"Are you sure you guys have everything handled for next week?" Brendan's voice booms through the speakerphone as I pull into the parking lot for Brooke's apartment, easing my Cayenne into a visitor parking stall.

"All good," I assure him.

Well, mostly. There are a few last-minute details to handle, some of which had been delegated to Brooke but that have fallen off her radar. Nothing I can't triage.

"I owe you," he says. In the background, Vidya says something to him about dinner. "I'll call you tomorrow. Say hi to Brooke for me."

"Will do." Though, I've hardly spoken to her all week myself—and not for lack of trying.

Locking my car, I head for the elevator and wait for an eternity in the parking garage lobby. One elevator car is out of order, and the other is taking its sweet time to arrive. I don't think I've ever been so impatient. Seconds turn into minutes, and finally the doors to the stainless steel compartment pop open, carrying me up to Brooke's floor.

"Hi." Brooke flings the door open, oddly breathless. While I'm dressed down, because I thought that was sort of the deal at eight p.m. on a Tuesday, Brooke is in tight jeans, a sweater, and a full face of makeup. It's not that I'm worried about where she's been, it's that I'm concerned about why she's acting like this is our first date.

She seems...nervous, somehow, in a way that I thought we'd gotten past ages ago. If I'm being honest, I guess I'm nervous too, and we've got a chicken-egg situation going on here and I'm not entirely sure which one of us set this uneasy dynamic in motion.

Brooke steps aside, ushering me in, while I continue to mull over what the fuck is going on. Rather than progressing since Brendan found out, it seems like our relationship has managed to go backward. Whenever I try to call Brooke out on it, she dodges the question and acts like everything is fine. It's not, and I know it's not, but I can't force her to spill what the issue is.

Even worse, I can't talk to my own best friend about it because that would effectively be putting him in the middle. Things are on shaky ground with him as it is.

Is that her issue? Problems with Brendan? Outwardly, it seems like everything between her and Brendan is fine, but maybe it's more strained between them than I thought. If it is, though, he sure hasn't let that on.

"Wine?" she offers, gesturing to the already open bottle on the granite kitchen counter. Her glass is half empty already, so I guess she got a head start.

"Sure. Do you want to get the gift bags out of the way?" I ask, wrapping my arms around her waist. Her body softens against mine, leaning into me. Just when everything starts to feel normal again, she tenses up and pulls out of my grasp.

"Uh, yeah." Brooke takes another step, breaking the contact between us completely, and leads me into the living room where there are tiny gift bags, ribbons, and bridal party gifts strewn all over the coffee table. A bolt of frustration shoots through my body but I clamp down on the urge to pry. Maybe she'll relax a bit as the night progresses, and then I can try to talk to her. You know, once she doesn't look like she's going to bolt at the first hint of trouble.

Glass in hand, I follow her and we come to a quick understanding about delegation of duties. Brooke frowns as she tries to curl a disobedient piece of silver ribbon with her scissors. The ribbon forms a limp wage and hangs sadly from the gift bag, mocking her attempt. She lets out a huff and tries again, but the blade splits the ribbon in half.

"It's all in the wrist." I set down the engraved flask I was wrapping, meant to be a surprise for the groomsmen but spoiled by the fact that Brooke failed to wrap them. She claimed via text that she was having 'a bad week' and had fellen behind yet, infuriatingly, refused to say why. "Want me to handle the ribbons?"

Brooke's gaze snaps up to me. "What would you know about curling ribbons? Are you a gift wrapper in your secret double life?"

"I'm a man of many secrets, Brooke."

A frown crosses her face. "I'm sure you are."

What? It was a joke. Normally, she'd volley right back with me.

I grab the spare pair of scissors and come to stand beside her, snatching a piece of ribbon from the pile. "Here. You just need to have the scissors at more of an angle. Like this." Pulling the length of ribbon against the blade, I produce a perfect spiral. Brooke scowls at me. She adjusts her grip on the scissors, copying what I just did. It's an improvement on her earlier flaccid noodle result, but still kind of limp.

"Are you sure you don't want me to handle this? There are lots of other things left to do, like the gift baskets for the groomsmen. I'm not supposed to see those, anyway. Brandon wants it to be a surprise. It's not too late for me to pretend it is."

"Fine," she snaps.

We work in near silence, turning a mundane task into a painfully boring ordeal until we wrap up the last gift bag half an hour later. I've refilled her wine, offered her food and been shot down, and I have zero idea what the fuck is going on. Finally, we end up on the couch watching a new romantic comedy that just released on Netflix. Wouldn't have been my first choice, but even I know better than to argue right now.

Brooke eases onto the couch next to me, casting me a wary glance. I drape an arm around her and haul her closer, because there's not a chance I'm sitting through The Boyfriend Deal without some incentive.

The heroine has just managed to talk her coworker into being her pretend boyfriend for her tenth high school reunion, when the silence between us grows so thick that it might suffocate me. It doesn't help that the acting is atrocious; I'm talking D-level quality. I've seen porn with better emoting.

"I don't miss high school at all," I murmur, without even thinking.

While high school wasn't bad, it's not something I look back on with any degree of nostalgia. It was marred with my parents fighting constantly, Joshua struggling in classes constantly, and a cutthroat prep school environment. Everyone was constantly battling to get the best grades, have the trendiest designer clothes, and drive the flashiest cars.

On top of all that, I was playing high-level competitive hockey six days a week. It wasn't exactly the carefree experience the media always likes to portray. I think adulthood has been less stressful.

"No?" Brooke laughs, and the sound lifts the weight that's been settled across my chest since I arrived. " I always took you for one of the popular guys."

Reaching up, I stroke her silky hair absentmindedly. "I mean socially, it was okay. But I had a lot on my plate, and I hated being forced to study things I had no interest in. It seemed like such a waste of time. I was much happier once I got to college and could focus on what interested me."

"Yeah. Instead of calculus, they should teach you things that are actually useful in the real world. Like how to do your taxes." Brooke grabs a fistful of Chicago Mix popcorn from the bowl next to us. "Talk about confusing. Form ABC-1 or Form XYZ-2? It's anyone's guess. Who can even understand all of that? It's like a foreign language."

"It's only once a year, at least."

"Is it every single year?" She shrugs. "What a pain."

"Sure is." My spidey senses tingle. On several occasions, I have seen several gigantic piles of unopened mail on her counter parked next to her aqua-colored Keurig—envelopes from the IRS included. "But you do pay your taxes, right?"

Brooke returns her attention to the screen in front of us, steadfastly ignoring my prying gaze. She pops a piece of caramel popcorn in her mouth, followed by a piece of cheddar popcorn, followed by a generous handful of both, chewing like a chipmunk. I have it on good authority that Brooke eats when she's stressed out, and there are blaring sirens going off in my head.

"Right?" I press.

Please, please, let the answer be yes.

"Mmmmhrhm," she mumbles, mouth half-full.

Oh, god.

"Brooke," I say carefully. "Please tell me you pay your taxes."

There's a heavy silence as she finishes chewing and swallows, still making a point to dodge my prodding stare. She sighs heavily, watching the characters on-screenlean in for a fake kiss. "I mean, sometimes?"

Sweet baby Jesus. For someone so smart, sometimes she goes out of her way to hide it.

Based on her reaction, my poker face is failing me completely. I'm certain the mixture of shock and horror is written all over my face.

"Look, I try. But they're complicated. I have lots of different sources of money, coming in at different times, and it's always unpredictable amounts..." she trails off. "Some are checks, some are direct deposits. It's hard to keep track of it all. I'll have an accountant figure it out someday. I just can't afford to pay one to do that right now."

It's a flimsy excuse, because we both know that Brendan would help her sort all of it out within a couple of days. Hell, I would help her if she would just ask me—or let me, for that matter.

Plus, she could use her job to her benefit if she structured things correctly, kept track of receipts, and itemized her expenses. As a blogger, her job relates to so many things that she could have some really killer tax breaks for research. Probably even some of that damn overpriced Lululemon gear she's always buying.

"But think of all the write-offs you're missing out on. You probably wouldn't even have to pay that much when all is said and done."

Her brow crinkles. "Are you saying you don't think I make much money?"

Christ. Is everything I say going to be twisted and used against me tonight?

"What? No. I just mean, you could count a lot of the things you blow money on to be business expenses."

"Blow money on?" She throws back two gulps of wine, glaring at me.

Yikes. That came out wrong. Really wrong.

"Spend money on," I amend.

Brooke scoots away from me on the couch and grabs a purple throw blanket, draping it over her legs as a barrier between us. She picks up the bowl of popcorn again, grabbing another fistful. "It's not like I'll never pay them. I'm just sort of, you know, postponing it."

"Well, you're right about that. Because they'll get tired of waiting eventually and freeze your bank accounts."

The words leave my mouth before I can stop myself. While not untrue, they definitely don't come out as sugar-coated as the situation requires. She stiffens, setting down the bowl of popcorn with an ominous clunk against the wooden coffee table. My well-intentioned advice was not well-received.

"Stop it." She stands up from the couch and puts her hands on her hips, shooting daggers at me with her eyes. "You're being so dramatic."

"That's not dramatic, that's a fact. The IRS will only be so patient before they decide to seize your assets in payment of overdue taxes." It's also true that Brooke would have an epic meltdown if this happened to her out of the blue. I mean, technically speaking, they warn you first, but I can see now that she probably wouldn't listen. Hell, maybe they already have warned her...or tried to.

"You sound like Brendan. Or my dad." Her voice cracks, and guilt washes over me. "Everything is fine, okay?"

Clearly, everything is not fine if she owes even close to what I now suspect she owes. The interest and penalties alone will be backbreaking.

"I'm just trying to help," I say gently. "If you want me to, I can—"

"I don't need your help. I don't need your advice." Still standing, she reaches for the bowl of popcorn again and grabs another fistful, chewing it aggressively. "Thanks, but no thanks. Let's just drop it."

I always knew Brooke was strong-willed, but she's being off the charts stubborn.

"Ignoring the problem won't make it go away, you know. It'll just continue to snowball."

"Dean," she snaps, eyes flashing with anger, "I said drop it."

Right. Drop it and never speak of it again, which is exactly how she copes with all of her problems: avoidance.

Brooke flops back onto the other end of the couch, and we stew in angry silence for a few moments, both pretending to watch the movie. I care about her too much to let her do this to herself. The only way to get that to happen is to open her eyes to the ramifications of continuing to ignore the problem.

"Don't you think that you might be upset because a part of you knows I'm right? Just let me help you."

"Oh my god!" She turns to face me, pulling her hands into the sleeves of her lavender hoodie, "You act like you've never made a mistake in your life."

Never a mistake? What is she talking about? I make mistakes constantly. Isn't that how we got into this fight in the first place?

"But I have a newsflash for you," she adds. "It doesn't count if it's just for show."

It hits a nerve. After seeing my parents' sham of a marriage, one thing I've always vowed was not to become them. Maintaining your privacy is one thing, but being fake is another.

Despite my efforts to fight it, an edge creeps into my voice. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Why are you so hell-bent on fixing me when we both know this has no future?"

I don't even know what to say to that, so I don't. My silence incenses her further.

"Everything you do is so calculated. I mean, even this," she says, gesturing to us. "It's not like it can go anywhere. We both know that. I don't fit into that perfect little Stepford mold."

Usually, that's what I like about her. But if she's going to act like an ostrich any time a problem comes up, maybe she has a point.

"I don't expect you to be perfect. But it's hard to have a future with someone who refuses to talk about problems or fix them."

Her pale blue eyes widen. "You think you're so much better than everyone."

"You don't take anything seriously."

Now I know I'm throwing punches, and I can't seem to stop myself. For better or worse, Brooke knows how to push my buttons. Right now, it's for the worse.

She snorts. "And you take everything seriously, like some kind of old man in a young man's body. Live a little, for the love of god. Not everyone is uptight like you."

"Uptight." I repeat slowly. "I'm uptight because I think people should pay their taxes?"

"No, you're uptight because you're a control freak." She reaches for the remote control on the edge of the couch and bumps it to the floor. It falls with a clatter, battery compartment springing open and batteries falling out, rolling across the hardwood. "Ugh!"

I slide off the couch, reaching for them. "Here, let me—"

"No." Brooke grabs the pieces before I can, setting them aside without fixing the remote. "You know what? You should just go. This was a bad idea."

"The movie?"

"No, us."

It lands like a slap.

A hush falls over the room.

Does she actually believe that?

I push off the couch, channeling every ounce of strength I have to keep my tone level and as non-confrontational as possible. "You know what? I'm going to go."

Bailing goes against every instinct I have. In fact leaving things like this is the last thing I want to do— but it's clear we aren't going to do anything but make things worse right now.

For a split-second, Brooke looks torn, but determination quickly settles across her face once she realizes I'm serious about leaving.

"Fine." She crosses her arms tightly across her chest. "Lock the door on your way out."

A flicker of regret sparks within me, and I almost let myself stop. Let myself apologize. Let myself demand an answer out of her as to what's really going on, because this fight we're having wasn't the beginning. It was simply pouring gasoline on something that's already on fire.

But I don't, because the expression on her face tells me it's pointless. I lost a battle I didn't know I was fighting the minute I walked through her door.

The elevator ride back downstairs moves at warp speed. Before I know it, I'm back in the parking lot and I still haven't processed what happened.

As I slip into my car, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I hold my breath, hoping it's Brooke but knowing it probably isn't. I'm right: it's Josh. Like usual, some of his spelling errors manage to evade his phone's spellcheck. Sometimes, the end result is unintentionally humorous, but tonight, it's oddly depressing. Maybe it's because I'm struck by the parallel between how he mixes up letters and how Brooke mixes up her numbers. I can't believe I never noticed how similar they were before.

That's when it hits me—and I feel so much worse about what just happened.

Probably the reason I was blocked on this story was because I HATE WRITING THESE SCENES. Lol. I knew what had to happen, I just didn't want to do it.