "Oh..."

"It's not that Nicole doesn't seem great," he says, obviously trying to fix the misunderstanding. "I'm just... where I am right now, isn't a good place for me to be involved with anyone if that makes sense."

"I don't think Nicole's looking for that. She just wants a good time," I say, then realize how that sounds. "I mean, she's not the type to pressure a guy into anything."

He smiles, his two dimples on display, and the awkwardness of this conversation begins to disappear.

"I'm shutting up now," I say, throwing my hands up for a truce, and he laughs.

"I finished your book."

"Really?" I say, feeling my cheeks flush.

"Yeah, it was good."

"It wasn't too girly?"

He waves me off. "A good story's a good story. I even got you some readers. A couple of girls at work asked what I was reading, and I told them about you and the book. They seemed really interested."

He's so naïve, and I can't help but smile. Is he really so oblivious that he thinks they were more interested in the book than in him? But I thank him anyway.

"So what's next for you? Since we're friends now, I get the inside scoop on your next work, right?" he asks with a glinting smile.

"I've actually started to work on something. It's sort of top secret though," I tell him playfully with a wink.

"I won't tell anyone, I promise."

"Well, if you promise," I tease him back.

He beams and settles into his chair, giving me his full attention.

"I can't tell you all of it because I don't have all of it in my head. It's sort of in pieces, how all of my stories come."

He nods, encouraging me.

"It's sort of a thriller—but still a romance though—about a woman who can't find her husband. He's been gone a while, but while she's looking for him, she meets this guy who she falls in love with."

I see the slightest change in his expression. It's so slight that I shouldn't even have noticed it, but his wide eyes narrow a bit, his smile slightly diminished.

"I'm still working things out. Nothing's set in stone yet, but I'm excited about it," I tell him with a shrug.

"That's great. You look really excited about it," he says with a bright smile.

My thoughts creep around, wondering if he really thinks it's great. He didn't say it sounds like a great idea or he's excited to read it. Then I realize that whether he likes it or not, he's not my target audience. Maybe he could be a cover model for me one day. He'd make a beautiful one. Does his religion allow things like that? Because he'd have to have his shirt off. Or maybe not... well I'm going to New York this weekend. I'm sure Davien can introduce me to some male models who wouldn't have a problem with it. Still, I wonder.

"Hey, can I ask you a question? You have to swear you won't get embarrassed about it," I say, emboldened by my sugar rush.

"Shoot."

"It's just an idea, but would you ever consider being a cover model? You'd make a killing."

His eyes widen and his smile is wide and breathtaking, but he laughs. "I'm not really a model."

"That's what would be great about it. You're this real, down-to-earth, super attractive guy."

His cheeks flush in embarrassment. He shakes his head, folding his arms across a chest that could make him some serious cash. "It's not really my thing."

"Too bad," I tell him with a grin.

The rest of our morning flies by. He tells me about the foundation he works for, then we talk about TV shows and books. I'm surprised that he's more into shows from when we were kids. Our conversation is light and easy. I tell him I'd like to volunteer when they have something, and I ask him how I can donate. He gives me their website, and before I know it, an hour's flown by.

"So what's on your agenda today?" I ask.

"Work and more work. What about you?"

"Hoping to get some writing done before I leave."

"Where are you going?" he asks.

"New..."

It's not that I wasn't going to tell him about my trip to New York, but the moment I'm about to, I feel tense. My thoughts go back to the night he discovered Davien and me at Maestro's and how his disdain was pretty apparent. Now that I know he's a part of the Jesus club, I have a better understanding of where his disapproval comes from, and I think he'll give me grief about it. Well, actually he probably won't, but I don't see him giving me a high-five and telling me to go for it.

"New York," I tell him as we stand from the table. I expect to see him frown, but he smiles in excitement.

"I love New York. There's so much to do there," he says as if he's reminiscing.

"Yeah, I'm excited. I've never been." I'm happy that either he hasn't put two and two together or he's deciding to be blind to it. Not that he has anything to be blind to.

"Are you meeting your husband out there?"

My stomach sinks as if it's strapped to a dozen bricks.. "No, I'm actually meeting... my agent."

He's walking beside me and I don't look at him, but I can feel his disdain.

"You signed a deal already?" he asks, his voice full of hope and excitement.

I feel my cheeks flush. He thinks I'm going out there for business. "No, not yet."

"Oh."

I swallow hard. I know what "oh" means. I don't dare to glance at him. "It's just to sight-see and get away from everything."

"Oh, sounds fun." His voice is void of its usual warmth and cheerfulness.

I gather up the courage to glance at him, and I can only describe his expression as confused—no... disappointed. I'd rather see confusion.

The remainder of our short walk to our building is full of awkward silence, and by the time we make it to the entrance, where he opens the door for me, I'm irritated. I'm just not sure if it's with myself or him.

Who is Carter to make me feel guilty? I was completely fine with my trip before I left for coffee, and now I feel tense and bad about it. Not that he's said anything, but his disapproval is clear in everything he hasn't said, in his silence. I'd almost rather he just come out and say what he wants to say. Do I really want that though? Our friendship is still new and fragile, and this could most certainly cause it to collapse.

"What time do you leave?"

His voice jolts me from the conversation I've been imagining in my head.

"The flight leaves tomorrow at eight a.m., and I get back on Monday afternoon," I tell him with a wide smile, but his is weak. "You going to miss me?"

His expression softens, and it actually makes my stomach sink deeper into an ocean of guilt.

"Is this about the other night?" he asks cautiously.

"It has nothing to do with that," I say innocently with a half shrug.

He looks at his feet as if he can't look me in the eye.

"Carter, it's just a trip, I promise."

But he looks as if he's lost his best friend, and I'm starting to wonder if I'm misinterpreting things. Is-is Carter into me?

"I don't like that guy." His blue eyes lock on mine, and I swallow hard.

"Davien, he's... he's not everyone's cup of tea, but he's grown on me a little. I think we could be friends, which would only be a help to him selling my books," I tell him cheekily, trying to coerce a smile from him, but it's an epic failure.

His brows are drawn together and he looks like a sad puppy. "I know we haven't known each other long, but I know guys like him." His voice is almost on the verge of being desperate, and it makes me feel a little uncomfortable.

"You don't know him, and you're right that we haven't known each other long. You really don't know me," I tell him, slightly annoyed.

His shoulders sink. "I didn't mean to offend you."

I instantly forgive him and pat his arm. "Hey, you've been great. I really like you. It's so good to have a guy friend who doesn't have an agenda. I need this trip, and it's just a trip. Don't worry about me. I'm a big girl."

He nods, but his expression is blank.

"Thanks for walking me back. I know you should be getting to work."

He nods, glancing at the door. "You're right."

"How about we meet for coffee on Tuesday?" I ask cheerfully, and he smiles.

"Have a safe flight," he says, and I note his defeated tone.

It's killing my mood, so I give him a sideways hug. He smells good. He smiles down at me, back to the Carter I've come to know.

I watch him leave, and I sigh, feeling anxious. My phone rings. It's my mom, and I'm happy to have somewhere else to focus my attention.

* * *

I should have known my mom would show up here. I can only avoid her calls so many times without her showing up. I'm surprised she waited as long as she did. If only she'd been one day later, I would be in NYC, but then I would have had to explain that when I got back, so in a way, it all works out. My day had been so fantastic after my coffee with Carter and talking to Davien. He's thrilled that I'm coming and also partially shocked. He didn't think I really would, and it's always nice to prove someone as smug as he is wrong.

"I'm really upset with you, Chassidy Marie Bell," she says, pulling out the big guns as she walks into the apartment.

"I don't know why. I haven't done anything," I tell her innocently.

She looks at me with a glare that would freeze the Sahara. "Why didn't you tell me that Bryce isn't living here anymore?"

My blood goes completely cold and I try to wipe the shock off my face, but it's stuck. Her eyes are like daggers, and anger is radiating from her.

"You talked to Bryce?" I squeak out, and her eyes narrow.

"I told you I would call him if you kept giving me the runaround," she says, her voice like ice.

"Why would you do that?" I screech.

"Why? Why should I have had to? How could you not tell me, especially after I told you about Adam? Did you think I'd never find out? What is going on?" she yells.

My vision starts to blur. "I didn't want to ruin your engagement. You practically told me that Bryce and I are the reason you accepted his proposal, and I didn't want to ruin that."

She shakes her head, sighing before sitting on the sofa. I'm still standing, feeling like a rag doll held up by puppet strings.

"What did you... what did he say to you?" I ask, ignoring the desperation in my voice.

She shakes her head. "How bad is this?"

I shrug. "I don't know."

"What hurts the most is that you didn't tell me anything. I'm your mother. How could you keep this from me?" Her voice shakes with vulnerability, and it's actually worse than her death glare.

"I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. I'm just trying to work this out as best as I can."

"I know I've never been married before," she says stiffly, and the crack becomes a little bigger. "Still, I know how much Bryce means to you. I know I was hard on you when you decided to marry him. I just wanted you to be financially secure on your own merit so if things didn't work out, you could walk away unscathed. But you married him and you're successful and you were happy and... I saw that being with him didn't take away from who you were. His family didn't poach you from me. You grew with him. I was always afraid of... I thought I'd lose you."

"How could you think that?" I ask, kneeling in front of her. "You'd never lose me. You wouldn't have allowed it." I kiss her on the cheek.

"I'm sorry I wasn't more supportive of you and Bryce. I hope I didn't make things difficult."

"Our issues have nothing to do with you, I promise you that."

She cracks a smile and lets out a relieved sigh. "Then tell me, what is it? Why have you kicked him out? I want the truth."

I haven't kicked him out. Did he give her that impression? I stand up and sit on the couch closest to the chair. "I-I..." I try to choose my words carefully. My mom's enthusiasm for my marriage and this glimpse of a softer side of her is new, and I'm not sure how deep it runs. I wish I knew what Bryce had said to her. Did he mention that night I caught him at the restaurant with Kira? "I don't know what my feelings for Bryce are right now."

It's not a lie... just not exactly the truth.

"What does that mean?" she asks pointedly, the annoyance apparent in her voice.

"I can't really explain it, but I don't want to punish him for how I'm feeling."

"Asking him to move out of his own home isn't punishment?"

"I don't know how to explain it, Mom. I just needed this time, okay?" I say sharply.

"This just does not make any sense to me. What aren't you telling me?"

"There's nothing to tell. I don't know what's going on. If you want the truth, I'm clueless. I just know that when he's around, I feel suffocated and sad, and I don't want to blame him for it, okay?" The words come out louder and harsher than I intended, and they're accompanied by tears.

She's quiet, but her stare is still on me, as if the reason I gave her flew right over her head. "Did he cheat on you?"

My eyes widen. "It-it's not like that."

I can practically see the anger register on her face. Her pale skin turns bright red and her fists clench.

"Mom, please, it's me. It was me, at least," I say, but I sense her fury growing. She pulls out her phone, and I grab it from her. "Don't!"

"I can either call him now or when I leave," she says, her voice unrelenting as I hold her phone.

"This isn't your fight, okay? I haven't even said he's done anything."

"He did something and you've let me know what. I can't believe I felt sorry for him," she snarls.

"What do you mean you felt sorry for him?"

"It doesn't matter now. Wait until I see him!" she growls.

"No, no, you won't call him, you won't do anything because this isn't your fight. This is between Bryce and me," I tell her.

"You're my daughter, and he hurt you."

"Yes, I'm the daughter you raised to fight her own battles, not run crying to you to fix them, right?" I tell her desperately, and she looks away. She knows I'm right.

"Give me my phone back," she says calmly.

"You promise not to call him?"

She only stares at me blankly.

"Promise me," I say again.

"I will not say anything until I see him in person, that is what I'll promise."

I groan, but at least that buys me some time to figure out this mess. I reluctantly give her back the phone and feel a little relief at the fact that I don't have to hide this from her anymore.

"I know the daughter I raised wouldn't allow herself to be walked over by a philandering man. I know I've taught her to know she's strong, beautiful, and any man on this planet would be lucky to have her. She better not be living some 1950s Mary Lou housewife version of life," she says sternly.

I nod, letting her know I understand.

She stays another two hours. We make plans for me to meet her fiancé next Friday.

When she finally leaves, I let out a huge sigh of relief and pour myself a big glass of wine. I have to resist the urge to text Bryce though. The desire is stronger than it's ever been—I want to know what he said to my mom.

Why hasn't he reached out to me to explain?

I can't shake my guilt that I sort of threw him under the bus even though I didn't tell my mom exactly what happened. But I didn't own up much to my part in everything. Why did he even answer his phone for her when he hasn't bothered to pick it up and call me?

Tonight wasn't supposed to be like this. I was supposed to be daydreaming about my trip. Instead, the heaviness I'm trying to run away from seems to be closing in on me. I wish I had booked a flight for tonight. I feel like I can't breathe, and my head feels stuffy. I just want to feel normal again.

I can't concentrate long enough to write, and I keep replaying the conversation with my mother over and over. When I get a text alert, I think it'll be from Davien, but it's Carter.

_Are you free to talk?_

I wonder what he could want. It's a little after ten thirty at night, and though we've talked this late before, it's always been for a reason. Maybe _he_ needs someone. He's been there for me in the midst of the chaos of my life recently, and maybe he needs the same.

I text him back that I am. Instead of my phone ringing, there's a knock at my door a few minutes later. When I open the door, he's wearing one of those smiles that can make anyone's day seem brighter, and I'm instantly glad he's here.

"You weren't sleeping were you?" he asks.

"No, my mom just left actually." I step aside for him to come in.

"How'd that go?" he asks with a chuckle.

I give him a "don't ask" look. "Well, let's just hope your visit goes better than hers did. You want something to drink?"

He shakes his head, so I grab myself a bottle of water and watch as he sits in what's become his designated seat. I lean on the counter, waiting for him to tell me what's prompted his visit. He seems a little nervous, sitting straight up like there's a board attached to his back, and he's absently drumming his fingers on the counter.

"Is everything okay, Carter?" I ask.

His lips are pressed together in a hard line. He smiles and lets out a deep breath, rubbing the back of his neck. "You remember what we talked about earlier?"

"We talked about a couple of things."

"Right." His eyes are briefly glued to the counter before he looks back at me from beneath his thick blond lashes. "The New York part, I mean."

My stomach clenches. "Yeah."

His eyes meet mine, and like always, I feel a calm spread through me, all of my apprehension melting away.

"You know you shouldn't go on that trip." His voice is no longer wavering but holds a hint of concern. Not so much that I'm taken aback but just the right amount that I can't be angry with him.

"Carter, I told you that it's not what you think."

"You're approaching a dangerous line."

I frown at him and sigh. "I understand why you'd be concerned, but there's nothing for you to be concerned about."

He looks down at his hands, which are clasped again.

"D-do you have a crush on me? Is this your way of telling me you like me?" I ask, trying my best not to sound conceited.

"No, it's not that," he says quickly.

I can't say my ego doesn't take a bit of a hit.

"Not that you're not someone I wouldn't want to be with if circumstances were different—any man is lucky to have you—but Bryce is that man," he says quietly.

Now I'm even more confused. "I just don't get why you care so much about my marriage. To be honest, it's starting to feel a little creepy. You don't even know Bryce."

"I do know Bryce."

My throat constricts, and I feel the blood drain from my face as I think about all we've talked about, all he's seen. "You what?"

"It's not how you think!" he says quickly, his voice raised at my reaction.

"What are you talking about? You either know him or you don't," I say, glaring daggers into him.

"I know him how I know you," he says.

My breathing speeds up. My thoughts are jumbled together. How well does he know him? Will he tell him everything he knows? Has he already done it?

"Get out!" I tell him angrily.

"Okay, I really screwed this up. Can we start over?" he pleads.

"Get out now!" I yell, pointing at the door.

"I always hate this part. I never know how this is going to go," he says. "Can you just calm down for one minute? Please, Chassidy?"

As mad and confused as I am, my racing thoughts slow down and I wait for him to give me an explanation.

He stands, rakes his hand through his perfectly messy locks, and he looks at me again. "I'm... I'm an angel."

"I'm sorry, what?" I clearly didn't hear him correctly.

"I'm an angel, and I've been sent here to help you." He's looking at me, waiting for a reaction.

I laugh, but it's sort of strangled. I wait for him to say, "Hey, I'm joking, I just wanted to get your attention," but he doesn't. I slowly take a few steps backward until I'm against my counter, where I wait for the right moment to grab a knife.

"Wow, that's amazing," I say, playing along and kicking myself for befriending this guy and letting him in my house. I've befriended some religious nutcase and he's here in my apartment and my only chance of saving myself is if I can get a knife and hope he gets scared off by it. He's bigger and stronger than me and he'll probably just snatch it away, and that realization makes tears well in my eyes.

"Chassidy, I'm not here to hurt you, and I'm not crazy. I really am an angel."

"Okay. You're an angel," I say softly, as if I'm talking to a child. "A good one."

"Yes, sent by God," he says.

I laugh out of nervousness. "Well, could you please leave?" My voice trembles.

"I know you think I'm crazy." He laughs, but it's not like his other one; it's nervous.

"No, I don't think you're crazy," I tell him quickly.

"It's okay. Most humans react this way once I tell them," he says casually, as if it's the most normal thing in the world, as if he's just told me he got a new job or asked if I could feed his fish while he's on a trip.

I can't believe I didn't pick up on any of this. How did I befriend a psycho? Or maybe he's high. I'd rather him be high than just plain crazy. Is that better?

"I'm not high either."

I swallow hard again. How did he know I was thinking that? Maybe I said it out loud.

"You didn't say it out loud."

"I'm going crazy," I mutter.

"You're not going crazy."

I pinch myself and wait for my fingers to meld into my flesh like clay, the way it does when I'm dreaming, but instead I just feel sharp pain.

"You're not dreaming. I'm not on drugs or crazy," he says, crossing his arms.

"Okay, if you're an angel, where are your wings?" I ask him nervously.

"Not all angels have wings. There're actually only two forms of us that do, and I'm not that high up on the totem pole," he says the last part jokingly.

"You promise you're not going to hurt me?"

He nods, his expression somber. My thoughts are racing. Is this really happening? It can't be. So what that he guessed what I'm thinking. It's not exactly like my thoughts were out of the ordinary for a normal person in this situation.

"If you're an angel, do something angelic," I challenge him and he smiles.

"Would you believe me if I did, or would you rationalize it?"

"It would certainly help me believe you're not insane, or that I'm not insane."

He walks toward me, and I back into my wall, wanting to sink into it.

"Take my hand," he says softly, extending it.

I look at him skeptically, shaking my head. "I don't want to."

"Are you afraid?"

I look at his hand, then back at him. It's actually not that I'm afraid—my heart is racing, but my throat isn't tight like it was when I thought he was Bryce's friend. This isn't making any sense. How can he read my thoughts? Oh crap, he's reading my thoughts now if this is legit.

"I can stop if you want me to," he says.

"Please!" I shriek, gripping my head with both hands.

"Okay," he says with a small grin.

"This is crazy! This is crazy!" I'm shouting now. "Okay let's say I believe you, that you are an angel 'sent by God.'" I use air quotes. "Why are you here? Why would a God I don't believe in care about me? Why not go to Kelsey? She believes in God, she'd get a kick out of this."

"Because he loves you, and you've lost your faith."

I laugh. "No, I never had faith."

He smiles sympathetically. "You lost your faith after losing Logan and Anna."

My breath catches. "How..."

"God still loves you," he says gently.

I feel anger replacing my disbelief and fear. "God loves me? He. Took. My babies! If your God is real, he doesn't love me. He's torturing me. What he's done to me isn't love. Making it unbearable to be around my husband isn't love. He lets murderers and abusers have children, but not me. Why? Why does he let that happen? How does he love me if he won't give me what I want the most in the world? How is that fair? How is that loving?" I'm shaking, not out of fear but anger.

"His ways are higher than ours."

I scowl at him. "No. No! You don't get to say that. You don't get to stand in front of me and say you're a freakin' angel and tell me that generic garbage and spout off that he loves me and not tell me why he's done this to me!" I don't know if he's an angel or if any of this is real, but it feels good to yell at someone about it.

"God didn't do this to you, Chassidy."

I laugh bitterly. "Oh, who did it then? Who should I blame? Oh, let me guess—the devil, right?"

"He's real and he's after your belief, your faith. He wants to destroy it so you turn away from God."

"Well, he's doing a fantastic job! Even if 'the devil' did cause all of this, if he makes all of the bad things happen in the world, why does God allow it?"

"I can't tell you God's plan. I can tell you he knows your pain, he understands it. He'll never allow it to be meaningless or random. What was meant to steal your belief, to harm you, God can use for his own purposes, which are always good. If you give him your pain, your hurt, he can take it away."

He says something else, but my heart is beating hard in my ears, anger coursing through me. I pick up a bowl from my counter and throw it across the room. It shatters, and the loud sound makes me cringe, but he doesn't flinch. He only looks at me with pity clouding his face.

"I want you to leave. Right now. If you're an angel, I demand that you leave. I don't accept your help or words of wisdom or whatever you're here to give. I want you gone. Now!" I shout.

He drops his head in defeat before walking toward the door. "Okay."

"You're not going to teleport out?" I say sardonically, my anger shredding any apprehension.

He looks back at me with an empathetic smile. "Good night, Chassidy."

He walks out the door, and I follow him and kick it so hard it hurts my toe.

_P resent day_

* * *

"I'm going to ask her to marry me, big bro."

I let out a hearty laugh. "Wow, seriously?"

My immature little brother, the jock, the hothead, is in love and ready to make a commitment. Man, I've gotten old.

Duke pulls the ring from his pocket and shows it to me. It looks more expensive than the one I bought Chas.

"Woah! How long have you been saving for this?" I ask in disbelief.

"Since a month after I met her," he says meekly. He looks embarrassed, but it's the goofy type of embarrassment, where you're so happy you don't care what people think.

I shake my head and slap him on the back of the head playfully. "Man, you guys gave me such a hard time when I told you I was in love with Chassidy, and now you're going to propose!" He shrugs and laughs. "Hey, I didn't understand it then. You don't understand it until it happens. Max thinks I've gone insane."

I shake my head. His twin brother, Max, still acts as if he's in college, never seeing the same girl for more than a month. I remember Duke hid Julie from Max for months. I know that had to be hard, what with the twin thing they have going on. But Duke and I have gotten closer since he couldn't share how hard he was falling with his no-strings, older-by-a-minute brother.

"I can't wait until she has my last name, man," he says, beaming. "I never thought I'd say this, but I can't wait to be a husband"

I smile at him, but I can't help feeling envious. I remember that was how I felt before Chas and I got married.

"I want it to be great, like you and Chas," he exclaims.

I nod, not having the heart to tell him my marriage isn't one he should wish for.

When I don't say anything, he asks, "Is everything okay?"

"Oh yeah, everything's fantastic," I say quickly, patting his back. "Marriage is a blast." I give him a thumbs-up.

His eyes narrow. "Your poker face sucks. What's up, bro?"

I hesitate. The last thing I want is to unload about my failing marriage to someone who's about to propose. "Me and Chas are having a few issues, but tonight isn't about that. It's about celebrating you and Julie."

"Screw that. What's going on?" he demands.

We order another round of beers, and before I tell him anything, I make him swear not to tell my mother. She's never liked Chassidy and would swoop in with divorce lawyer referrals if she heard what's going on. After he promises, I tell him that things haven't been the same since we lost Logan, that recently Chas has asked me to move out, and that I've been staying with Jax and Tiffany, not knowing when I can go home, if ever.

He looks at me in disbelief. "Man, I can't believe this."

Seeing the disappointment on his face, I regret telling him. This is why I didn't want to talk about it.

"I knew that losing Logan would stay with us, but I never thought it would destroy us," I tell him honestly.

"Destroy?"

"That's what this feels like." I take another sip of my beer.

"Dude, did marriage make you a pussy?"

I frown at him. Just like that, it's like I'm talking to my brother Max instead.

"I mean, she asks you to leave and you just leave? Like you're roommates?" he asks.

"What was I supposed to do? Stay there and let her be miserable?"

"You fight, dude. You fight for her. You don't just say, 'Oh, you don't love me anymore? That's fine, I'm leaving,'" he says mockingly.

"She didn't say she didn't love me anymore," I correct him.

"Exactly! Forget that 'absence makes the heart grow fonder' crap. You're not in the navy fighting overseas, and half those dudes come back and their wives are knocked up. What I mean is, Granddad used to tell me that marriage isn't for the weak. And you're acting pretty damn weak right now."

At first I'm angry, but when I think about it, what he said makes sense. She asked me to leave and I walked away. When she had that emotional spaz-out at Jax's house, I turned my back on her.

I put my hands on my head and realize what an idiot I've been. "Now she thinks I'm cheating on her." I groan.

He looks confused, so I tell him about the run-in with Kira and how I didn't go after Chassidy.

"You're a special kind of stupid, Bryce."

"At the time, I just felt... I think I wanted her to feel how she made me feel—abandoned."

"Tell her the truth. Show her what you've been working on. The truth is there. Go back home though. Refuse to leave. Make her know that you love her and you're never going to stop, so she can just get over it," he says, reminding me of our granddad.

I look at my little brother and wonder when the roles flipped. "When did you get so smart?"

He chuckles. "I've always been the smart one. You guys were just too stupid to know it."

### Chassidy

Last night was a dream.

That's what I tell myself as I get dressed to go to the airport, on the ride to the airport, and on the plane. It didn't really happen, it couldn't have happened, or if it did happen, it just didn't happen the way I remember it happening. I go through the scenario, picking holes in what my brain constructed. Maybe I was writing and since I was drinking, the story I'm working on started to blend with reality.

It was something like that. Yeah, it had to have been. It was some mental-induced anomaly that made me imagine those things. That explains it all—except I never went to sleep last night. I couldn't sleep, so I've been up all night, so it couldn't have been a dream. Or maybe all of this is a dream.

"Look, it's New York!" the little boy next to me tells his mom, pointing at the buildings shining brightly below us.

"It's his first time," she tells me with a glowing smile.

I smile back, looking at the cute little boy next to me. He can't be more than ten. I can't help but think of Logan, and that rips through my thoughts of my divine visit. _There is no divine._ That's what I tell myself getting off the plane and walking through the airport. My stomach drops when I see Davien, wearing a devious smile, holding a sign with my name on it.

"What are you doing here?" I squeal, unable to hide my surprise.

"Rough flight?" he kids.

I can't help but think about how terrible I look with bags under my eyes that are so big I could carry my luggage in them. "Long night." I sigh, feeling my cheeks heat up.

"You're still beautiful," he says, those grey eyes reminding me how alluring he is.

"It was so nice of you to pick me up."

He takes my bag. It's only a small carry-on but I appreciate the gesture. "No worries, it gives me an excuse to get away from the office."

We navigate through the busy airport. There's an energy in the air, a buzz, almost like when you start to feel the effects of your first drink. We head to the parking garage, and Davien walks over to a beautiful black Maybach. He pops the trunk and tosses my bag in. I take a second to admire the car—it's all luxury and screams elite. If this car is any indication of how many deals he makes, I definitely feel like I picked the right agent. He hops in, cool and suave like James Bond, and I can't help but think how far I look from a Bond girl with my _Pink_ sweats and plane hair.

"You're here. I didn't think you were going to come," he says before pulling off.

I let out a light laugh. "I didn't think I was going to come either."

"You made the right decision. You won't regret it." He gives me a dazzling smile, one that makes my stomach flip-flop.

I smile back while trying to block out my memories of yesterday.

"You okay?" he asks, sounding more amused than concerned.

"Yeah, being here is just sort of surreal."

"Like a dream?"

I can't help but smile. "No, I haven't been having much luck with dreams." I let my head lean back into the plush leather seat.

"Well, we won't call this a dream then. More like the best escape from reality you'll ever experience." His voice is almost intoxicating. The phone doesn't do it justice. It's deep and warm and enveloping. He could be a narrator on a commercial or do audio books.

I tell him that, and he laughs. As we drive, I let my window down, taking in the scenery, the air, and the people. New York is like Chicago's cooler big brother. Davien's quiet as he watches the road, though I notice him sneaking glances at me every so often. Then I realize that if I notice him sneaking glances at me, I must be sneaking glances at him. Soon we're in Manhattan, and I can't help but think of _Sex and the City_.

"I'm in New York!" I say, my phone in hand as I snap a few pictures.

"The Big Apple, babe," he says, mimicking I guess what would be a Bronx accent.

I pull up my itinerary showing my hotel information. "I hope they let me check in early so I can drop off my bags before sightseeing."

"Don't worry about that. I made other arrangements for you," he says with a secretive grin.

"What do you mean?"

"The hotel you were staying at was crap."

"What do you mean? It had really good reviews, other than it being sort of small, but isn't that to be expected with New York hotels?"

"If you were an ordinary tourist, it'd be fine, but this isn't an ordinary trip and I'm not an ordinary guy, so you're not staying at an ordinary hotel."

I frown but can't deny how excited I am. "So what extraordinary place am I staying at?"

"Rule number one of this trip. You don't get to ask questions," he says with a mischievous grin.

"I never took you for a rule guy," I tease.

"Rule number two, you have to keep an open mind with whatever I present to you."

That makes me hesitate.

"Don't think too much. That should be rule number three."

I laugh. "I might as well be seventeen again."

"I bet you had a lot more fun then than you did now," he winks, and I laugh. "Rule number three—"

"I thought rule number three was not thinking too much?"

"Which you're already sort of breaking," he counters. "Official rule number three..." He pauses as if waiting for me to interrupt, but I don't. "Do whatever Davien says."

I scoff. "So you pretty much want me to be at your mercy?"

"Would being at my mercy be such a bad thing?" His eyes smile at me with an unspoken dare.

_You're approaching a dangerous line._

I ignore the chill that shoots through me. That wasn't real. It didn't happen.

"You okay?" Davien asks again.

"Yeah, just had a weird night," I say with a flirty smile.

"Fun weird or weird-wierd?"

I glance at Davien. He's handsome, smart, career-oriented, sexy, a little arrogant—maybe a lot arrogant—rich, single, and living in one of the most exciting cities in the world, but that's all on the surface. I wonder what's beneath, or if I should even attempt to scratch the surface. What would he say if I told him about my weird dream, if I told him I don't really know if it's a dream, that I'm sort of terrified by it.

"Have you ever had a dream that was really weird?" I ask, wanting to test the waters.

He chuckles, low and rich. "If I could translate my dreams for you to write, they'd make best sellers."

I feel myself sinking into my seat. I'm sure the types of dreams he's talking about aren't what I'm talking about. "I mean like, when you're not sure if you're awake or asleep. Where if it wasn't so crazy, you'd have thought it was real."

He's quiet for a minute as if he's really pondering my question. I thought he'd have a quick retort or an amusing anecdote.

"What was it about?" he asks, his brows drawn together.

I'm surprised he's giving it genuine thought. I let out a small sigh. "It's so farfetched that I'm embarrassed to even say it."

"It can't be worse than some of the manuscripts I used to get in the slush pile." He chuckles. "You can't be embarrassed about a dream."

If he wasn't in the dream, it'd be much easier for me to tell him about it.

"I was in it?" he asks, his grin way too pleased.

"Maybe."

His smile widens. "Okay, don't tell me. I'd rather you tell me over dinner."

At this point, we're pulling into a parking garage connected to a gigantic high rise.

As we walk into the lobby, I say, "This doesn't look like a hotel."

"It's not. It's where I live," he says with a sneaky grin.

I stop in my tracks. "Wait, you don't think I'm staying with you, do you?"

He walks toward me, stopping when we're only a few inches apart. His pale grey eyes dance with mine, and his smile is innocent. "Now that would be completely inappropriate, wouldn't it?"

He takes my hand, and I fight the small gasp trying to escape as he leads me to the elevator. The building is sleek, modern, and high end. He hits number twenty-six as the door closes.

"I'm not staying at your apartment," I tell him, my voice stern for the first time all day.

"I have three bedrooms. Yours would be an en-suite."

"It doesn't matter. It'd be too weird."

He cocks his head at me. "You're breaking the rules," he says in a sing-songy voice, but instead of whining, it's unrelenting.

"You didn't mention you planned on having me stay with you," I scold him.

"Look, it's not like we'd be in the same bed. It doesn't make sense for you to stay in some crap hotel by yourself in a city that eats people alive." The way he says it makes it seem like it makes sense and it's not a big deal, but it is a big deal.

The elevator opens and he steps out. My feet, however, are glued to the floor. My thoughts drift to Bryce and how I'd feel if I found out if he was staying in some woman's apartment, especially a woman who is as attractive as Davien and flirts as openly... then I think of Kira and all of his flights. It's entirely possible that he has done this before.

"Can you at least take a look before you say no?"

I glare at him.

"We're friends, right?" he asks with a glint in his eye. "If we're _just_ friends, it shouldn't be a problem... unless you're afraid." He digs his hands into what I know have to be way-too-expensive slacks.

I sigh before leaving the elevator. "I'm just looking."

He follows me, surely wearing a satisfied grin. He walks over to a door only a few feet away from the elevator, waves something in front of it, and we hear the lock click.

"Fancy," I tell him, trying to loosen up a bit.

He opens the door and allows me to walk in. His apartment is jaw-dropping. If this was one of my books, it'd be panty-dropping. It's large and open concept with sunlight pouring in through a wall of windows. The walls are white, the floors are dark chocolate, and the furniture ranges from honey to deep brown. It looks professionally decorated, like something straight off HGTV. My apartment back home is nice, but Bryce and I chose everything together before my book sales started to take off, so we were conscious of how much we spent. This place looks like no expense was spared.

"What do you think?" he asks.

I grin at him, but I shrug as if I'm not impressed. "I'm not surprised."

"You like?" he asks, already knowing the answer.

"It fits you," I say, refusing to give him the response that he wants.

"Let me show you around," he says.

He points toward the kitchen, which is obvious. It's similar to mine, with all stainless steel appliances, but his tops aren't granite. They seem to be some sort of stained concrete. His kitchen, unlike mine, has a double oven, and the wine storage is fully stocked.

"This would be your room if you decided to stay," he says, tossing an amused glance at me as he opens a door.

The large, beautiful bedroom has the same view as his living room and a gigantic fireplace. He guides me through to show me the en-suite bathroom with a shower large enough for four people. He points at the controls, showing me how to change the temperature of the water as well as the floors, and he shows me the closet that will make my small carry-on feel lonely. I do note that it's empty aside from a few suits and shoes of his.

"So what are you thinking?" he asks, leading me out of the bedroom and over to the large island, where he takes a seat.

"Your home is gorgeous, though I'm sure you already know that," I say as I sit across from him.

He smiles in agreement.

"I'm sure my little hotel room won't live up to this," I admit, and his smile widens. "Still it's just..."

"My room is all the way over there," he says, pointing toward the other side of the apartment as if it's an entire continent away. I noted that he didn't show me his room, which has made me more curious. "I have my own bathroom, and your door locks. I even have a cleaning lady come twice a week, so it's sort of like housekeeping, and you'd have a private entrance to one of the best steak houses in the city through this building."

His home is spectacular and looks immaculately kept. His cleaning lady should get an award because I haven't noticed one thing out of place. I do hate using hotel showers and bathrooms. I even get my own cleaning supplies and sterilize them before using them.

"It's just a weekend, Chassidy. It's not like you're moving in. If you feel uncomfortable, you can check in at your hotel-hell place," he says smugly.

I throw my head back and sigh. "Okay."

I can't help but notice how much easier it's getting to say yes to him. I don't know if that's a good thing or not.

* * *

Davien leaves me his keys and security code before he heads off to the office. He has two meetings scheduled, but he's promised that after that, he's all mine. I hate when he says things like that. I hate that a microscopic part of me likes when he says things like that. Those comments were what I most looked forward to during our conversations, emails, and texts. It's only harmless flirting. That's what I told myself then and what I tell myself now as I unpack the few things I brought with me.

I take a quick shower, which feels so good it should be illegal. I make a mental note to upgrade my shower head when I get home. I'm going to head to Times Square for some shopping. I've told Davien that I also want to see the Statue of Liberty, and he promised we can go tonight after dinner. There's a ferry that will get us really close, and on a week night, it shouldn't be too crowded.

I take out the nail polish I brought to freshen up my nails since I don't want to waste any extra time here in a salon to get them done, and dial Nicole's number to see if she's free while I pass the time.

"Hey, babe," she says excitedly.

"Guess where I am?" I say, matching her excitement.

"You better not say New York since you were supposed to call and tell me if you were going to go," she says in a faux reprimanding tone.

"Well, I'm telling you that I am not in New York in a gorgeous apartment, painting my toe nails with the polish you gave me last year," I tell her, unable to suppress my smile.

"Liar!"

A moment later, my phone signals that she's Facetiming me. I laugh as I pick up. She's sitting in her office against the backdrop of my hometown, and it's silly that I feel a little homesick at the sight of it. I haven't been gone a full day yet, but this is the first time I've ever traveled alone.

"You sneaky whore," she scolds.

I can't help but laugh, knowing that her insult is a playful compliment. "I'm not sneaky. I didn't decide to come until yesterday and... things went a little crazy after that."

"I still can't believe you're really there. I didn't think you had it in you," she says, shock all over her face.

I shrug as I move on to my next toenail.

"And what hotel are you in? It looks super swanky," she asks.

This, I do feel a little embarrassed about. "I'm not in a hotel actually. When I got here, Davien said the hotel I picked was sort of grimy and I shouldn't stay alone and he has this huge apartment—"

"Wait, wait, wait! You, Chassidy Marie Bell, are staying in your hot agent's apartment?" she asks, her excitement growing with each word.

"It's not a big deal. It makes sense," I say, keeping my tone casual and even.

"You're lying!"

I laugh. "No, I'm not. I'm actually texting you the address where I am now in case he turns out to be a psycho or something after all." I set the nail polish aside and send her the address.

"Ahhh. I can't believe you're doing this, but good for you!" she says, sounding way too excited.

"Nic, I'm not doing anything!"

"So you're not trying to get even with Bryce for catching him with that skank?" she asks.

I sigh. "Thanks, Nic, I've been trying not to think about that."

"Well you should. An eye for an eye, right? Have you talked to him yet?"

I tell her that I haven't and recap the conversation with my mom.

"I can't believe he talked to your mother and hasn't called you yet. How much of a coward could he be? You deserve for him to at least tell you what's going on," she says, full of anger and indignation for me.

"I'd rather not talk about Bryce."

"Yeah, I'm sorry. I won't bring him up anymore. I was just curious and wanted to make sure you're okay, hon."

"I know." I give her a smile.

"Question, are you avoiding Kelsey?"

I love how Nicole can move from one sore subject to another without a transition or a clue that she's doing it.

"Why? Is she saying that?"

She frowns at me. "She asked about you, which is weird since she usually talks to you a lot more than she talks to me."

I let out a long sigh. "You know how Kelsey is. I just... I can't deal with her right now."

Nicole looks surprised. "Wow, what happened?"

"I really don't want to get into it, but I'll just say that she should respect people's boundaries more."

Nicole shrugs, letting me know she's going to drop the subject. "Speaking of boundaries, how is the bangable neighbor next door?"

I streak polish right across Davien's bed. "Crap, I just got polish on Davien's bed spread!"

"You don't have any remover with you?"

I groan, looking at the light pink stain on what has to be a thousand-dollar bed spread. "No, I only had a big bottle and it was over what I could carry on."

"I'm sure he's had worse stains." She giggles.

I roll my eyes, then I hop up, grab a towel, and dab it. Thankfully it seems to disappear.

"Hunky neighbor, back to him," she says.

I stop to think about what to tell her. If, as I hope, it was a dream, then that says nothing about Carter. If it wasn't a dream, he's nuts or I'm nuts, and I'm not sure which it is. So instead of defaming his name or worrying Nicole that I'm losing my marbles, I tell her about the situation as if it really was a dream, leaving out the parts about him knowing about Logan and Anna.

When I'm done, she waves. "It's probably just your conscience."

I frown. "But if I'm not doing anything wrong, why would my conscience be manifesting something so crazy?"

"Because deep down, you think you are. I think it's the effect of being friends with Kelsey for over ten years."

I can't imagine what Kelsey would think about me being here. No, I can imagine. I wonder what she'd say if I told her I was having hallucinations about hot neighbors being angels.

"Hey, I think this could help you and Bryce. If you do decide for something to happen, then you can forgive him if you choose to and you both would basically be even," she says casually.

"I doubt that Bryce would ever feel that way."

"Who cares what he thinks?" she says as if I'm crazy.

I should care. He's my husband. I should care... shouldn't I? Regardless of what he did.

"I think I'm bringing down your mood. I didn't mean to do that. You're in New York City, hon. Ugh, I wish I were there!" she squeals.

My thoughts drift to Carter and my hallucination/dream. By the time her next client has arrived, my nails are painted and dried. We hang up, and I throw on an oversized chic sweater, some black jeans, and ballet flats. I give myself a once-over in the mirror and grab my purse, iPad, and phone. As I'm leaving, the television turns on, and I wonder if it's some sort of setting Davien has set up like an alarm. I go over to turn it off, and my heart drops when I hear Sarah McLachlan's "Arms of an Angel." __ I grab the remote in a flash and hit the power button. Then the television in the living room comes on, blasting the same thing. I run and grab the remote and power it off, but it comes back on.

"I'm losing it. I really am," I mutter while running out of the apartment.

I stand in the lobby, goose bumps still on my skin. Am I going crazy? No, that was just a coincidence. There's a perfectly reasonable explanation for that happening. My Uber arrives, and I walk over to the little white Honda Civic and hop in.

"Chassidy?" the driver asks, confirming my identity.

"Yup," I say a little breathlessly.

"Empire State Building?" she asks, and I nod. "Great, we'll be there in a few. Traffic's been great. Any particular station you want?"

"Anything but Sarah McLachlan."

She giggles, not knowing how serious I am.

* * *

I don't want to think about what's happening back home, what happened at my apartment, or the weird thing that happened before I left Davien's. It's cliché, but I visit the Empire State Building first. I throw my focus onto the city, alive with its own personality. The people, food, and smells are all character traits.

From there, I head to the world's biggest Macy's. Retail therapy helps keep my mind off of Sarah's haunting music and its connection to my dream. I'm officially referring to what happened as a dream, because the more I think about it, the more unrealistic and farfetched it is. By the time I'm out of Macy's, I have several bags, a grumbling stomach, and a dead phone battery. At least I was smart enough to bring my charger.

It's a beautiful day, so I decide to hike to a Chipotle I noticed a few blocks back. When I go in, I spot an outlet next to a table, so I set down my bags and get settled in. I grab a fountain drink and debate grabbing two tacos as I wait for my phone to power up enough to turn on, but I'd hate to eat Chipotle while I'm in one of the food capitals of the world. Not to knock Chipotle, I love it, but I feel like I should grab a hot dog or something off the cart. Bryce always says that when you're traveling, you should never eat the same foods you would at home... I push him out of my mind.

Tonight I'm going to see the Statue of Liberty after dinner, then tomorrow, Central Park. When my phone powers on, I see that I have five voice messages and three texts. One text is from Davien saying his meeting's running late but he'll meet me at his house and we have reservations for seven. Another is from my mom, and my heart skips a beat when I see a text from Bryce asking me to call him.

My heart pounds. His text is simple, short even. Just a "call me." No "I'm incredibly sorry" or even a "How are you?". I read it as a demand, and who is he to demand anything of me? I wonder if he came home and saw I'm not there and now he wants to know why? It looks like his text message came in before I posted my photos on my social media pages. Or crap, did my mother call him? I'm getting a headache. This is why I came to New York, so I wouldn't have to think about things like this. I decide not to listen to the voicemails. Today isn't about reality, it's about escape.

It's about escape.

* * *

When I get back to Davien's house, I linger at the door.

"It was just a coincidence," I tell myself.

This is ridiculous! I'm standing outside of the door, juggling my bags in both hands because I'm afraid to go in. So what if I go in and some old 90s pop song that happens to be about angels plays? I take a deep breath, swipe the electronic key, and go in. The televisions are off, both of them, and I let out a huge sigh of relief. I take my bags into my room and put my phone on the charger. I walk over to the floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the city. I wonder how many people are here on vacation, or here to escape a person, a decision, a feeling. I wonder if they're successful at it.

I have to be.

Even if it's brief.

I don't want to go on engulfed in pain, blame, guilt, and sorrow. I just want to be _free_. From all of it, even if it's just for a weekend or a night. Tonight, I don't want to be Chassidy Bell, a woman who's unsure where she stands with her husband and who's lost her most precious gifts.

I don't want to be her!

I want to be someone different, like a character in one of my books. Strong, confident, desirable, fun.

I pick up the black BEBE bag and remove the dress that seemed to call to me the moment I walked in and saw it on the mannequin. It's olive green and short, but the material is thick. It's sleek and simple but the embodiment of sexiness. I slip it on and look at myself in the mirror. It clings to my skin, hugging all of my curves and sucking in the less-than-firm parts of my stomach, evidence of dreams and lives that never came to exist.

It erases the traces of my failures, my hurt and pain, and only shows the most flattering view of my body. I haven't worn anything like this in a long time. Even at the last dinner with Davien, the dress I wore was more conservative.

I think back to the last time I got so dressed up, when I wanted to feel desired by my husband... I sit down and stare at myself in the mirror. It's been so long... my birthday... two years ago maybe? No, it can't be that long, but I wrack my brain for the last time I got dressed up just for Bryce, when I expressed my desire for him. I tear up and guilt climbs over me, spreading from my head to my chest like an infection.

Ugh! This is exactly what I don't want. I need help getting into who I'm going to be tonight. A name, it all starts with the name... I'll be Tasha... no, Veronica. I grab my cosmetics bag and look in the mirror. I want to look different.

After a few minutes, I have my hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail. I put on makeup, but instead of my everyday face, I go heavy on the eyeliner and mascara and top it off with a red lip. I look so different, but that's what I wanted. I don't feel unusual even if the girl in the mirror looks so different from me.

* * *

I head out of the bedroom. My gaze lands on the wine bar, and I look through the bottles. All of them seem old and really expensive. I don't want to open any without his permission—it'd be just my luck I pop open a seven-hundred-dollar bottle of wine. I search under the wine bar, find the spirits, and choose vodka. With the half-empty bottle and a glass, I search the fridge for something to tone down the taste and settle on lemonade. I hear my mother's voice in my head telling me it's not even six o'clock yet but ignore it.

"It's probably not the smartest thing in the world to get drunk while staying in the house of a man who wants to sleep with you." Carter's standing in front of me.

"What are you doing here?" I shout, and drop my glass in fright.

But he's not alarmed and is surprisingly calm while my heart is about to shoot out of my chest.

"How did you get in here?" I yell.

"We've sort of already had this discussion." He sits on Davien's couch as I shake my head vehemently. "I'm an angel." His tone is light and jovial as he turns on the television.

I grip my head. "No. No! That wasn't real, that was a dream!"

"Things aren't real just because you don't want them to be?" he asks, turning toward me with a whimsical grin.

"I'm going insane. I'm really going insane," I tell myself through frantic laughter.

"Chassidy, you're not insane."

His voice is calming, but I push my hands out in front of me. "Don't come near me. Why are you here? I told you I don't believe in God! I don't want to. Just stay away from me."

"Well, he believes in you, and he doesn't want you to make the wrong decision, but I can't give you help if you refuse it."

"He wasn't there to help me when I really needed it! I don't want his help now. Get out!" I shout.

He starts to say something, but the door opens and Carter disappears as if he was never there in the first place. Davien comes through the door wearing a magnetic smile, but it doesn't send butterflies through my stomach like it usually does. I'm going to throw up. I must look ridiculous, tears staining my cheeks, with this stupid dress on, yelling like a maniac. I am a maniac.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

He approaches me, and I'm shaking but trying to calm down. He sees the spilled alcohol on the floor. The glass was too thick to break into shards, but it's in two pieces at my feet.

"No. No, I'm not okay." I take in a breath and grip the counter, trying to steady my thoughts, calm down my racing heart, and not think how ridiculous I look. _What is happening to me?_

He looks at me with sympathy rather than concern. He nods, picks up the broken glass, and cleans up the spilled liquid while I stand in the same spot, too embarrassed to look at him. When he's done, he stands beside me. I'm surprised he hasn't asked what's wrong with me.

Instead, he grabs another glass, pours the vodka in it, and adds a hint of lemonade. I expect him to hand it to me, but he takes a few gulps, then puts it down and slides it in front of me. I down it as quickly as I can, ignoring the stinging, disgusting taste.

"You look delectable."

I glance at him and remember what I'm wearing and how I look. I feel my neck flush as goose bumps break out on my skin. I only give him a lopsided grin in response and finish off the rest of my glass.

"I'd love to show you off tonight, but what if we do something different instead?"

I arch my brow at him, his pale grey eyes piercing mine.

"How about you go take a hot bath, and when you come out, we can have another one of these? I'll order in, and tomorrow we'll sight-see." His voice is warm and intoxicating, and that plan sounds amazing.

The anxiety and frustration that gripped me only a few minutes ago is disappearing. I'm at ease, like I'm floating, and by the time I draw my bath and settle into the deep soaking tub, I feel high, and I laugh at the events that transpired less than an hour ago.

None of that was real. I'm hallucinating and it should be a scary thought, but right now it isn't, because I'm in New York in a gorgeous apartment with a man straight out of a book. Davien's a sexy alpha male who makes you forget common sense, who entices you to indulge in things you never thought you'd enjoy. The vodka's fully in my system, I'm floating, and my name isn't Chassidy. It's Veronica.

When I get out of the tub and head back into my bedroom, I hear some form of jazz and it sounds amazing, as if the notes are speaking to me, telling me to let go, to stop thinking and just feel. I dance to the music in my room as I put on my pajamas, which consist of a white T-shirt and small shorts, since I thought I'd be staying in my own room at the hotel. Everything is easy, easy.

When I come out of the bedroom, Davien is stretched across the couch. He's not in his normal suit and collared shirt; he's in a form-fitting T-shirt and jeans, and it shows an entirely different side of him. He's lean with strong arms that don't bulge, his dark hair is messy, and he looks perfectly beautiful. With a casual but inviting grin, he lifts a glass of what I'm guessing is the same drink from earlier. I sit beside him, making sure I'm close enough to take in his cologne, for my body to recognize his presence has its own gravity, sucking in everything orbiting around him. I sink into the soft sofa, hoping it will steady me and wondering if it'll let me float right into him.

"One drink?" he asks, his smile innocent but his eyes daring.

I giggle and let my head fall back. "I think I've had enough."

"You've barely had half a glass," he counters, his voice deep and melodic.

"And I already feel as if I'm going to drift away," I say while stretching my body out to mimic his.

"Don't do that unless you're going to take me with you."

His smile is dangerously flirtatious and my breathing speeds up. The little voice in my head that usually tells me to step back, to ignore his charms, is quieter than normal, almost a ghost of a voice. I squint at him, and he shifts toward me. His eyes roam my body, but it's not as if he's being coy about it, and it makes me tingle all over. He sets his glass down in front of him, and when his hand lands on my stomach, I stop breathing. His fingers slip along the edge of my T-shirt and glide above my belly button. He grips the hem of the shirt and pulls it down, covering the skin. His hand rests there. I should make him move it, but it feels good. My skin is on fire and I know my goose bumps are giving me away if my flushed skin hasn't. I don't need a drink; he's intoxicating by himself.

I close my eyes and let out a much needed breath. I know I'm giving myself away. If this was a poker game, I just let him see my hand.

_Are you really doing this?_ The voice I thought was fading gets louder, and I tell it to shut up.

"Just one more." I gesture to his glass. I know a drink will quiet the voice down.

He hands me his glass, full of straight vodka.

"I can't drink this. You didn't cut it with anything," I say with a small laugh.

"No, you'll like it, I promise," he says, his eyes smiling at me.

I arch my eyebrow in disbelief.

"Trust me."

I don't drink anything straight, but I don't want to be me. I'm Veronica, and Veronica doesn't find it disgusting. She'll enjoy every drop. I take a deep breath and prepare for the disgusting taste, but it's not as bitter and terrible as I expect. It still has the distinct taste of alcohol, but there's a sweet undercurrent.

"What is this?" I ask.

He grins at me, and it's glorious. "Apple vodka."

I grip the glass tighter, feeling a chill come over me. _Apple._ My body stiffens. Why, of all the flavored drinks, does it have to be apple? I smile tightly and tell myself not to freak out.

It's just a coincidence. But my mind flashes to Ms. Lewis, the Sunday school teacher with long red hair and a PBS smile, explaining to us about Adam and Eve as she read from the big white book in her lap.

_... she took of the fruit thereof, and did eat._

"Not a big fan of apple?" he asks, his eyes on mine.

I sit up on the couch, set the glass down, and rest my head in my hands as I look at him. "I think I'm going crazy, like seriously crazy."

He pulls his lips between his teeth, and heat spreads through my body. The doorbell rings and he lets out almost a groan as he gets up and answers it. I'm assuming it's the food he ordered, but I suddenly don't have an appetite. I'm going crazy. I am seriously losing it.

_But what if you aren't?_

"Let's eat, beautiful." He looks so tall and long, standing in front of me. He offers his hand, and I take it. He pulls me up like a feather as I ignore the electricity in the air.

"I'm going to go to the bathroom."

He nods, looking amused as I rush out of the room. I shut my bedroom door, making sure to lock it.

"Get it together, Chas," I mutter. I look at the ceiling. "Hey! What do you want from me? What? Am I going crazy? If you're really out there listening, I need you to talk to me right now okay? Right now!"

I wait about half a minute for something to happen. I'm not entirely sure what I'm expecting: Carter to appear out of thin air, a voice to boom from above, a flash of lightning. I don't know, but it makes me angry when nothing happens, and I shake my head.

"It's typical. You never answer when I ask for you. When I need your help," I growl, balling up my fists, wanting to hit something as tears come to my eyes. "I asked for your help. I begged you for your help. I begged you to save my babies, but you didn't. You give me these screwed up visions because _now_ you care about my decisions? Or no, maybe you don't, because you're quiet again. Whoever you are, whatever you are!"

I grab my cell phone off the bed and look to see if there are any more missed calls from Bryce. There aren't, but I have two messages from numbers I don't have saved in my phone and a text from my mother, which I don't open because it's the last thing I need.

"Why is this happening to me?"

I scroll through my contacts and decide to call the one person who could tell me if all of this is real. I pull up Carter's name and call him, but I get a message that the number is no longer in service. I laugh—of course his number won't work anymore.

Davien knocks on the door. "Are you okay in there?"

I don't know how to answer his question. I don't really feel okay, but what do I tell him? That I feel as though I'm on the edge of a nervous breakdown?

"Yeah, I'm just... I'll be out in a minute."

"Okay." His footsteps move from away from the door.

I look through my phone again, going into the bathroom, and I dial Bryce's number, but it goes straight to voicemail. I chuckle bitterly and hang up.

As I walk back out to the kitchen, where Davien has set out dinner, I picture Bryce and Kira together, laughing, talking, kissing, and it gets progressively worse. I force the thoughts out of my head. I sit down across from Davien, who has poured wine instead of vodka, and I'm grateful. He ordered Thai food—noodles and some chicken dish and rice.

"This smells great," I say with a weak smile.

He looks as if he's waiting for me to try it. "It tastes even better."

I happily eat a swirl of noodles with my chopsticks. It's amazing. "You're right."

He beams. "I usually am. Let's make a toast."

"To what?" I ask, trying to catch the earlier feeling.

"To living life for ourselves," he announces, his eyes locking on to mine. "To not being controlled by anyone or anything, to making our own decisions and living this life, enjoying every single second of it, until the very last drop."

His eyes hold mine captive. I can't believe how relevant his words are, and I nod before toasting with him. The wine is amazing, going down smooth and light and pairing perfectly with the spiciness of the noodles. I concentrate on the taste of the food, the sound of the music, the sight of Davien. I focus on the moment, this moment.

I try to, as he said, take advantage of every second. I eat until I'm past full, and I have a second glass of wine. He cleans up, and soon we're back on the couch as he tells me stories of his travels. He's been to every single continent. I ask if he speaks any other languages, and he begins to speak in Italian. I only recognize a few words from the two years I took classes in high school, and of course his Italian sounds nothing like the choppy, tangled sentences I'd say if I tried. He's clearly fluent, his pronunciation smooth and beautiful.

"What did you say?" I ask quietly.

"It's getting harder..." A smile spreads across his illegally handsome face, and it's wicked. "To be next to you and not touch you, to look at your lips and not kiss them, to sense how much you want me to but not be allowed to touch. It's torture, the definition of being in hell."

I swallow hard. He's no longer smiling, and the air that was light is full of tension and lust, thick and intoxicating.

"I-is that a poem or a line one of your authors have written?" My voice is a little above a whisper.

"No."

We're no longer teasing each other. There's no hint of playfulness, no more thinly veiled innuendos. We're just two people who are dangerously attracted to one another, sitting only a few inches apart. I think of my questions from not even an hour earlier. Asking for an answer, a sign. I think of how Bryce didn't pick up when I called. I guess that was my answer. I have no one to answer to or for, and Bryce doesn't care what I'm doing or who I'm with, and I can't say who my own husband is with.

"Then why haven't you?" I ask.

He bites his lip and lets out a breath that he seems to have been holding forever. "Because I need permission." His voice is full of hunger, and it's me he wants to devour.

I look into his eyes. They're deep, no longer pale but a dark storm-colored grey, intense and demanding. He moves closer to me and I don't move away, our lips, no more than a finger's width apart.

"You don't seem like a man who asks for permission."

"I'm not exactly what I seem," he says with a barely there grin.

I want this.

I really do.

I want Davien—my body does, at least. It doesn't discriminate between what's right or wrong, what's fair or not fair. It's screaming that it wants this man, even if temporarily, regardless of the consequences or the damage. My mind is telling me that I'm not entirely wrong if I do this, Bryce is possibly doing the same thing right now. If for some reason I'm completely incorrect about him and Kira, then he never has to know...

My heart is broken. It can't speak right now.

"Kiss me."

My words are barely above a whisper, but he hears. His lips press against mine, and words slip away. I melt into him, and it's easier than I ever thought it could be to kiss someone I don't love.

His arms wrap around my waist, pulling me close as the kiss deepens. I'm breathless as my thoughts and sensations crash against one another. We're no longer orbiting each other—I'm in his atmosphere. I sense everything slipping away, my reservations, guilt, anger, sadness. His hands move between my thighs, making way for his body to slide between them. Then he's on top of me, and our mouths don't separate for one moment.

His hands leave my body, and I can hear him undoing his pants. I hear my breath, the music, and my phone.

I think it's my phone.

I try to ignore it as he takes his shirt off a body chiseled to perfection, not one ounce of fat hiding any of his muscles. I touch them, my hand trailing down each etched ab. He pulls me to him as his hands slide under my shorts, tugging them down, and I feel light. My body longs for what's about to come, but I keep hearing my phone ring.

He sees my gaze turning toward it. I watch the phone moving on the island, lighting up, and he grips my chin, turning it back toward him before delving into my mouth. His tongue moves expertly as his fingers trail down my back, pulling my underwear below the swell of my butt. I try to focus on his touch, which doesn't feel foreign or intrusive.

He feels like Bryce.

His movements are so much like his, even his kisses, that if I closed my eyes and pretended I was dreaming, it'd be Bryce. I picture his face, and in an instant, he has Bryce's face. But then he's Davien again, sucking my neck, sliding his fingers to places that make me moan. I should revel in this, but I feel panic instead...

My phone rings again. It's louder and more intrusive, and I can't focus on anything else.

"Davien, stop. I have to get the phone," I say, grateful for an excuse to break away from his embrace. I can't tell him I keep seeing flashes of my husband. That'd make me sound insane.

"Ignore it," he mumbles against my lips.

"No, stop, I've got to get it." I pull away from him and run over to my phone. It's the same unknown number from earlier. "Hello?" My voice is shaky and comes out too loud.

"Chassidy?" a woman says. It sounds familiar but I can't place it. "This is Annette."

My stepmom.

"Um, hi. This is sort of a bad time," I tell her, looking back at Davien apologetically.

He's sitting up now, his arms crossed and wearing just his boxers and an irritated glare. He could be the model for an edgy Calvin Klein commercial. I try to suppress the smile spreading across my face.

"Chassidy, your father's in the hospital."

That kills the smile that was about to creep across my face.

"I-is he okay? What happened?" I ask, gripping my phone tighter. I already know from the long pause that he isn't.

"We've been trying to reach you all day. I wanted Bryce to tell you in person." Her voice breaks.

My heart is pounding so hard it almost hurts, fear creeping up from the pit of my stomach. "Just tell me!"

"He's been in a car accident." I must be silent for too long, because she asks, "Did you hear me?"

I nod before realizing she can't see me. "Yeah... so... how bad is it?" There's another pause, and I grip the island to prepare myself. When I hear her burst into tears, I lower myself to the floor.

"Hey, Chassidy." It's my little sister's voice. She sounds tired and broken too.

"Hi, Stephanie."

"It's not good, but we're hoping for the best." Her voice is strained and I can tell she's doing her best to hold in her own tears.

The phone call only lasts a few minutes, but it changes everything. By the time I hang up, I realize I'm on the floor, tears falling, with just a T-shirt on. I look up and Davien is standing next to me, his face unreadable as he sits down next to me. I tell him what I just found out, and I like that he doesn't say he's sorry or that everything will be fine.

"That's terrible, Chassidy," he says after a few seconds, his face blank.

"I've got to go." I don't know if there's regret in my voice, because the only thing I feel is numb.

After sitting in a daze for I'm not sure how long, I grab my laptop and look for flights to California. There's one leaving in three hours, and I book it without a second thought. I tell Davien about the flight and he offers to take me to the airport, but it'd be easier for me to take an Uber. I float through the next hour.

Davien gives me space because I'm not sure what else he could give me. Finding out your dad has been in a car accident kills the mood completely, and Davien's not the most sensitive guy in the world. I think he gives me space partly because he's afraid of saying something that would make things worse, not that I can think of anything that could make this worse.

I don't remember getting in the shower, but I'm in here. I keep waiting for tears to come, but they don't. I just have this weight that seems to sit on my chest, so heavy that everything preceding the phone call seems irrelevant or unimportant. I try not to think about any of it: Bryce and me, my lost little angels, the possibly real hallucination angel, what just happened between Davien and me. I put it into a box that's too small to fit it all. The slightest shift will make everything explode out of it.

When I get out of the shower, I put on another _Pink_ sweat suit and tennis shoes, my designated plane wear. I look at the bags of things I bought that won't fit into the carry-on bag I brought with me. I thought I'd have more time to buy a bigger suitcase. I ask Davien if I can borrow one of his, and less than a minute later, he's appeared with a big black one. He's fully dressed now, so I assume he's going to go meet with someone who can give this night a better finish than I did. I can't blame him.

As if reading my mind, he gives me an apologetic smirk. I just place the bags in the suitcase he gave me. When I'm done, I roll both cases out of the room I didn't even have a chance to sleep in, but then I realize that if what almost happened had happened tonight, I wouldn't have slept in it anyway. I request my Uber, and it's only six minutes away.

He stands and grabs the bags from me. "I'm going to walk you down."

"Thank you."

There's an awkward tension between us, but not as bad as it could be. We leave the apartment and press the elevator button. As we go down, I glance at him.

"You know, this could make a pretty good premise for a story," he says, and I chuckle.

"I'm sorry about all of this."

"This isn't your fault, Chassidy."

We reach the ground floor, and I hold the elevator door open for him. "I just hate I brought all of this to your doorstep."

"Chassidy?"

When I hear my name, almost as if from a ghost, my body stiffens. When I turn and see him, I'm confused and speechless. "Bryce?"

My poor heart is on a treadmill that's just gone from one to ten on an incline. My eyes are wide, my mouth wider, and I don't know what to say. He walks toward me, his expression somewhere between confused and hurt. That little box I packed everything in is opening, and I'm trembling. I glance at Davien, whose expression is blank as he looks between us, then for some idiotic reason, he grins. I'm trying to think of something to say or what to do, but it's as if all my systems have shut down.

"What are you doing here?" is all I can manage to say.

But Bryce isn't looking at me. He's looking at _us_ , his expression changed from perplexed to furious.

"This is my agent!" I say quickly, and I realize that still doesn't explain why I'm coming out of an apartment building with a man—not just any man, but a man who looks like Davien—in another state, with overnight bags, at almost ten thirty at night. All the blood drains from my face.

"Nice to meet you," Davien says, his voice not giving away a bit of guilt, nervousness, or fear.

Bryce glances at his hand, then his eyes rip a hole through me. "Agent? The one you didn't tell me about?"

Davien takes back his hand, apparently realizing it's not going to be shaken. I feel sick when I think about where his hands just were on my body.

"What the hell are you doing here, Chassidy?" Bryce's voice is now not only sharp but louder, and we're drawing attention from the lobby attendant and a group of people dressed up for a night out.

"Bryce, can we not talk about this now?" I plead, even though guilt and shame are pouring off of me.

He laughs bitterly. "This isn't an office building. This is an apartment complex. You think I'm stupid?"

Seeing tears in his eyes, I look away. I can feel his rage. Bryce doesn't get angry often, but when he does, it's a disaster.

"Look, guy, I know you're upset, but don't do this here," Davien says.

"You don't tell me what the hell to do," Bryce says angrily. "Are you sleeping with my wife?"

The lobby's gone quiet, all attention on us.

"Is everything okay, Mr. Marx?" the attendant asks.

"It's fine, Thomas," Davien says calmly, but I'm about to faint.

"We didn't sleep together!" I whisper loudly to Bryce, never more thankful to tell the truth.

His eyes whip across my face, searching for a lie. I do my best to let him know it's the truth, but Bryce isn't stupid. He knows me, he used to be my best friend, and he knows something isn't right about this.

"Bryce, please. Can we just go? I just found out my dad was in an accident." I feel like dirt using my dad as an excuse, but if I don't, things are going to go really badly.

His expression softens just a bit, but it's something. "I know. That's why I came here."

His voice is colder than ice, but I'd rather him run cold than hot, and I feel even more like crap when I realize that after everything, he's here for me. His eyes go from me to Davien and back to me. I dare not look at Davien, but I hope he's not wearing his signature amused, smug grin.

"Please, Bryce, my flight leaves in less than an hour. Can we just go? We can talk in the car, I promise," I beg, taking his hands.

He looks down at me, and all I see is confusion, hurt, and disappointment. He nods and grabs my bags from behind Davien. "Yeah, we can go."

As we walk toward the front entrance, I slink behind Bryce, not knowing what to say. We're almost at the door when I glance back, hoping Davien can see how sorry I am for all of this, and my stomach drops when I see his smug grin. I instantly regret looking back.

"See you soon, Chassidy," he says loudly.

Bryce stops, and I grab his arms, pleading with my eyes before the words reach my mouth. But before I can say anything, he's run back to Davien and knocked him onto the floor.

"Bryce, stop!" I scream, running toward them.

Bryce is punching Davien, who does his best to protect his face. They're are about the same height and build, Davien having maybe an inch or two on Bryce, but Bryce is powered by pure anger. The lobby attendant, along with a few guys who were standing by the door, rushes to break them up, and they manage to pull Bryce off of him. But Davien runs toward Bryce and punches him. The men holding Bryce scramble to grab both of them. Fists and elbows fly, and I'm crying, feeling completely helpless. I can't even look at them.

Before long, the attendant has them separated. "Do you want us to call the police, Mr. Marx?"

"Please don't!" I exclaim.

"No, no, it's fine. We're good," Davien says, catching his breath.

"What about you, sir?" he asks Bryce.

I silently beg him to say it's okay.

"I'm good," he says after a few moments. He's purposely not looking at me.

I glance around and see the group from earlier seems to have multiplied. They're all staring at us—or at me. I'm the whore who caused this mess, and it sucks because I don't have any defense.

"How about you go back upstairs, Mr. Marx?" the attendant suggests before letting Bryce go.

"That's a good idea." Davien's voice sounds completely unaffected, and he's back to wearing his signature smile.

The attendant hits the elevator button for Davien, and Davien winks at me before the doors close. Bryce attempts to lunge at him again, but the group of men hold him.

"I can't believe this is happening," I cry.

The men look at me as if I'm wearing a scarlet letter. Most of them didn't hear what was going on, but after that display, I'm pretty sure they've put two and two together. They give Bryce sympathetic looks before dispersing. I attempt to make eye contact with Bryce again, but he turns away from me and walks toward the door.

My phone rings. It's my Uber driver, and I tell him I'm on my way out.

"Are you okay, miss?" the lobby attendant asks.

Bryce is still visibly upset, and he shakes his head at me before he hurries through the door. I grab my bags and follow him, shouting a thanks to the attendant over my shoulder.

When I leave the lobby, I expect Bryce to be gone, but he's just outside the door, hands in his pocket, eyes on the ground. I stand in front of him, not knowing what to say. God, how the tables have turned since the last time I saw him—that thought gives me more confidence at least.

"Did you sleep with him?" His voice is low and seems broken.

"No. I swear to you."

When he finally looks at me, his eyes scour my face, his own crinkled at the corners and full of hurt. "Is that who you've been pushing me away for? I-I thought it was about Logan." His voice breaks.

"No, I promise you. I just met him last month," I say, dodging people that are coming down the street. My phone rings again, and I see it's the Uber driver. I pick up and say, "Can you just give me a few more minutes, please?"

"No, you don't need any more time. You should go," Bryce spits, his voice void of all emotion.

"What about you and Kira? I caught you together!" I yell, my anger overcoming my guilt.

His head snaps up, and he looks at me as if I've grown three heads. "I wasn't on a date! God, you've had your head so far up your own ass the past few months!"

I'm so taken aback, I'm speechless at first. He's never talked to me like that. "Why didn't you say that then?"

"You didn't give me a chance to say anything! You stormed in there like one of those women on the stupid housewives show you watch and embarrassed me! You know me better than that. I'd never cheat on you, and if I was, I wouldn't be stupid enough to bring someone to our favorite restaurant. You know what? It doesn't even matter," he says, shaking his head before turning his back to me and walking away.

"Bryce! I didn't have sex with him, I promise you!" I shout as I walk after him. We're causing such a scene, but I don't care.

He stops and turns to me. "What did you do then?" His eyes are full of pain and disappointment.

My stomach drops. I can't look at him. No, I didn't sleep with Davien, but we came pretty close. Even though it didn't happen, a line was crossed that shouldn't have been. Me being here is completely wrong. It's stupid, disrespectful, and inappropriate, and I have no excuse.

"Yeah, I figured that," he spits, his words like fire on my skin. "Go be with your dad. That's who needs you... because I sure as hell don't."

He turns and disappears into the crowd. This time I don't follow him. I'm on one of the busiest streets in New York, and I'm too devastated to be embarrassed. I ignore the puzzled looks of passersby, some concerned and others amused, but no one approaches me. I just want to stop crying, but I can't.

"I hate you!" I shout.

I'm sure most people think I'm shouting at Bryce, but I'm shouting at God. I know now he exists, because there has to be someone pulling the strings to make my life this shitty.

I don't remember walking through the airport. I have no idea how I made it through security and check-in. It's all a blur.

Yesterday was supposed to be my escape from the reality that was drowning me. Instead I dove headfirst into it and drowned. Life is so funny. Because if you had asked me three days ago if I was still in love with Bryce, I would have said yes, even with everything that was going on. But if you asked me if could I live without him, if I wanted to, I wouldn't have had an answer. The moment he walked away from me on one of the busiest streets in New York, I knew I couldn't. The thought of not having him in my life began to strangle me. The space between us that I thought couldn't get any bigger went from a hole to a chasm. I feel lost, hopeless, and about to face one of the most emotionally devastating things of my life without my husband.

I pull out my phone. While waiting for the plane to take off, I go through the missed calls and messages. They're from my stepmom, mom, Nicole, and Kelsey, all trying to track me down. Nicole's message went something like, "Bryce really needs to talk to you and begged me to tell him where you were. Please call me. I'm about to cave and tell him."

My mother, of course, was frantic over not knowing where I was and wanting to give me the news herself. Kelsey was concerned even though I haven't answered her last few calls or emails. I think about how different things would have gone if I had called one of them back.

I've ruined everything.

I think about all of the bizarre things that have happened over the past few days and wonder if it was my brain's way of trying to tell me, I was about to make one of the biggest mistakes of my life.

I never thought I could hate her. After everything that's happened between us, I never thought it'd be possible to hate her, and it still isn't.

I hate myself for still loving her.

After that talk with my brother, I went home, back to our home.

I was determined to have it out with her, because we hadn't and I wanted to get it over with so that we could fix things. If we had to break each other to start over, it'd be worth it as long as it saved us.

* * *

When I got to the apartment and saw that she was gone, I didn't know what to think. Then I checked her Facebook page and saw that she was in New York and I had no clue why. I couldn't believe she hadn't told me, but we'd both been crappy to each other, so I figured she was with Nicole, who travels a lot, but she wasn't. I should have known something was wrong when I had to pry her exact whereabouts from Nicole as if I were a dentist. I was going to wait for her to get back, but then Annette called and told me what was happening with Richard. I knew I had to be the one to tell her. I had to be with her.

I put in for leave from work and set us up an appointment with a marriage counselor who also specialized in grief counseling. I told myself we were going to get the help we needed even if I had to kidnap her to get her there.

After sitting in our apartment, waiting for her for hours, I got it. I realized that the loss of our child was strangling her. She'd pushed me away because of her pain, it was always at the forefront of her thoughts. Deep down I knew it, but somewhere along the way, I'd stopped fighting for her and started fighting against her.

Today was supposed to change all of that.

Today, I was going to tell her I don't care if she was giving up on us because I wasn't and I'd do whatever it took to prove to her that our love was strong enough to get us through this. That I loved her permanently, not temporarily or conditionally.

That was my plan until I saw her with that douchebag.

They looked at each other like some awkward one-night stand. I never thought she'd cheat on me, even with her pushing me away. As distant as she had been, I'd never thought it was another man.

I still don't want to believe it. I don't know what I was reading between them. I want more than anything to be wrong. I want him to just be a smug asshole. I wanted her to tell me _nothing_ happened, but she couldn't. I don't know exactly what happened, but I know whatever it was, it went too far and it took everything in me not to kill them.

I'm a fool. All this time, she could have been screwing around on me with that clown. She kicked me out of my house for some knock-off Christian Bale.

"Drowning your sorrows?"

It's Kira behind me. I'm not really surprised. I called Jax and told him what happened. I wasn't sure how coherent I was while spewing off obscenities, but I guess he figured out enough to realize I'd be either in jail or at the bar of my hotel.

She takes the barstool next to me. I'm on my second glass of whiskey but signal for my third.

"I can just sit here if you don't want to talk," she says softly.

I let out a long breath through my nose, feeling like the biggest idiot in the world. All that I've worked on with Kira was to save my marriage to a wife who couldn't care less. I'm embarrassed. I can't even bring myself to tell her what's happened.

"I'd appreciate the not talking."

She nods. I don't know how many minutes pass before she orders herself a drink, but I've finished my third one by the time she orders hers.

"I know you said you didn't want to talk."

I look at my empty glass and signal for another.

"But did you show her yet?" she asks, and I realize she must wonder why I'm getting dead drunk alone in a hotel bar instead of with my wife. Maybe my message to Jax didn't make sense, or maybe Jax didn't want to tell her what's going on.

"It doesn't matter anymore." My tongue is starting to feel heavy and dry, but that doesn't matter either.

"What do you mean?"

I wonder if she remembers our agreement about not talking.

"Well, if you don't want to talk, how about I do the talking?" She bites her bottom lip, and I nod. "I guess it makes it easier to say this to you since you're pretty wasted and probably won't remember this tomorrow."

I glance at her and realize she looks nervous.

"I-I think I'm developing feelings for you," she blurts.

I must be drunk, because she can't have just said that to me. I turn toward her. Her big amber eyes lock on mine, and my heart twitches.

"Silly, right? Not only because you're married and Jax's best friend but... I _know_ how much you love your wife." She's balling up her napkin, and her cheeks are flushed. "But you just seem like you're the only one making the effort in your _situation._ I'm not sure what happened for you to be with me and not with her tonight, but maybe it's a sign."

I look at her, not knowing what to say.

"I know this may be shocking to you, but I've always liked you. Even while I was with Jax, I was attracted to you and I hated myself for it. That's why I was so mean to you." She laughs half-heartedly.

My eyes widen. I think I'm becoming more sober by the minute, because this is becoming way too much to hear.

"Will you promise me not to remember this tomorrow?" She sighs with a nervous laugh.

I let out a sigh, trying to play into my inebriated state. Then she puts her hand on mine and leans in. Her perfume hits me hard, as does her touch, and they mesh with the images I've made up in my head of Chassidy and that bastard.

"If you need someone to talk to, to lean on, I'm always here," she says, squeezing my hand. Just how she breezed in, she gets up and disappears, leaving behind a twenty dollar bill for her drink.

I'm thinking about how much more crazy this night can get when my phone rings. It's Chassidy's mom, and I refuse to deal with her craziness tonight. I hit Ignore, then turn off my phone.

Someone's sitting next to me, right next to me. I hate when people do that. There're a dozen free stools and they chose to sit next to me. I glance at the stranger, but my glance morphs into a full-blown stare.

"She's beautiful," says the gorgeous brunette—sexy would probably be a better word.

She looks straight out of a 1950s pin-up magazine, with coal-black hair falling in waves against her perfect tanned skin. She has big pale blue eyes and red lipstick across her heart-shaped lips. If I was sober, I could fight my eyes drifting down her body. She's wearing a red dress that, even sitting down, shows each of her curves, and her neckline goes damn near down to her stomach. She must be used to making men speechless, because she only grins.

I can't help but wonder why a woman like this is talking to me. Don't get me wrong, I know I can get women's attention when I want, but this isn't one of my best days and I reek of whiskey, and this woman is a certified ten.

"Tough day?" she asks, her smile revealing perfect white teeth. Her voice is husky and seductive, as if designed by my thirteen-year-old self.

"Worse."

She shifts toward me, giving a first-class view of a body created by Hugh Hefner. She crosses her legs and leans toward me, her perfume slipping into my vicinity. "Is that your girlfriend?" Her husky voice is a little more airy and sweet than it was before.

"No," I say a little too quickly, and she giggles.

"Where is she then?" she asks.

"Who?"

"Your girlfriend... wife... boyfriend?" she teases as her eyes drift over me.

"Wife."

"Too bad," she says with a light sigh.

I swallow hard and make myself look forward and read the labels on all of the liquor bottles. A new bartender replaces the tall older guy one who was here before. This one is young, probably a few years older than me. I think he's going to distract my beautiful companion, but I notice that instead of flashing her his most encouraging grin, his expression is hard and almost contemptuous. When I glance at her, she's mimicking him. A coldness passes between them.

I wonder how any man could look at a woman like her with anything but awe.

"Refill?" he asks me, his gaze warming, and I realize maybe he's more into dudes.

"Yeah," I tell him.

"And for you?" he asks. His voice almost sounds bitter when he looks at the woman next to me.

"The usual," she says snippily.

He lingers a few seconds before going to get our drinks. A few moments later, he returns with both.

"I'm paying for his," she says casually.

I turn toward her, surprised, and she winks at me.

"No, you don't have to do that," I say quickly.

"I insist." She takes out a fifty dollar bill and slides it over to the bartender, who's still scowling at her.

He takes it almost begrudgingly before going to the other end of the bar to serve other customers who have arrived.

"I wonder what his problem is," I mutter.

"He has a permanent stick lodged up his butt," she says with a smirk, and I can't help but grin. "So who stole your money?"

I look at her, confused.

"There're only two reasons a man who looks like you sits at a bar like this drinking as much as you are. Either someone broke your heart or stole your money, but since any woman would be insane to do that, I went for the more obvious conclusion."

"Neither."

She chuckles, arching perfect brow at me. "I'm wrong on both?"

I take another gulp of my drink, but it's way weaker than the one before it. "Surprising to you?"

"Yes, actually. It's very rare that I'm wrong." Her tongue glides seductively over her bright white teeth.

"What's your name?"

"You can call me Lucy," she tells me with a smile. I look at her curiously, my brow arched.

"Lucy? That's sort of an old name," I tell her amused and she shoots me a magnificent grin.

* * *

Lucy gets me through my night, a night that I thought would be the beginning of my destruction. She's a fantastic distraction. Talking to her is easy, and it turns out not only is she beautiful, she's intelligent and funny. She's twenty-six years old, a marketing executive for some high-end boutique in New York, and speaks Russian, Italian, and French. She knows more than most guys about hockey and football, and her life is interesting enough to consume the entire conversation, but she doesn't. If she hadn't told me that she was a marketing exec, I would have sworn she was a psychiatrist, because she's gotten me to talk so much it's almost scary. She listens too, really listens and never interrupts, and when I'm finished telling her about what happened tonight, I wait for her to give me some words of wisdom because it seems like she has everything figured out.

"I think resentment is what kills most relationships," she says.

I look at her, waiting for her to elaborate.

"People talk about forgiveness all the time, right?" she asks, tossing her long dark hair over her shoulder. "But forgiveness isn't the answer. It isn't even a real thing. 'Forgive others and feel at peace.'" She lets out a half of a laugh and rolls her eyes. "No one wants to forgive anyone else, and the person you forgive never really believes it anyway." She takes the last sip of her gin and tonic.

I look at her, baffled. before finishing the last of my own watered down mess. "Wow, that's pretty grim."

"It's not grim. It's life," she says lightly.

I squint at her, trying to figure out this beautiful, jaded girl.

"Let's say that your wife did cheat on you with this hot agent guy," she says.

I feel a flash of anger from just her statement, and I frown because I definitely didn't refer to him as "hot."

"Hypothetically," she says, using air quotes. "If she did or didn't, you believe that something did happen between them, so let's say they did. Could you 'forgive' her?"

I think about it. I don't want to give her a quick answer because in this small amount of time, I feel like we've both been honest and thoughtful.

I see Chassidy's face, her smile. I remember her laugh, our first date, the first time I made love to her, our wedding day, how she always let me pick the TV show, how she curled her body around me when we slept. How when I have bad days, she says she loves me at the perfect time... or she used to at least.

If it did happen and it only happened one time, would that be worth throwing all of it away? Could I give her up over a mistake and live without her?

"I think I could forgive her. That's what love is about, right?"

"No. You _think_ you could, but what would really happen is you'd push the thoughts to the back of your mind, the deepest, darkest place. And it would stay there for a while. But eventually, it will inch its way back to the forefront, making its way up through the cracks of trivial arguments and wrapping itself around the irritating, annoying things she does that she can't help."

I swallow hard, feeling a sense of dread creeping over me.

Lucy leans closer to me. "You'll resent her, and it will grow and grow until one day you'll hate her. She'll never believe you really forgave her. Guilt would push you guys apart as if you had left her in the first place."

Silence passes between us, and my stomach feels sick. Her words sit heavier on me than anything I've ever felt.

"So you're saying there's no hope?" I ask, my throat dry, my thoughts dark and consuming.

"No, I'm just saying forgiveness is a myth."

My head drops forward, and I rake my hands through my hair. I feel her closer, her breath on my cheek, near my ear. I turn toward her, and her ethereal blue eyes lock on mine, pulling me in, almost hypnotizing my soul.

"Don't despair, Bryce, there's an answer," she says lightly, cupping my chin. "Revenge."

It's a whisper that echoes. She leans in until we're only inches apart. Her perfume lingers around us, putting up a wall between us and everyone else.

"It's the simplest answer. It's what will save your marriage _if_ that's what you want."

"I don't see how that would save my marriage," I say, dumbfounded. My thoughts feel slow and sticky, stuck in molasses. I know I've had a few drinks and my brain cells aren't functioning as they should be, but I don't understand her at all.

"Let's just say you get back with your wife, and everything starts going well again. You'll always think about that night she had, the time she betrayed you."

Suddenly images of Chassidy kissing her agent, taking her clothes off for him, hit me like a dump truck. I feel my blood boil at other images of him touching her in the places I have, images of them making love.

"But..." Her word breaks through the images, and I'm back. "If you had the same indiscretion, you'll both be on an even playing field."

I imagine kissing Kira, making love to her, and it feels so weird, my skin heats up.

"You can't hate her for doing the same thing you did, and her guilt would be almost non-existent. It would almost be a fresh start for both of you."

I feel dizzy. I lean back to look at Lucy, her beauty, the confidence radiating off of her, and I see something else, something that makes my stomach tighten.

"You're saying that I should have an affair?" I ask, my throat so tight I have to force the words out.

"Not an affair. What you're describing doesn't seem like an affair as much as a brief indiscretion," she says so casually, easily, confidently I can't help but feel stupefied. "I know it might sound ridiculous to you at first, but if you get past society's view of right and wrong, what is there anyway? Who gets to decide right or wrong?" She laughs. "When you really think about it, you'll see how much sense I make."

I stare at her and wonder if she's propositioning me.

"I couldn't help but overhear what your friend said to you," she says as if reading my mind.

"Kira?" I shake my head. "That would be stupid. She knows my best friend. It could get really messy."

She grins, and I wonder why I'm entertaining the thought of sleeping with someone else.

"You're right. Maybe someone you're not so connected with. Maybe... a beautiful stranger?"

I choke on the last of my drink. Did she just proposition me?

"Possibly?" she says pointedly.

I silently scold myself. I have to be drunk, because I can't believe I just said that out loud. She picks up her purse, pulls out a silver card case, and retrieves one from it. She then pulls out a pen and writes something on the back of it.

"This is how you can reach me," she says, standing from her seat and giving me a full view of the body I've been trying not to imagine. It's all that I imagined and more, and I make myself look away. She places the card in front of me, leaving me with her lingering perfume. "To talk... or more."

She places a soft kiss on my cheek, then walks away. If the card wasn't in front of me, I wouldn't believe it. Did that really just happen? Did I get propositioned by two different women on the same night? I should feel fantastic—she's beautiful and what she said makes so much sense—but I feel drained instead, a headache forming.

I signal the bartender for a glass of water and look at the card between my fingers.

"A cup of coffee?" The bartender with the attitude is back, but when I look at him, he's smiling. It's sort of a pitying one though.

I was going to order another drink, but coffee actually sounds pretty good. A few moments later, he's back with a cup and a few packets of sugar and cream.

"Thanks." I grab the coffee and down a few sips. My thoughts are foggy, and things seem to be moving in slow motion. I look at the card again, still not believing what just happened. Did it happen? Of course it did. Three glasses of whiskey for me isn't a record. I stand from the barstool, but my legs are wobbly

"You okay, man?" the bartender asks.

"Maybe I should finish this cup before getting up." I try to chuckle as I sit back down. I gulp the coffee. "Long day."

I think back to how all of this started and how I got here. I feel like I'm dreaming, because this just can't be real. What I'd give for this whole day to be a dream.

"I used to want to be a bartender. I used to want to be a lot of things," I tell him.

"You meet a lot of interesting people tending bar, that's for sure."

I realize suddenly that the bar is practically empty aside from me and an older woman sitting in the back and looking as miserable as I feel.

"I don't mean to pry, but do you and Lucy know each other?"

He stops wiping the bar and laughs. "Not in the way you probably assume."

Sort of presumptuous, but with a woman who looks like her, I guess it's hard not to associate her with sex. I got the feeling she wouldn't be offended by that.

"How long have you been married?" he asks.

I swallow the lump in my throat. "How did you know I was married?"

"Your ring."

I look at the band I've never taken off. After everything that's happened today, I wonder if it really has a place on my hand. I try to remember if Chassidy had hers on, if she bothered to take it off while she stepped outside of her vows to me.

"And the fact that married men are usually Lucy's type," he says in a matter-of-fact way.

My eyebrows shoot up. "Marriage doesn't seem to mean much these days."

"You can say that again," he says.

"Are you married?"

He shakes his head. "You wouldn't believe how many I see get broken from this side of the bar though,"

"I can imagine."

"Most people don't think how badly a single action, one decision, can change everything. It's a trick," he says evenly.

I look at him. He seems young, but there's something to him that I can't really put my finger on. "A trick from who?"

He leans on the counter, both elbows planted there, and his eyes narrow as if he's contemplating what he's about to say next. "The devil."

I would think he's joking except for the deadpan look on his face. I can't help but laugh and down the rest of my coffee. "The devil? You've got to tell me what you've been drinking tonight."

But his expression doesn't change. "Believe it or not, he's real." He shrugs before whistling what sounds like "Renegade."

"I'd think the devil, if he exists, has more important things to do than make people screw outside of their marriage."

"That's the trick. He makes you think you're unimportant, that your actions don't matter, that your life is meaningless. He doesn't want you to know how valuable you are."

I can't contain my eye roll.

"Besides, it's not like the devil does all of his own dealings. He has workers, just like God does."

I laugh, feeling like I've fallen into an episode of _Supernatural._ Chassidy used to love that show.

"You mean demons?" I ask, trying to hide my sarcasm. "You're saying that the 'devil' or his 'demons' force people to cheat or do bad things?"

"No, they can't _force_ you to do anything. However, they can create the right circumstances so that it seems as if you don't have a choice. They can give you the right nudge, but it's a trick. You always have a choice, there is always another option. It may not be the easiest, but there's always an out."

"Resist the devil and he will flee?" I say sarcastically, mimicking the words my grandmother always said when I was young.

"There you go," he says excitedly.

"So if you believe in the devil, then you must believe in God."

He nods.

For a moment, I debate with myself, I don't know this guy, but I'm surprised that someone like him speaks with such conviction and confidence, especially while working in a place like this. I don't know why I'm entertaining his words—maybe it's the alcohol—but if he wants to spout off about the devil, I'd like to know about his God.

"Why doesn't he answer prayer?" I ask, my voice even, but I look him in the eye to let him know I'm serious.

"God always answers prayer, but people refuse to see the answer when he doesn't give them the one they want."

I shake my head at his crap answer.

"I can see God saying no to people who ask to win the lottery, to be famous, or to kill their boss." I laugh bitterly and fight the stinging in my throat. "But why does he say no to a man who begs for his child to live? Who asks for God to save his marriage?"

The bartender come out from behind the bar and sits on the barstool next to me. "I can't say why his answers are what they are."

I frown. Of course he can't.

"His plan is bigger than us. We only see a microscopic part of it."

I sigh, staring into my empty cup.

"I know that's not what you wanted to hear."

"No worries, man. You're a bartender, not a priest. And I'm not sure if I even believe in this stuff anyway... no offense."

I stand, my legs no longer wobbly, and I don't feel heavy or weighed down. The feeling that my brain was inside someone's squeezing fist is gone too. I don't feel as if I've had a drink at all actually. I scratch my head at how strange this day has been. I glance at the bartender, who's wearing an amused smirk.

"Thanks for the bedtime story"—I glance at his tag—"Elohim."

"Is that Greek?" I ask and he grins.

"Hebrew."

I start to walk away, but before I hit the door, I turn back and see him walking toward the older woman sitting alone in the back of the bar.

"Just in case you're right, if you happen to talk to the big guy anytime soon, can you mention that I could _really_ use his help?" I say with a shrug.

He nods with a small grin. "He's already heard you."

As if he's one hundred percent sure.

People sure are bold in New York.

Bold and crazy.

### Chassidy

When I was younger, I'd sit on my father's porch steps and look at the sky. San Diego was so different from Chicago. The sky was always clearer, the people seemed happier, and the weather was almost always perfect—at least it was when I visited.

My dad's house is gorgeous, with large open rooms, warm bright colors, and modern furniture that you didn't have to be afraid to sit on. His house always felt alive, lived in, happy... and I hated it for that. When I was younger, from about six to twelve years old, I always looked forward to going to see him because I wanted to live there forever, except I didn't want to not have my mom. There were so many days I wished Annette didn't exist and that my parents would get back together and this could be our big, comfy house. I felt guilty for that because Annette was always so nice.

She treated me with nothing but kindness, as if I was a daughter straight out of her womb. Then Stephanie came. My adorable little sister. My dad mailed pictures of her to me, making sure I saw her before my next visit. My mom, who usually kept her comments to herself about my dad's new life—aside from the snide, biting remarks—even commented on how much Stephanie looked like my dad and how we'd probably favor each other.

At thirteen, you think the entire world is against you, and I felt like I didn't belong in my father's life, like I was a stain on a white sheet. I was jealous that my perfect little sister would grow up in his perfect house in the perfect city with both of her parents and I had the short end of the stick.

I didn't think about how even though my mom was far from perfect, she was amazing and loved me to pieces. I didn't think that I was lucky to still have a dad who loved me and wanted to be a part of my life and made an active effort of doing so, that I had a stepmom who didn't resent me and treated me like her own.

I didn't see how good things were for me then, and I think back to just a few months before today. A few months ago, even though I had lost two of the most precious things in my life, I still had my husband, he still loved me, I still had my health, both of my parents were alive and well, and I had a career that people would kill for. I didn't see any of that. I never see things until it's too late. I hate myself for crying, for being weak and feeling sorry for myself. I know I don't deserve to feel sorry for myself, I deserve this pain, this wake-up call, but my father and my family don't deserve this. My dad's a good man. Where my mom could run cold and pessimistic, my dad had always been warm, optimistic, and kind with a great sense of humor.

I've been sitting outside of the hospital, looking at the sky, for what feels like hours. The sky is so dark but sprinkled with stars, and I let out a low groan, my fists squeezed together.

"Is this my punishment?" I shout, angry tears streaming from my eyes. "Did you do this to my father because I didn't listen to you? Is this payback?"

"This isn't a punishment, Chas."

I turn around and see Carter, his hands deep in his pockets.

"It isn't? It just so happens that my dad gets in a terrible car accident after I almost sleep with Davien?" I ask incredulously. He walks toward me, and I scowl at him.

"Can we sit down. Please?" he says, his eyes soft and his tone pleading.

I can't help but comply, but I don't want to seem like an insane person talking to myself. "Can people see you?" I ask quietly.

He lets out a small chuckle. "Of course they can."

"Yeah, because you being invisible would be ridiculous," I say sarcastically. I take the Kleenex he offers and dab my eyes.

"Why haven't you gone in yet?" he asks quietly.

"Because I don't want to break down in there. I can't handle hearing that my dad's dead or he's about to die. Not yet. I just need... I don't know what I need." With a sigh, I rest my head in my hands. I'm so tired—tired of thinking, of being. I just want to give up. I'm tired of feeling hopelessness and grief. "Is he going to die?"

I glance at Carter, expecting him to say that he can't talk to me of such matters, but he smiles softly.

"No, not yet."

Elation spreads through me, a smile breaking across my face. I'm so happy that I hug him. "Thank God..."

I realize what I just said when he gives me an amused grin.

"You know what I mean." I sigh with a shrug.

"You know, Chassidy, most people don't believe because they don't see, or they ignore the small signs they're shown. You've been given a sign straight from the divine, and you choose not to believe based on what? Arrogance, anger, bitterness?" For the first time, his voice has an edge to it.

"I obviously don't refuse to believe _now_ ," I say pulling on the zipper of my jacket. "What am I supposed to do with knowing! I'm still angry. I am beyond angry, even more than I was before. To know that there is a God and he let my babies die... that he took them from me before they drew their first breath... he did it to me twice."

His slightly hardened expression softens.

"Do you know what that feels like, to deliver a dead child and still have hope enough to conceive, only to lose again, to experience that pain twice? Why, why does a God who claims to love me put me through that? Why does a God who loves me and is good, refuse to give me a child, to give my husband a little boy with his eyes and smile, a little girl who will jump in his arms? Tell me that, Carter. Ask him why!" My body's shaking so badly. He holds me, but I feel like I can't stop.

"Loss is a part of the human experience. Everyone suffers... even his own son did."

"Then I don't want to be human!" I shout. I stand and walk away from him.

"You know what else is human? Joy, love, passion, strength, resilience. Without pain and loss, those things would be nothing! You still have a life worth living, a husband and family who love you. Letting go of your pain does not diminish the impact of the loss."

I turn back toward him.

"You didn't realize how much you loved Bryce until you almost lost him."

My heart slams against my chest. I nod, finally catching my breath and reining in my emotions. "I have lost him. I know it. I don't deserve him. I don't deserve your... intervention."

"Chassidy." He walks toward me.

I wipe my eyes, and when he looks at me, the warmth that I used to feel from him feels multiplied.

"I'm here because Bryce prayed for you."

"He what?" I ask, unsure of what I just heard.

"He prayed for you. He asked God to save his marriage, to save you, to help take away your pain, to give you both a bond that couldn't be broken."

I sit back down on the bench, realization overwhelming me. My supply of tears continue to refill whenever I think it's empty. "And I messed up... all of this time, you've been trying to warn me, to stop me, to help me. Now it's too late."

"Sometimes the mistakes you make are for a bigger purpose. If you can make it through this, your bond would be unbreakable. But you have to let go of the pain and the anger. If you don't, you and Bryce will never heal."

I look at the man I met in the stairwell months ago. I thought he was cute and nice and was just supposed to be the hot guy next door, but he's turned out to be so much more. _So_ much more.

"Can you make him take me back?" I ask jokingly but with a hint of seriousness.

He smiles at me. "We can't mess around with free will. If we could, it would have made my job with you a lot easier. You should go in and see your dad. He's up now."

I nod and grab my bags. I turn around to ask him to help me, but he's gone.

"At least I'm not crazy," I mutter.

I make my way to the information desk and give my father's name. The clerk directs me to the fifth floor. As the elevator rises, I think about everything that's happened over the past few days. How my life went from mundane and hopeless to seemingly out of control. How I thought I was alone and that Bryce didn't care, then I found out he was praying for me. I wouldn't call Bryce a spiritual person. He went to church when he was young, but it seemed more out of tradition than anything meaningful. When I was pregnant with Logan, he didn't mention having him christened or anything.

But he prayed for me.

_I've never prayed for him._

I check in at the security desk on my dad's floor, and the nurse directs me to his room. I haven't seen my dad in almost six months. When I go in the room, my heart pounds. He's lying in the bed, and my stepmom is sitting next to him. Cuts and bruises cover his face and his arm is in a sling, but he's alive. He's breathing.

Annette sees me first and a small grin comes to her lips. "Chassidy," she breaths out, almost relieved. She pulls me into a big hug, her bold blue eyes tinged red. "I'm so glad you're here. It may look bad, but he's doing so much better." She takes my hand and walks over to the bed.

"Chassidy," my dad says. His voice sounds dry, but I'm relieved he can speak.

"Hey, Dad," I say, taking him in. The big strong man with the kindest smile I've ever seen seems buried beneath the gauzes.

"I fought with a semi truck... and won." He chuckles.

I laugh and kiss him on the cheek. Annette catches me up on the accident. Turns out a truck driver drifted off to sleep, knocking my dad's car off the highway ramp. His ribs are broken, he has a fractured leg, and his eye is swollen, but no internal bleeding. She pulls out her phone and shows me a picture of his car. It's completely totaled.

"He should have been dead. It's a miracle he's alive," she says through tears.

"Hey, Chassidy."

I turn to see Stephanie with two coffees in hand. I haven't seen her in almost a year, since her graduation from college. It seems that in that time, she's matured. Her hair's pulled up in a top knot, a blue oversized sweater drapes over her petite frame, and she's the spitting image of our father, down to the one deep dimple on the right side of her face. She sets the coffees on the table and pulls me into a tight hug.

"He's okay," she mutters in my ear, almost as if reassuring herself.

"He is," I say.

"We were so scared." She pulls back.

"You girls worry for nothing," my dad chimes in.

"You're not Superman, regardless of how many times you dress up as him for Halloween," Stephanie teases.

"Get on a guy's case when he was just in critical condition," he spouts back, and we all laugh.

Annette picks up the coffee that Stephanie brought her and takes a sip. Her face scrunches up. "Oh my gosh. Is this decaf?"

"Yeah, it's better for you," Stephanie chides her lightly.

"Oh no. I've been up for fifteen hours. I need the real thing. Walk me back down to the cafeteria?" Annette says, heading to the door.

Stephanie rolls her eyes and smiles. "You want anything?"

I shake my head and pull up a chair beside my dad's bed as they leave the room.

"How are you doing? Your mom's been worried about you."

I look at him in disbelief. "You're the one lying in a hospital bed. I should ask you that first."

"I can't say I've never been better," he jokes.

I sigh. "You and mom have talked about me?"

"We do sometimes, here and there... only when her worry is on DEFCON level."

I laugh. "I'm okay, Dad. I want to talk about you."

"There's not much to talk about. I'm alive, and I can't ask for more than that. I'll be able to walk again. That's probably what I was most afraid of."

I gently touch the part of his arm that's not in a cast.

After a moment, he says, "It made me think about a lot of things too. You realize what's important when things like this happen. I want us to all make an effort to be together more."

"Dad, you've always been great," I assure him. He's never been a workaholic. He's always made time for his family.

"After Logan..." His eyes search mine as if asking for permission to continue, and I nod to let him know it's okay. "You sort of distanced yourself from everyone."

I sigh. "I know. I didn't mean for it to happen." I rest my face in my hands, then I feel his hand on my head.

"It's okay." He strokes my hair and I gather myself together, trying to keep my emotions from flowing over. "Chassidy, we all make mistakes. It's what makes us human. None of us are perfect."

I sit up and squeeze his hand.

"It's going to be okay," he says quietly, as if I'm six years old and just skinned my knee.

The nurse comes in and explains that she's there to administer some pain medicine. Soon, Annette and Stephanie come back. As Dad rests, they catch me up on their happenings. Annette's real estate business is really picking up, and Stephanie will start teaching full time in the spring. My dad is already talking about how he can work from home, and Annette scolds him for even thinking of working in his condition. But there's a sense of relief in the air. Everyone realizes how this day could have gone so differently.

As that realization dawns on me, I excuse myself from the room and walk down the hall, trying to get service on my phone. The entire hospital is pretty much a dead zone. I walk all the way outside and call Bryce. It goes straight to voicemail. I call back five times.

"Please call me, Bryce. I have to talk to you. Please call me."

As I'm walking back to the room, I pass a chapel, where my legs feel as if they become cemented to the floor. I look at it, staring at the cross at the front for several minutes. One part of me is drawn to it, and the other wants me to turn around and never look back. Even after everything that's happened, my stomach still feels restless when I think about God. After several minutes of hesitation, I go in and sit in one of the pews near the front.

"I don't really know how to do this," I say quietly.

I look toward the door to see if anyone is coming in. I don't want anyone to think I'm crazy, but maybe in this setting, it's okay to speak out loud. I do know that people pray silently, but I don't think I can do that without my own thoughts drowning out what I want to say.

"I don't know any scriptures or anything." My voice cracks and my throat starts to burn. "I guess, I guess I should say thank you. But it's hard, you know. I am thankful, grateful for you saving my dad. For you allowing him to live, but... I'm still angry. I'm still angry and I'm still hurt about my children, but if you have angels... I can't believe I'm saying this..." I chuckle through tears. "If you have more like Carter up there with you, then I know our babies are in good hands. Can you... please show me how to let this go. I don't know how to not be bitter and angry and hurt, and I don't want to be anymore. I don't want to cherish my pain. I'm tired of fighting you, of running, of hurting. I know it doesn't just hurt me, it hurts the people I love."

I stop to catch my breath. My throat is tighter than it's ever been, and my vision is so blurry that if Carter was standing right in front of me, I wouldn't even be able to tell.

"I've really messed up. I've made so many mistakes. I've been terrible to my best friend and Bryce. I'm just so scared it's too late." I fill my lungs with more air. "You sent Carter to me because Bryce prayed for me." I wipe away the tears that keep taking up residence in my eyes.

"Can you fix me for him? If not for myself, for him? Please, take the pain away. I can't handle the weight of it anymore." My heart is racing, and I can barely breathe. I get on my knees. "Please... please help me.."

I'm crying so hard, my whole body is shaking. I cry until my eyes are dry and my throat is sore, until all of the tears have been shed.

But when I finish, I feel lighter. I push myself up and sit on the bench again.

I'm in awe of the peace washing over me. I don't feel anxious or angry, my chest isn't tight, and my mind doesn't feel foggy. It's so surreal that I pinch myself to make sure I'm not dreaming.

"Thank you," I say quietly.

Before leaving the chapel, I look back at the cross.

I stop by a vending machine and grab a water bottle before heading back to the room where my family is, and I thank God for them. My dad and Annette have drifted off to sleep.

"Hey, Chas," Stephanie asks, looking at me. "Did you go smoke a joint?"

I laugh at her. "No, why do you ask that?"

"You just seem lighter. Sort of high."

"I guess I sort of am."

I don't know what brought me here. To California, to that hospital, to that chapel. I can only describe it as a restlessness in me.

After leaving the bar, I stared at Lucy's card for two hours. Her words replayed in my head, and as I stared at it, I contemplated her proposition. It all made sense. If I slept with Lucy, I'd feel better, vindicated. Then Chassidy and I would be on a level playing field. I've never thought about cheating on Chassidy before—I'd always known it would never be worth it—but Lucy was more than tempting and what she offered seemed too good to be true. But thinking about her didn't make me feel good, it made me feel tense, angrier.

And then there was the bartender. He'd gotten inside my head. I hadn't talked to him long, but there was something about him and the things he said... he seemed to really believe it. I've talked to a lot of bartenders in my time, but they don't talk about that sort of stuff. Why did he even feel comfortable talking to me about it... heaven and hell, God and the devil? It was so weird! He didn't seem crazy. He seemed normal, saner than I was.

Then there was the thing about me not being drunk when I left. I should have felt out of it, but I didn't. My head wasn't heavy, my legs weren't wobbly, my thoughts weren't jumbled or drowned out; they were crystal clear, and louder than ever.

My wedding vows replayed in my head, alternating with Lucy's words of wisdom. Chassidy's smile collided with Lucy's body. It was too much. I felt suffocated in that room in that hotel. I had to get out of the state, and the only place I could think of was California.

When I saw a flight was leaving in less than an hour, I booked it, and once I got to California, I realized it'd only make sense to check on Richard. It wasn't Richard's fault what happened between Chassidy and me.

Once I was in the hospital and couldn't get the bartender's voice out of my head, I felt drawn to the chapel. I didn't know what I would do there—talk to a pastor maybe—but I definitely didn't expect to see Chassidy there of all places.

I almost turned to leave, but then I realized that maybe Richard had passed. I couldn't leave her if that'd happened. But then I saw her smiling and heard her say she was glad her dad was alive. I felt like I was intruding, but she was speaking out loud.

When she said I'd prayed for her, I couldn't move. How could she know that? I'd never told anyone about that. I watched her break down and apologize for things I didn't know she was sorry about. She cried so hard her entire body quaked, harder than when she lost Logan. It made me realize how much pain she's been in, how much she's been holding back from me, keeping it all in while carrying the burden all on her own. I couldn't move. I shouldn't have been there, but hearing her took me back to when I first heard her speak the words I fell in love with.

She got up off the floor after what seemed like forever, and she was smiling as though a weight had been lifted off her.

I didn't want to ruin it, so I called an Uber and had them take me to her parents' house. Since then, I've been sitting on the steps, waiting for her. I don't know exactly what I'm going to say when I see her, because even before what happened in New York, we'd been in a weird limbo, married but almost separated, distant, circling each other like familiar acquaintances in an intimate setting. We haven't recognized each other for who we are since our tragedy struck.

So as I watch a car pull up in the driveway, I don't know what my next move is or how this is going to go. But I will tell her everything that I have to say. I'll be as honest as she was when she was talking to God. I just can't promise I'll be as forgiving.

### Chassidy

"Is that Bryce?" my sister asks as she nudges me.

I know I have to be dreaming, because Bryce wouldn't be here. So I don't even bother to lift my head.

Then she lightly punches my shoulder. "I really think that's Bryce. He didn't tell you he was coming?"

This time my head shoots up. Her question isn't urgent or surprising, since I haven't told them that Bryce and I are having issues, but I suspect they know that's something's up. Under any other circumstances, nothing could have kept Bryce from being at that hospital with me. I sit up, rubbing my eyes, and low and behold, Bryce is sitting on my parents' steps with a suitcase beside him. My heart starts to race. She pulls the car into the driveway, and my entire body tenses, elation colliding with panic.

He's here.

That's good—or is it? I don't know what to think. I'm afraid to find out.

"Are you okay?" Stephanie asks.

I nod. She looks perplexed but grins before getting out of the car.

"Hey, Bryce," she calls happily, oblivious to my emotional turmoil.

I hear their muffled voices outside of the car. Stephanie is upbeat. I try to gauge Bryce's mood, but since he's talking to Stephanie, I can't tell much about his feelings toward _me_. He'd never be rude or disrespectful to my family, regardless of how mad he was at me.

"He's doing well. It was a miracle. The wreck was so terrible, but I'm sure Chassidy will catch you up on that..." She glances back at me with a puzzled look, probably wondering why I'm still in the car.

I swallow my nerves and get out of it. My feet feel glued to the ground as I approach them.

"Hi," I say quietly, afraid to look at him.

"Hey," he says, his voice soft but unreadable.

I look at Stephanie, who is watching both of us.

"I'm going to head in. I'll leave the door open for you guys," she says, excusing herself from the uncomfortable arena we've just created.

"Thanks, Steph."

Bryce and I stand around awkwardly. I finally peek at him, taking in his face. His golden-brown hair is disheveled but gloriously so. His ice-blue eyes lock on mine, and goose bumps prick my skin when I see his eyes don't hold the disgust or hatred they did earlier. He seems nervous, his hands stuffed in his jeans, and I wonder what caused this change. He looked as if he wanted to hit me earlier, as though if he never saw me again, it'd be too soon. I'm elated that that attitude is gone, but I'm worried. What devastating thing has happened for his attitude to change so drastically? I want to immediately tell him how sorry I am and that I miss him and ask if we can try again, but I realize there's so much else that needs to be said.

"I'm glad your dad's okay." His voice comes out shaky but gruff.

I smile. "Thank you."

Silence passes between us.

He runs his hands through his hair and lets out a long breath. "We need to talk."

My stomach falls. I don't think there are any worse words to hear. I nod.

"Is out here okay, or do you want to go inside?"

It's warm, the air perfect with a cool breeze. Such a contrast from Chicago right now. I feel like I need the air, because if he asks me for a divorce, I just might suffocate.

"Out here is okay," I say, my voice sounding like half of itself. "Let's go on the deck."

He nods. We're both at a standstill, and he finally gestures for me to go first. We have to walk through the house to reach the deck. At the door, Bryce grabs his bag and follows me, and my heart skips a beat. If he's bringing his bag, that could be good—it means he plans on staying. Then I remember that he just flew in from New York, so of course he'd have a bag. But the optimistic part of me says that he could have left it on the porch if he planned on this being a quick chat.

Or maybe he just didn't want to leave his bag outside.

It's quiet in the house. Our footsteps echo on the bamboo floors. I slide the door open to the patio deck and wait for him to pass, fighting the urge to touch him. I look around the large deck for the remote to light the fire pit so we'll have some warmth if things get cold. An upholstered bench surrounds it, and he gestures for me to sit first. He sits on the opposite side.

I wait for him to speak but get the sense that I should speak first. I try to think of what to say, the right thing to say. I'm a writer, but when it comes to telling him how I feel, the words never seem right. I'm lost as to where to start. So I tell him that.

His arms rest on his thighs and his attention seems to be on his hands, but that makes me less nervous than I'd be if he was looking directly at me. "Start where you think you should."

I close my eyes and let out a deep breath. "I crossed the line with Davien." The words burn my tongue and tears fill my eyes, especially when I see his body become stiff and rigid.

His gaze meet mine, and his eyes are hard. But it wouldn't be fair to tell him anything else without telling him that. I pause to see if he'll say anything, but he doesn't. His already clenched fists tighten.

"I didn't have sex with him," I continue, but he doesn't flinch. "But things went further than they should have..."

I try to fight my tears. I don't deserve to cry right now, but when I see tears in his eyes, it takes everything I have not to let my own fall. How could I have done this to him, made him hurt like this? I did the exact thing I wanted to avoid. There's a long silence as I try to breathe to keep from sobbing.

"Davien was an escape. I felt trapped in my life, in our life. Not because it was bad but because it was good... so great. I felt like I didn't deserve great. How could our life be great when we lost something so good, so precious?" My voice cracks, and I suck in air.

"It's no excuse for what I did. I just wanted to be someone else, to get away from myself, my thoughts, my past, my loss..." My tears are coming now, and I can't fight them anymore. "I was a fool for not realizing that getting away from those things meant getting away from all of who I am, who we were; my family, my values, my love for you. I could have lost... I might have lost you, my best friend in the whole world, my future..." My voice breaks, and my tears cloud my vision. "I don't know how you'll ever forgive me, but if you do, I promise to never ever take your love for granted a-again. I am so sorry."

I feel his presence in front of me, and I'm afraid to move, not knowing what he's going to say or do. I used to know him so well, but the space I put between us has made us like strangers. My eyes are on my lap, and I wipe away tears that haven't fallen yet. He squats so we're at eye level, and it hurts to see the pain I caused in his eyes. Those green pools used to light up my day, but now they seem dim, glassy.

He lowers his gaze to my hands and takes them, intertwining our fingers. His body is between my thighs, and our chests touch when his arms wrap around my waist. I forgot how secure I feel with him, how safe and strong he is. I used to sleep in his arms and all my problems seemed to fade away, but then I refused to let them help heal me. Keeping a secret so devastating was unfair to him, and my own fears pushed us apart. He promised to love me enough for the both of us, and I refused to let him. I rest my head on his shoulder and prepare myself to say the words I couldn't say to him.

"I was pregnant again." My voice is unrecognizable, frail, and tiny.

His chin leaves my shoulder as he pulls back and looks at me, then realization fills his expression.

"I didn't want to tell you until I was sure... but I lost her." I take a sharp breath. Thinking of the days leading up to my second miscarriage, how each day was hopeful, how I couldn't wait until I couldn't hide my bump, how we could take the journey together... but it never got that far. Just close enough to shut down my whole world.

"Oh, baby..."

I feel the pain in his words, his sorrow. He holds me tighter, and my body becomes limp as I cry into his shoulder. They're not tears of despair but regret that it took me so long to tell him this, that I let it pull us further and further apart.

"Why didn't you tell me?" His voice is weak as he holds me more firmly.

"I'm so sorry. I didn't want to face it. I couldn't see you disappointed or hurt. I couldn't be the one to put you through that. Not again."

He cups my chin and makes me look at him. "You don't ever have to go through things alone, Chas. That's what I'm here for. I love you. You don't have to carry anything by yourself. Nothing can disappoint me as much as losing you."

I see the pain and regret in his eyes, and I nod furiously. "I promise."

His lips meet mine, and his kiss is soft, engulfing, gentle but intense.

"I'm sorry," I tell him again and again between kisses.

"I'm sorry," he says too.

I can't help but be baffled. "What on earth do you have to be sorry about?"

My heart starts to speed up as my thoughts shoot to Kira. What if he really did sleep with her? If he did, after what I did, I can forgive him, I can move past it... I'll have too.

"For not fighting harder for you."

I burst into tears, but my smile feels wider than it's ever been. "Thank God!" I laugh as I hug him tightly. "I thought you meant that... Kira... you and Kira."

He shakes his head as his face flushes and he rubs the back of his neck. "It's funny you bring her up. I guess in part you were right... she said she was interested in me."

Anger rises in me, but I try not to let Bryce see it.

"Nothing happened," he says after letting me stew for a few moments. I guess I deserve that... "So this agent guy..."

I can hear the bitterness in his tone. His jaw clenches as his brows furrow.

"I'll ask him to end our contract. I'll do it first thing tomorrow," I promise.

A quiet moment passes between us.

"I have something for you," he says, holding my hand.

He squeezes my hand and I squeeze his back. I intertwine our fingers, not wanting to let him go. He kisses me quickly, but we linger there. When he pulls away, he pulls completely away and goes inside the house. I sit anxiously.

When he returns, he has a book in his hand.

"You definitely know the way to my heart," I say, unable to fight the smile spreading across my face.

He hands me the book, and my eyes widen when I see the picture on the cover. I swallow hard. It's us, Bryce and me wrapped in each other's arms. It's one of my favorite pictures of us, one Duke took and teased us about mercilessly. My mouth drops open when I see the title _The Story of Us_ by Bryclin Bell. My heart quakes.

I look up at him in disbelief. "Is this what I think it is?"

"I didn't know how else to get through to you. I know you love books and words, so I thought maybe I could remind you of who we were, how much we used to mean to each other, and that we could get through anything."

My mouth won't close. I'm in shock, still not believing he's saying what I think he's saying. I open the first page and read the first sentence.

_I fell in love with her words before I fell in love with her eyes..._

"You wrote me a book?" I ask, tears clouding my vision once again. I'm torn between jumping into his arms, and reading the entire thing right now.

"It's easy to write what you know," he says as if he's just done the simplest thing in the world.

He knows how much this means to me. I flip through it. This isn't a novella or a short story; it's over two hundred pages.

"This is why I was meeting with Kira. She's an editor, and I wanted it to be good for you..."

I can't believe I thought this man's love wasn't enough to bring me back, that I ran away from it and almost gave up on us. I stand and wrap my arms around his neck. How could he write this in between working and fighting for us? I'm in awe.

It feels so good to be in his arms like this again. "You are amazing. I don't deserve you."

"It might suck monkey balls, so don't thank me yet," he whispers in my ear, and I think it's one of the most romantic thing he's ever said.

The book could be written in gibberish, but that he even thought to do something like this... I already know he got the cover and the first sentence right.

"And it's not finished yet. I wanted you to help me write the ending."

The look on his face, how sincere he is, how right things feel now, it's scary how good it all feels. I still have to push away the fear that something bad has to be waiting around the corner, but the usual anxiety that trickles up my spine doesn't come. I only feel peace.

She's sleeping finally, after staying up all night reading our book. The hours of sleep and work I lost were worth it to see her consume every word I wrote. She got to hear what went on inside my head and I think we've achieved a whole new level of intimacy.

I want to know what's next. Where do we go from here? Things are good right now, as if the past year never happened, and I have the girl—no, the woman—back who looked at me as if I was the only man in the world. When she told me that she went further than she should have with the agent guy, I felt as if my muscles were squeezing my bones, my blood was scalding, and it took everything in me to not break something, but I was prepared to make this work even if she had slept with him. I wasn't ready to let her go.

I thought I had heard all her secrets in her prayer, but she still had one, one that makes so much of what happened make sense. She was pregnant again and lost our baby. She dealt with that alone, and it makes sense that she grew distant and pushed me away. I was so angry about it that I abandoned her. I don't agree with all of her decisions, but I understand now where they came from.

I sweep her long blond hair from her shoulder and kiss it, then I pull her close to me. It's been so long since she let me hold her like this, so long since we slept together and not just in the same bed. I never realized there was a difference, but now that I've experienced both, I know there is. It's the difference between being alive and living, loving someone and being in love with them, forgiving and really letting go.

I have so many questions for her. The one nagging at me the most is, how does she know I prayed for her? It nags at me. I'd almost forgotten I prayed for her, and to see her doing it, and for us to be here... it seems like too many things have lined up for it all to be a coincidence.

I won't question it now though. I'll just enjoy her being in my arms and be thankful that I have my life and my wife back. My thoughts keep drifting back to the bartender, the role he played in me finding my way to California, my way back to Chas, and the amount of gratitude I feel towards him.

### Chassidy

I never thought two of the best books I've ever read would be written by my husband and my best friend. I knew from the first line that each would wrap itself around my soul and stay with me for moments when I needed it's comfort, like all good books I've read have done. Bryce's first line took me back to a time so long ago, when a seed was planted that grew to where we are today. And my best friend's first words of her manuscript let me know that the future is only as bright as you believe it could be.

_I was suffocating in a world that once gave me comfort..._

My heart had broken into a thousand pieces the moment I read that. Kelsey, my best friend, had battled depression. I'd never imagined someone who looks as if nothing ever gets her down could feel as alone and distraught as I did. She hadn't told anyone. Her story of how she overcame post-partum depression through counseling moved me, and what anchored her was her faith in God, her relationship with Christ. I wouldn't have thought I could relate to that, because I wanted more than anything to make it across the line of being a post-partum mother, but what we'd experienced was similar. She shared so much of herself so comfortably that I was amazed she'd never spoken about it.

Her words were genuine and real. Emotions spilled off every page. When I finished, I was in tears and saw my friend in an entirely different light.

That's what brought me to her front door in the middle of one of the most beautiful suburbs in Illinois. Her house sits cozily in the heart of Oak Park. I hear the television on and her kids playing before I even ring the doorbell. When she opens the door, she looks genuinely surprised, which she should be. I haven't been to her house in almost two years.

"Chassidy!" she squeals as her youngest daughter, Jordan, clings to her leg.

"Is this a bad time...?" I giggle as Jordan wobbles toward me, and I reach down and pick her up.

"You remember Auntie Chas?" Kelsey asks as she opens the door, welcoming me in. Her house is perfect, like a modern-day Winslow house. "You're all dressed up for me?"

"Bryce and I have dinner with my mom and her fiancé tonight."

"You're kidding!"

I bring her up to date on my mom's recently developed love life as she settles the kids in front of _Tangled_ , which is her oldest daughter's favorite Disney movie apparently.

"You won't believe the arguments that little girl gets into over who's better: Elsa or Rapunzel."

"Rapunzel," Madison yells from the family room.

Kelsey lets out a sigh. "She zones in on all things Disney."

"They're beautiful," I say. Her daughters took the best parts of her and their dad. "I read your manuscript."

Her eyes light up. "After I sent it to you, I wasn't sure if I should have."

I think back to the spat we had the last time we saw each other. I bet she really questioned it after I stopped answering her calls. So much has happened since then.

"I thought it could help you, but I didn't know if was the right time or—"

"It was amazing."

Her face goes blank before her mouth falls open. I can't believe someone who writes how she did is shocked.

"You're kidding?" she says quietly, but her hazel eyes sparkle in delight.

"No, and I'm not just saying that because I'm your best friend."

She smiles softly, leaning forward a tiny bit. "You're still my best friend?"

I look away from her and cross my arms. "I guess I haven't really been acting like one, huh?"

"No, it wasn't you, it was me. I know what a hard time you were going through and I didn't know how to tell you that I'd been in a similar place. I didn't want to offend you or trivialize your pain. I just wanted to explain, but I shouldn't have forced my faith on you when you made it clear you weren't interested in it."

I let out a light sigh. "I understand why now."

She looks at me with her eyebrows raised.

"I believe."

Her eyes widen, and I can see her excitement growing.

"In God?" she asks, her voice high but hesitant.

I nod as a smile spreads across her face. I shrug but can't suppress the smile on my own.

"Honey, that's great! How... when?" she shrieks, unable to sit still in her seat. "You have to come to my church with me. It's called A Place of Change. You and Bryce would love it!"

I throw my hands up to let her know to slow down. "You're, like, zero to a hundred. One thing at a time." She laughs, and I rub the back of my neck. "I want to tell you something."

"You can tell me anything," she says, still ecstatic.

"This may be a little out there."

She tilts her head and squints at me, as if she's trying to read my mind.

"I haven't told anyone... most people would think I'm crazy." I laugh and run my hand through my hair.

She smiles encouragingly, but I'm still hesitant. I know that she believes in God, but this could still seem insane to her. I take a deep breath, gathering all of my courage.

"I-I met an angel," I say quickly and wait for her to laugh, but she doesn't.

She's quiet, then her lips part. "Like with wings?"

The nervousness in my belly multiplies, and I let out a short laugh. "He didn't have wings. He said not all angels have wings." I try to keep my tone jovial, just in case she asks me if I'm high or tells me I'm insane.

She picks up her cup of water, takes a sip, and when she sets it down, her eyes gleam with curiosity. "Where?" Her tone isn't condescending or sarcastic, but genuinely curious.

"Well... he lived next door..."

_O ne year later_

* * *

"Having come freely, I ask now that you make the following commitment before God and those who stand before you so that Carter and Cara may walk in the abundant life that Christ offers. Do you vow, by God's help, to be faithful in your calling as members of the body of Christ, to help Chassidy and Bryce be faithful to God, and to help teach and train Carter and Cara in the ways of the Lord so that they might one day trust him as Savior and Lord? If you accept this responsibility, please respond by saying 'we do.'"

"We do," Kelsey and Brian say with smiles.

We couldn't have chosen better godparents for our twins. Bryce hands Carter to our pastor, and I hand him Cara.

"Lord, we ask that you place your hand on each of these precious little ones, that you stir their hearts for you and allow them to know you, that you protect them, lead them, and guide them, that you be with them all the days of their life. In Jesus' name, we pray. Amen."

If you had told me two years ago that I'd be in a church and dedicating my son and daughter to God, I'd have laughed in your face. If you had told me two years ago, at a time when I questioned if our love would even survive the day, that I'd be more in love with my husband than I'd ever been in my life, I would have called you crazy. If you told me that our children would bring my mother and father into the same room without fighting, I would have told you that you were delusional, but it was me that just couldn't see past the storm I was in the midst of. Now it's finally passed. After seeing clearly I started attending the group sessions I so hazardly ran from that day that seems so long ago. I couldn't move forward without trying to help someone who was in the same situation as me and now I'm a group leader; Mallory and I still joke about the first time we met...

After the ceremony I attempt to help serve appetizers with Cara glued to my side.

"Let me hold my beautiful granddaughter," Jeanine says, reaching for her.

She goes willingly, of course. Cara lights up whenever her grandmother's around and vice versa. I never thought that someone who thought so little of me would love my child as much as she does, but Cara and Carter have done so much to keep our families together. They are our commonality.

My dad is feeding Carter a cookie Tiffany made. Everyone's come out for today's service. Jax and Tiffany brought their little girl, Emma. Of course Bryce's brothers, Duke's fiancée Julie, and Bryce's parents are here, as well my mother and my new stepfather, Adam. My mother and father were opposite in every way, but my stepfather Adam is just different enough that he makes my mother a little lighter and less wound up. He makes her smile and forget to be so tough.

"I still can't believe Bryce let you name the kids after your hot ex-neighbor," Nicole whispers in my ear and gives me a playful nudge.

Kelsey and I exchange amused looks. I've thought a few times about telling Nicole who Carter really was. I muttered it once, but she burst into laughter.

I feel strong arms encircle my waist from behind, and I lean my head back as Bryce kisses me.

"You guys are disgustingly cute," Nic says, rolling her eyes.

"I think someone over there thinks you're cute, Nicole," Bryce says, and nods toward Max, who has been stealing glances at Nicole all day.

Her face flushes, and she tosses her hair. "Come on, Kelsey, let's go say hello."

She pulls Kelsey behind her, who mouths, "Help."

"Love you," I tell Bryce, turning around to look into his eyes.

He squeezes my waist and picks me up, giving me a soft kiss. "I think we're finally ready to write that ending."

He's right. I can't think of an ending that would be more perfect. I feel a warmth pass through me, as I glance up over Bryce's shoulder and I freeze when for a moment I'm almost positive I saw Carter, but scanning the room, he's nowhere to be seen. I'll never forget my guardian angel. He wasn't singing some hymn in sky; he lived next door.

### Carter

Hope.

Faith.

Truth.

Forgiveness.

They're our weapons for the battle down here. One that's been going on since the beginning of time. Our side versus theirs, our nudges versus their pushes, our truths against their lies.

Not all of my assignments end like this. It's difficult to watch them make bad choices, to be tricked, to see them turn down a path of no return, but free will is what makes them different from us. It's why they're favored among all the beings in the universe. They get to _choose_ goodness, even though most fail miserably.

Today though is a good day, a day where good won out, where it'll spread. I can already see their lives and choices helping so many others. If humanity only knew their reach, more influential than either angel or demon could ever be, their influence is what changes the world.

There's a slow clapping behind. "Congratulations."

I turn around to see Davien, a condescending grin on his face. I beam at him as he comes up to stand next to me. Together, we watch Chassidy and Bryce celebrate their children's dedication.

"Give thanks. This is a day the Lord has made," I say just to piss him off. From the scowl on his face, it does just that. I smile victoriously.

"You should be extra pleased with yourself. One for your team out of how many? A hundred? It's good that this happens sometimes, keeps things interesting. Your side loses so many, it's almost becoming boring." He laughs.

"Well, we didn't lose this time."

"It's getting more difficult for you, isn't it? Things have changed over these past hundred years... it's almost good to be evil now. They worship themselves. What's that saying they like? Oh! 'You only live once.'" He bursts into laughter. "As far as they know. My job's almost too easy."

"Is that why you had to bring out 'Lucy'?" I ask with a chuckle and he rolls his eyes. "I have to say, haven't seen old Lucifer in a skirt in awhile?" He sneers at me.

"Well, when the big guy upstairs take's off to step behind a bar of all places, what do you expect?" he replies, back with a casual shrug.

"I'll be seeing you soon, Carter. I'm sure of it," he says, adding a wink before disappearing.

I look at Bryce and Chassidy. There are no any small victories, but the war rages on and it's time to prepare for the next battle.

If I Break

Before I Break

Beautifully Broken

Shattered Pieces

* * *

**_Stand Alones_**

What Happens After

The Trouble With Before

* * *

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This story was probably the scariest one I've ever had to write. I put so much of myself into these characters—my fears, my pain, and my faith. As you've probably figured out, I am a Christian, and though I've shown glimpses of my belief in other stories, this is the most vivid. As my relationship with God has grown, it seems unfair to hide or keep it from readers. I believe this story was placed in my spirit by God, and I feel compelled to share it. I'm so grateful for the career he's given me, the readers he's brought me. I thank you, readers, for taking this journey with me. I understand some may not get this story, or may not like it for what can be many reasons, but I thank each person for taking the time to read my words and share a little piece of myself. If you didn't pick up on it, this book will start a series featuring Carter and Davien. I'm not sure when it will come to fruition, but hopefully one day soon. Special thanks to Joy Editing for pulling this all together for me. Bex Harper for the beautiful cover & Kelly Giannini for the spitshining the final copy. Of course all my girls in the Party Posse! I hope that you enjoyed it. I love you all, and God loves you more ☺ xoxo

If you'd like to read a different twist on a marriage tale that goes through the wringer check out What Happens After if you haven't. First chapter is below.

How can you love someone when you know they will never truly love you back because they can't ever love you back? Your brain should stop you from loving them. There should be a defense mechanism embedded deep within you to stop your soul from allowing you to give your heart to someone who doesn't deserve it, who doesn't even want it, someone who _couldn't_ have it even if they did want it.

* * *

Unfortunately, there's no fail-safe for love, no brake to stop you from throwing your life―and the lives of those around you―completely out of balance. There are no warning lights or flashing danger signs. There's nothing to stop the planted seeds from growing and taking root. And once they grow, there's nothing you can do about it. Your desire to water those wretched seeds only increases. Once you realize those seeds weren't supposed to grow, it's already too late. At seventeen, you haven't got a clue...

He lied to me. What's worse than him lying to me as my husband and the father of my child, my so-called soul mate, is that he lied to me as my friend. Our history, our bond, our love, didn't stop my best friend from lying to me all these years. He kept secrets from me, and it hurts. It hurts so badly—the half-truths, the deception, the words I never ever thought I'd use... it all hurts.

I never thought that anything associated with love could be so painful, but love betrayed definitely is. This unfathomable heartache snuffs out all of my urges toward forgiveness because now I know the truth. At least what I _imagine_ the truth to be—those images run continuously through my mind.

The love that once was so sure has been replaced by anguish . A pain that erases the joy and closeness we shared, pushing it further and further away, like a mirage—unreal. Our history seems more like an illusion. Only vague images of our love and life together remain, but those spectral images are tainted.

While my own memories are like a half-forgotten dream, those moments I _imagine_ are all too vivid. Everywhere I look, I see betrayal, and I can't get his duplicitousness out of my head. My faith has been shaken to the core. Those thoughts become an unbearable weight, a sickening fog that suffocates me, a stench so bad it chokes all the beauty and joy out of life. All that remains is blinding rage, anger, bitterness, and hatred. These thoughts turn my consciousness into an abyss that I can't escape. I secretly pray for the moment I'll feel nothing because anything is better than this.

Adultery.

Affair.

Betrayal.

Words I try to escape from as the hours tick by. It feels like time has slowed down, but in reality it is moving so fast it sneaks up on me, like a thief in the night. I look in the mirror at the fine lines that have formed around my mouth and eyes, things I overlooked before but are like flashing lights now. I wonder when this happened. When was my youth stolen? Did it happen when Christopher turned ten, or did it happen when I first saw my grandchild? Is today just the first day I noticed them? This morning when I looked in the mirror, I didn't see them, but they were there. Right? I just never noticed until now. I wasn't even alarmed by the increasing number of grey hairs I've accumulated over the years. Why should I worry over trivial things like that anyway when there's so much more to regret?

I always knew life was precious. You realize it when you find out you'll never be able to produce it. When you find out that you're unable to do the one thing you believe you were put on the planet to do―your God-given right as a woman to bear children. I have come to appreciate that fertility is a gift, not a right, even though I'm slightly resentful. The realization of just how precious the gift of life is became even more evident once I heard the words, "You have stage-three breast cancer." Aging, living is a blessing, not something to worry about. When I was able to say, "I beat cancer," I quit worrying about the small things. If I could survive cancer, I could survive anything. To wake up in the morning and take a breath became so much more of a welcome event than one would ever think.

So it isn't a wonder why today, of all days, I notice the things I didn't use to care about but _today_ mean everything.

I wish I were just being dramatic, but without hesitation, I can say being alive doesn't seem as important as it once was. These badges of maturity feel less like an honor and more like a punishment, a cruel inside joke I wasn't in on.

What else could I think of it as?

My husband, my dear husband, the man I love more than anything in the entire world, has always made me feel beautiful. When I said wrinkles, he said laugh lines, and not only that, he said they made me more beautiful than the day he first met me. I believed him.

I believed him because he's my best friend, my confidant, my own personal superhero... or at least he was yesterday. Today, he's my personally-crafted villain. One who knows my weaknesses and knows me better than anyone else in the world. I've shared my deepest secrets with him. He's been my glue when my world was on the cusp of falling apart several times over―at least I thought he was. Maybe he wasn't, or maybe he was for a while, or maybe it was all a façade.

Maybe I was just a fool. I must have been a fool, an arrogant one. Because until today, I never understood why the women I grew up with felt self-conscious about their appearances as each birthday passed. Because I knew it all, I had it all figured out—they'd married the wrong man. I thought that if you married your soul's true mate, a life partner, they should appreciate who _you_ are _now_ , who you've grown to become. My husband, my best friend, told me that, and like a fool in love, I never once questioned it, until today.

Because today is the day __ I found out that my husband—my best friend, the man I turned my world upside down for, whom I gave my youth to, my best days, my joy, my entire self—has not only been screwing my son's best friend but also has a child with her. Before today, I considered her―the twenty-seven-year-old without a single laugh line who grew up before my very eyes―like a daughter. But now I know her as my husband's _lover._

So today, I look in this mirror and see every single thing that makes me different from the girl he fell in love with _and_ the girl he betrayed me with. Today, I question all the times I stood in front of this mirror, pulling myself together to greet each day with a smile while I fought the flesh-eating monster living inside me, to make life easier for him. Today it all seems pointless, worthless! If I'd just given in when death came for me, I wouldn't be experiencing the pain I'm in now, a fate that seems worse than death. I hate thinking like this! I hate these thoughts, but they're honest and feel more real than anything else today. Truer than love, more honest than forgiveness, and more authentic than the last twenty-five years of what I thought was an unbreakable marriage.

I want to cry and vomit at the same time. Maybe I could just crawl into myself as if I didn't exist. Here I stand, forty-nine years old, a woman and mother who beat the odds of advanced cancer. Yesterday morning, I felt invincible. Now I feel as fragile as a seventeen-year-old whose heart has been broken, crushed, demolished.

A grown woman decimated and paralyzed.

It's hard to remember how to move. Not so much in the literal sense, even though my limbs feel heavy, but how do I get out of this space I'm in? How do I escape from what feels like a prison? My husband has cheated, broken my trust, and produced a child with my _son's_ best friend.

When I think about Christopher, all of this feels so much worse. He had to be the one to tell me. The words that came from his mouth crashed all around me. They were the worst words I've ever heard, words so jarring, so life-altering, so unbelievable my psyche couldn't comprehend them. My soul sang out to God, _Please, please let what he just said, what was just released into the universe, be a mistake_. Somewhere in my mind, I believed it could be changed, that there was an error that could be easily fixed. That it could be taken back. But it couldn't. It couldn't ever be taken back.

I'd give anything just to have found out first so my son wouldn't have had the burden of delivering the message from hell. To say things that had to have been almost harder for him to say than for me to hear... my baby... their baby. My son has a sister, a half-sister.

My husband has a child, a biological one. One I could never give him, no matter how much I wanted to, but she could. A twenty-seven-year-old who can barely remember where her keys are was able to give my husband a child.

"Mom?" Christopher's voice comes from the other side of the bathroom door, where I've been for I don't know how long. A half hour, or has it been two hours? "Mom, can I come in?"

His voice is low and laced with sorrow, like when he was a little boy who'd done something bad and was coming to tell on himself.

I try to muster up sound from my dry, constricted throat. "Umm, one minute, honey."

I move quickly and turn on the sink to splash water on my face. I try but fail miserably to mask my pain, the dull, throbbing ache coursing through me that has my breath tightened and my head heavy. I attempt to break out of the catatonic state I've been trapped in and conjure up any amount of strength to hold myself up, to keep my emotions from pouring out of me. My son... my son needs to see that I'm not a complete blathering mess even if I have to fake it. I take one more breath before opening the door.

I open it and look at the man I've raised since he was five years old. He used to be so small. Now he's a foot taller than me, broad-shouldered, and can appear intimidating but wouldn't hurt a fly. When I look into his eyes, I never know who I'll see: the mild-mannered gentleman with a heart of gold or the person who's built a wall around himself to protect himself from being hurt. I should've taken notes on how to build that wall.

His big green eyes find mine. They shift from my face to his feet several times before I force myself to give him a smile and hug him the way I did when he was a little boy.

"I'm so sorry, Mom." His voice quivers.

I rub his back and open my mouth to tell him everything will be okay, that this all will work out, but I can't bring myself to do it. I can't lie to him, because I know how it feels to be lied to, betrayed, and treated like a child who can't handle life's realities.

"I shouldn't have told you like that. I-I—"

His voice gives in, and I pray for him to have the strength he needs—that he doesn't fall apart. He has his own daughter he has to be strong for now. My and his father's problems should be just that—ours. But I know life doesn't work like that; love doesn't allow you to just shift burdens that you want to help carry.

"You have nothing to be sorry about," I say, commanding my voice to steady.

"How could they do that to you, to us? How could he do that, Mom?"

I can see his distress as I continue to rub his back, hoping to calm him down. "I don't know."

I've been trying to figure out how he could lie and betray me and his son, how he could do so without guilt, how he could continue to live as if nothing had changed, and I can't come up with anything. Christopher lets me go and turns his back toward me, grabbing a towel and wiping his face. I walk past him out of the bathroom and sit on the settee in my bedroom.

"Is your dad still out there?" I ask quietly, gesturing to my bedroom door where his father has been camped out.

"Yeah, he fell asleep." He's cross, his jaw tight and his hands clenched into fists.

As angry as I am with William, I loathe what I've just seen, the look of hatred and bitterness that flashed across his son's face at the mention of him.

"You should come back to Chicago with me and Lauren. You can't stay here with him."

My thoughts haven't even gone beyond what I heard tonight, but he's right. I can't stay in this house with him. I don't know if I can stay in this house at all, where they... where he and Lisa...

"This is my fault. If I wasn't friends with her..." he mutters.

I gently grip his chin and make him look at me. "This is _not_ your fault. You had nothing to do with this." My voice is stern, but he shakes his head. I see his anger intensify.

"That's the thing. He didn't think about me. He didn't think about you! I can't forgive him for this. There's no way we can get past this."

I put my face in my hands and try to think of life without William. A day without William. To think that the William I believed in is no more. He's a lie, a distant memory. No longer my protector, my confidant, my best friend. I squeeze my eyes shut and rub my temples. How do we get past this? How do I save my family when the damage is beyond repair? I fought cancer with all I had to save my family. I knew the family would crumble without me. At the time, William and Chris had been at odds because of Cal, and without me as their buffer and mediator, I knew they'd be lost. Now at least Chris has his own family, a beautiful little girl and a wife who loves him the way I loved William.

_Loved William?_

I wish after all of this I could truly use past tense with confidence. At least whatever happens, Christopher will be fine. He has to be.

"Do you want to leave in the morning?"

His question interrupts my thoughts.

"I just want to sleep right now, I think. We'll figure everything out tomorrow," I tell him, squeezing his hands.

He looks at me with worry and concern, and a moment later, his face is hard and his expression has gone cold. "Do you want me to make him leave?"

His voice is low and bitter, which makes my stomach drop. I can't take more fighting, more confrontation, confusion, and anger. Is this all that's left of my family? No. It can't be. I want to fix it, but how do I fix it when I'm broken? How do you fix yourself _after_ you break?

What Happens After is available on all platforms and for purchase Here.
