I clutch my fork a little too tightly, pull in a deep breath, and resume scarfing down my food.

  Brody bumps my knee under the table, and when I look over, I’m confronted with a small, private smile that has me halting in my chewing. He knows everything about this place, having been over a million times during the time we were dating.

  He knows the layout of my childhood home—he knows what my old bedroom looks like, knows the living room, the feel of the carpet underneath our sock feet, knows the precise give of the old couch downstairs when we used to make out for hours on it.

  Shut down that thought and have some wine.

  Now is not the time to reminisce, to go down memory lane. It only ends in hell, anyway.

  Mrs. Kane clears her throat delicately, a dainty hand covering her mouth, but she spears me with a glance. She’s looking at me like all of this is my fault, like she’s watching me at the guillotine, waiting for the precise moment my head’s gonna be eternally separated from my body.

  “So, Brody tells me he’s one of your patients, now?” Mrs. Kane says patient like a bad word, and I just nod my head.

  When I clearly don’t intend to elaborate, she continues. “Is that why he came home practically in tears today?”

  I snort, choke on my food, and then get my airways clear with a single, hard cough. It takes me a second to notice Brody’s hand on my back, as if I gave him permission to touch me. I glare at him until he ceases all contact and turns to his mom.

  She used to like me, and I used to like her, before her son made an ass out of me and showed me how much of a dick he was, and clearly still is. Must be a huge failure to be a parent of an asshole.

  Must be.

  “Maybe because he was upset?” I venture, not wanting to have this conversation. I take another healthy gulp of wine, vowing retribution in my head.

  “Mom—”

  Emily hisses at her son, and the guy does the wise thing and shuts the hell up. Look at him, acting smart. “Are you taking it out on him, what happened between the two of you? I didn’t think you were that petty. He’s achieving his dreams,” she says, and my wine tastes sour in mouth.

  “Emily,” Mr. Kane whines, nearly toppling his wine glass over on my mother’s pristine tablecloth, and Mom’s about ready to throw hands and feet.

  “I’m doing my job, Mrs. Kane. It’s nothing more than that.”

  The history in the room weighs down on us as we all drop our heads and concentrate on our food. It seems like we’re all chewing slowly so we don’t have to talk as there is always so much to say that’s better left unsaid.

  It’s not like I missed Brody all that much.

  I still miss the idea of the old me (even if she was naïve, and stupid, but still precious in her own way) when I was with him.

  I miss the way I felt, sure, like I was loved, like I wasn’t measuring every guy I met thereafter against how well and sweetly Brody treated me, how he hung on my every word even if it was dumb, or too loud, just too me.

  He listened to me, actively listened, and it wasn’t until I got older that I realized how very rare that was, how many friendships I had to prune because I wasn’t being heard, no matter how many times I spoke.

  Right now, though, I don’t have the energy to argue, or to try to put up a front.

  I’m already tired after the long workday, and this pot roast and potatoes isn’t filling me up the way I want it to.

  I want my aunt Lisa’s pumpkin pie with vanilla whipped cream, and I want it now. That pie makes the world go ’round and everything seem better—it has magical properties and can save a night from the shitty circumstances that I’m already in.

  “I’m sorry,” Mrs. Kane apologizes to the table, and that fiery burn in her eyes dwindles down to nothing more than a smoking ember. I know I’m not out of the red zone yet, but it’s looking a lot safer than it was a few seconds ago.

  I nod my head, keep picking at my food, letting out a sigh when the silence stretches…and stretches…and stretches.

  I glance up to look at Mom, who’s bugging her eyes out me, looking between Brody and I, swinging back and forth in a way that I’m afraid she’s going to pull something.

  I don’t take the bait, even if Mom’s going to be supremely annoying later.

  I’ll deal with the lecture, and that’ll be it, and then I can go home, crawl into bed and forget this ever happened. The silent treatment might not even be that bad – I won’t have to hear how great Brody is, and how I should try something with him again.

  Yeah, right. When has that ever been it when we’re talking about Brody Kane?

  I’ve unsuccessfully tried to shut down every conversation starter that we’ve had about Brody. Even though it’s been literal years, I don’t want to hear about how good his life’s going, how much money he’s making, how much he’s thriving without me, when I thought we would thrive together.

  Naïve and stupid, I know, but the want is still stuck in the back of my throat, and I can’t swallow it down, no matter how hard I try.

  The thought’s there, like a thorn stuck under my heart, and if I breathe too deeply, if I let myself take in a relaxed breath, I end up hurting myself all over again. I remember that the insidious thought remains—that I still haven’t fully moved on.

  I should be married by now, or at least happy with a partner who adores me, and I adore him, but none of my relationships seem to work out for me.

  Nope, the fact is that Brody Kane was the guy that got away, and now he’s back, like a crappy pair of underwear I thought I threw out but just keeps popping up in the oddest of places.

  He’s here, he’s next to me, and our parents want to make something happen when it shouldn’t.

  I still remember how it felt like to be loved by Brody Kane, and I’m not going to lie to myself—it was awesome, amazing. I’ve been chasing the feeling ever since, but I’m coming to realize that it’s not something that can be replicated.

  And it sucks. It sucks really, really bad.

  I’ve been holding onto the past for so long that I can’t seem to turn around and peer into the future.

  But now my past has caught up with me. Hell, he’s sitting right next to me.

  We finish our dessert around stilted conversation, non-starters, and awkward laughs as I squirm at being so uncomfortable. It’s not until the Kanes are heading out the door, practically running instead of walking, that Brody decides to pay attention to me.

  “Hey, Amber, can we talk outside for a second?”

  I can hear them all (Kanes and Prewitts, the entire audience) gasp in excitement and it sets my cheeks aflame. I roll my eyes, hard enough to pull something, and head outside with him. We’re walking down the street like we used to do, when we used to hold hands, or I’d make a run for it and Brody would chase and catch me.

  Brody clears his throat, much in the way his dad does when he’s uncomfortable. I consider it a win.

  “So…that was awful back there,” he says, and I keep my eyes pinned straight ahead so I don’t have to look at him, to try and figure out all the expressions flitting across his handsome face.

  Did he have to turn super hot? Did he? How is that fair? I gained weight, and I’ve got circles under my eyes that have dark circles. What is this shit?

  I nod, shrug, and keep walking.

  I’m tired, I want my comfy jammies and a good smutty book to read before bed, cry at the fluffy-cute parts and then sleep the sleep of the dead before having to wake up tomorrow and get back to work.

  “God, when did it get so hard to talk to you?” he asks, sounding wistful, breath puffing out violet in the dark night.

  We’re both not wearing coats other than our heavier sweaters that aren’t ideal for this kind of weather. It smells like it’s going to frost overnight, and I shiver hard from head to toe.

  “Say what you need to say, all right? I’m tired. I’ve got a long drive back home. I’m probably going to get yelled at for being rude even though I did no such thing. What do you want me to say, Brody? Talk.”

  I swing around to look at him, crossing my arms over my chest, holding myself together, that thorn in my heart pricking at me over and over and over again.

  “I just…my parents are being a pain in the ass,” he says on a wince, rubbing at the back of his neck.

  I nod, because yeah. If you’re lucky enough to get a good set of parents, they’re gonna be a pain in the ass, it’s like a law or something.

  “And they’re constantly talking you up and being annoying about the whole thing, me being back in Montreal and all.” Brody huffs, staring down at his sneakers. They look like those Balenciaga Speedys I’ve been coveting for a year but couldn’t justify the frivolity when there’s so much more nail polishes I wanna collect.

  “I don’t see how this is my problem, like at all.”

  Brody nods, biting at his bottom lip, looking something like shy or nervous. Or am I seeing odd things in the shadows?

  “What do you say that we give them what they want, huh? I’ve got another twelve weeks of rehab, right, and then I have to figure out what I’m going to do. So there’s a time limit, and we can say goodbye after that time. That’s all I’m asking for.”

  Hold the phone and shut the front door, did he just…?

  “What? What?!”

  Brody can’t be saying what I think he’s saying, he just can’t be.

  My hearing’s wonked out, or I’m hallucinating. Did I accidentally raise a demon that one time I wrote with lipstick on a mirror? Is this what this is?

  Is Brody Kane the demon that’s going to haunt me for the rest of my natural life?

  He grins, then it becomes a whole-ass smile, and I know I’m cooked. Cooked.

  He’s being freaking serious.

  THREE

  “So how do you wanna do this?” Brody asks, leaning back against his car door, looking down at me from his superior height. If I had a pair of heels though, I’d beat him with them, so he really has no idea how close to injury he really is.

  Were his shoulders always that hulking, always that broad, or is this a very recent development?

  I’ve had enough pictures of the guy shoved up under my nose by the Kanes whenever I had the (mis)fortune of seeing them at the grocery store near my parents’ place whenever we had our hundred-and-four family gatherings during the year—birthdays, holidays, and just-becauses.

  I blink at him roughly a hundred times a minute. “Uh, do what? You haven’t explained yourself at all. At all. What? Am I supposed to read your brain, understand what’s going on in your head? Hello, we haven’t seen each other in years and I don’t do that anymore. I don’t do casual. Plus, it’s with you. I’d rather lie down in the middle of the road there and wait for a car to take care of me.”

  Brody winces, shakes his head. “Amber, please, don’t talk like that, shit.” He rubs a hand over his face. “You know they’re going to get worse as the holidays come closer,” he points towards my childhood home. “I’ll be your plus one. Besides, you only have to deal with me for twelve weeks. Roughly three months. The time will pass anyway.”

  I clench my jaw tight enough to hurt my teeth, blood beginning to boil in my veins. I cross my arms over my chest, keeping myself restrained.

  I wasted years of my life trying to fit this perfect mold, trying to become this ideal version of myself that I lost out on the present, on being me-at-the-time. So I get it, I do—the time will pass anyway.

  I clap my hands together. “Let me just make sure I’m getting this straight, that you’re of sound mind and judgment, okay?”

  Brody nods, shuffling from foot to foot to keep himself from freezing to death. I shiver some more. I can plead brain freeze being an actual thing if I do something crazy like actually agree to this ludicrous idea.

  Because I know what he means.

  Ever since Brody got back, the Kanes have been non-stop ‘bothering’ my parents about him, and I get told about every little amazing thing that Brody has accomplished in his life, like it’s a benchmark I have to meet to be deemed worthy.

  Which is sometimes the case.

  It took me a year longer to move out of my childhood home, the real estate market here going bananas right in front of my eyes when I was ready to buy myself a little cute bungalow with a nice fenced-in backyard for when I adopt my dog.

  Brody finished his schooling faster only by the virtue of the fact that I’m thinking of pursuing a post-doc fellowship, and all that will entail makes me want to die a little bit, but I’m nothing if not stubborn to add more letters to the end of my name.

  Brody was achieving his dreams, had already achieved his dream of playing professional lacrosse, getting endorsement deals out the ass until he was making an almost seven-figure salary without anywhere to put it.

  And of course I heard all about it, in that odd proud-and-jealous way, and my parents eyes never looked so discerning to me, even though I make my own six figures. It’s not a competition, but it always felt like one.

  And now?

  My parents are going to be impossible now that he’s wormed his way back into my life, that he’s my patient by virtue of our clinic being the one that his doctor recommended, being a friend of a friend of a friend of mine. Just impossible!

  “See? Your parents and my parents, they’re going to drive us up the wall.”

  I suck in a deep, deep breath, ignoring how panicked I must look right now. “I don’t think this is a good idea. The holidays are coming up and you know what that’s like.”

  My family loves the holidays—true fanatics.

  First, there’s American Thanksgiving, and then there’s Christmas, and to tie it all up, one of the uncles always has a banging New Year’s Eve party that ends up with me sleeping between Vick and Max and hating myself in the morning.

  It’s always a mess with old faces and sometimes new—my cousins might be bringing dates. I don’t even know if they’re dating. It’s been like three weeks since we’ve actually talked—and the little ones might have someone to bring along, too, I’m so out of the loop.

  The Prewitts are apparently a family of late romantic bloomers, through and through.

  “The holidays at the Prewitts’,” Brody sighs, looking lost in memories. “I haven’t been to one of those in a while. My parents told me about it every single year I was away.”

  I sigh, too, shaking my head at him, rubbing at my forehead where the throbbing pain has finally become too much. “This is a stupid idea. It’s not like they won’t be able to tell we’re doing this for their benefit. Please, trying to fool my parents and your parents? It just doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Wait, hold on a second, let’s talk this through.” Brody moves to reach for me, and I hastily take a few steps back, nearly tripping on the curb and going down like a sack of potatoes.

  “Brody, I’m freezing my nipples off. Can we discuss this at another time?” I shiver, walk around him and head towards my parents’ house, where all the lights are on, like a beacon in the dark night.

  God, my dad even put the Christmas lights up already, rimming all the windows and the door, and the giant fall-themed wreath—does Alastor Prewitt have no decency?

  “Uh, yeah, yeah, sure. You have my number,” he says, walking in stride with me, tightening up his gait so it doesn’t feel like I’m practically running to match him, just that he’s slowing down for me. I forgot he used to do that, totally forgot.

  “I don’t have your number. My assistant has your number.”

  “You have my patient file, just look it up there.”

  I rear back, disgusted. “That’s a gross invasion of privacy when I’m not asking you to come in for an appointment or trying to ascertain your progress. Don’t do that to me, make me feel all icky about it.”

  I don’t say that he can’t be my patient anymore if we decide to pursue this—this weird adventure that’ll just release the stress of having our parents on top of our backs, scratching on my last freaking nerve.

  I’m tired of having to out-do Brody, I’m tired of being put in the same boat as him, and when we do ‘break up’ at the end of twelve weeks, then all the better. A nice clean break with finality, and everyone will be happier.

  You can’t doubt something that didn’t work out twice, now, can you?

  I Grinch-smile, the corners of my mouth lifting and lifting, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d swear Brody’s face goes pale under all that golden skin.

  “Here,” I say, handing him my phone, always in the ass pocket of my jeans in case of emergencies. “Put your contact info in—it’s unlocked, doofus—just put your number in, and I’ll get back to you.”

  It’s not like I haven’t dated all this time, either. I’ve been around the block more than once, even wasting five years on a relationship that shouldn’t have happened, that was going nowhere other than being comfortable with each other and mediocre sex.

  I mean, in this day and age, getting access to it on the regular to a guy that wasn’t a total asshat was a plus in my book, but my standards were sitting at an all-time-low.

  And still, I compared it all to my first love, to how Brody and I were together, how effortless it felt, easy.

  But now that I’m older, maybe I’m just remembering it too fondly, remembering only the good instead of the bad. I don’t know, we’re both so very different now, and everything I know about him now drives me up the wall and makes me want to commit violence.

  Like, there’s faking it, and then there’s faking it. And honestly, I don’t know if I’m that good of an actor.

  It’s been two years since Ethan, and I haven’t been a girlfriend in a long time, even if it’s for a trial period of twelve weeks. I haven’t been touched or kissed or looked at with fondness by a romantic partner. I would probably startle more often than not.

  I knew Brody, but I don’t know him now.

  “I’ll get back to you,” I say with finality, enjoying the frisson of power that I now realize that I have over him. To deny his suffering or not? That is the question.