Dean is over half an hour late. No show, no call, not even the courtesy of a text. I declined Charity's impromptu offer to meet for drinks, and for what? Now I'm sitting in my apartment alone and I need that drink more than ever.

What a waste of shaving my legs.

I grab my phone off the nightstand to confirm that it hasn't magically powered itself off somehow. Unfortunately, the battery is fully-charged, the ringer is turned up to full volume...and it's woefully silent.

Where is he? My fingers are itching to text him, but my pride won't let me go through with it. At least, not yet. Give it another hour and I'll probably be too angry to resist.

Though, what I really want is for him to show up before it comes to that. I can forgive being late, given a reasonable enough excuse, but it's starting to feel like he's standing me up, and that really stings.

A sickening possibility creeps up into the back of my mind. Did seeing his parents tonight make Dean change his mind about me once and for all? Maybe he realized he can't be with someone he has to hide from them. I'm sure I don't live up to whatever standards they have for their son.

Before I realize what I'm doing, I'm out of bed and standing in the middle of my kitchen, rummaging through the pantry for a sugar fix. I tear open a bag of Chicago Mix popcorn with the enthusiasm of a junkie seeking their fix, but immediately lose my appetite for it when I realize I haven't eaten it since the night I fought with Dean. It's crazy, but now the caramel and cheddar combination just makes me think of him.

You know things are dire when I can't even stress eat properly.

I fasten the bag with a clip and stash it away, because it's too expensive to throw away without a good reason, and head back into my bedroom. Flopping onto my bed, I grab the remote and hit play to resume the episode of The Bachelor that I've been distracting myself with. It's the final show of the season—the one that usually ends with a proposal—which is the opposite of what I need right now. I can't explain why I'm watching it instead of something less aggravating, except to say I enjoy kicking myself when I'm already down.

The screen pans to the dark-haired Bachelor, Chris, as gets down on one knee and pulls out an enormous emerald-cut engagement ring. It has to be at least three carats, if not more, surrounded by a halo of tiny diamonds and nestled against a delicate pave diamond band. The bling is impressive, but it comes at a high price in this case. I've been watching this season religiously and he's a massive jerk. A hot jerk, but a jerk nonetheless.

Plus, who proposes on the edge of the cliff? I know it's a TV show, but it's so extra.

"Shari, you're my soulmate. Will you marry me?"

"Yes," she chokes out, offering him her left hand. "Yes, of course."

They embrace, exchanging a sloppy kiss that the camera zooms in on to an excessive degree. He looks like a terrible kisser—way too much saliva and tongue.

Dean is a phenomenal kisser.

Damnit, Brooke. I wish I could get him out of my head.

When they finally come up for air, Chris strokes her cheek and whispers, "It's been you all along, babe."

I might believe him, if not for the fact that he was making out with the other finalist in the fantasy suite the night before. Based on the way they were groping each other, I'm sure a whole lot more than that happened after the cameras left. Not to mention, there are rumors circulating online that he slept with one of the other contestants earlier during the season, when the show was filming in Italy.

Why are men? I mean, really.

"Liar," I mutter, exiting the recording and opening up Netflix. Scrolling through the shows, I finally settle on a new suspense series that better suits my mood. It's about a female serial killer, which is fitting; I feel awfully stabby right now myself.

My phone chimes, and I nearly fall off the bed in my haste to snatch it. But my heart plummets when I discover that it's not Dean, it's Brendan confirming when I want him to pick me up for brunch at our parents' place tomorrow. He's my temporary chauffeur because my car is in the shop due to a manufacturer's recall. Something to do with the transmission, or maybe it was a belt? As soon as the dealer said it was covered under warranty, I stopped listening.

After a second of internal debate, I reply and tell Brendan I need to take a raincheck because I'm too busy with coursework for my personal training certification. It's a lie, obviously. I could afford to take a break for a couple hours tomorrow, but if Dean no-shows me tonight, there's no way I can deal with seeing my parents and Brendan tomorrow. Or with seeing anyone else, for that matter. No, if this goes south, I'll need to retreat into the nearest cave for a minumum of one to two weeks. Then, I'll join a convent. Maybe a monastery. TBD.

I stare at the phone for another beat, contemplating whether to ask Brendan if he's heard from Dean. I doubt Brendan has, though. What's Dean going to do, give Brendan the heads-up that he's ghosting his little sister?

Instead, I shoot Peyton a message to see if Jay has heard from Dean. Unfortunately, he hasn't.

That's when my willpower crumbles, and I finally let myself text Mr. MIA himself.

Not surprisingly, I don't receive a reply.

By ten p.m., I have accepted that Dean isn't coming over tonight, even if I still don't know why. I crack open a new bottle of wine, the most expensive one I own, and turn on the saddest Spotify playlist I can find. With a half-bottle's worth of Pinot in one hand, I scroll through my phone, looking at the handful of pictures I have of us in some form of warped self-torture. There aren't nearly enough photos of us, and I never realized it until now. But the ones we do have, like a selfie I made him take at the caterer tasting, are like a punch to the gut.

My eyes fill with tears as I stare at the photo, taking in the way his eyes are crinkled at the corners in a broad smile. Why am I so sad? It's not like we've even been together for very long. I dated Travis for way longer, and I wasn't nearly as devastated when things ended between us as I am right now. What's wrong with me?

Then I hits me: I never loved Travis. At one point, I thought I did. But when I saw him with Jade last night, the only thing that bothered me was the way Jade betrayed me—it was the way she blew up my career that hurt.

Oh my god. I think I'm falling in love with Dean.

When did that happen?

*

By eleven p.m., I'm all cried out, and the searing irritation coursing through my veins has fizzled, displaced by a crushing sense of worry. I follow up my earlier snarky text to Dean with a nicer one, asking if he's okay—because I'm legitimately starting to wonder. Even if he was having doubts about us, he isn't the type of person to hide from a problem. If anything, he's a little too eager to speak his mind. That's how we got into our fight about taxes in the first place.

Something has to be wrong.

What could possibly be so serious that he couldn't even call or text me, though? Unless he's lying dead on the side of the road. My gut clenches. Did he get into a car accident? How would I even know? Who's his emergency contact?

Or am I just making up excuses in my head so I don't have to face the possibility that he's pulling the plug on us? Maybe he is running away in this case because he doesn't know how to handle ending things with me due to the Brendan angle.

I don't know. And somehow, it's the not knowing that's hardest of all.

A few minutes after midnight, I crawl into bed and pull the covers over my head, clutching my phone. But it doesn't ring once all night.

There's a murmur in my head, a thrumming in my veins. All I can think of is getting to Brooke.

I push open the heavy metal door, stumbling outside into the alley. Cold morning light blinds me, a painful contrast to the dim, windowless back room where I'd been held overnight.

The rain subsided at some point overnight, puddles all around the uneven parking lot. I'm still missing my phone, my cuff links, and my watch. By some small miracle, my body is unscathed. But after Brooke gets ahold of me, I can't say that will still be the case.

Joshua stumbles on the crushed gravel as he trails behind me, narrowly missing a large pool of water. "Thanks, Dean. I'm really sorry."

I survey the parking lot for his white Range Rover, which notably missing. Last night I assumed it had been parked somewhere out of sight, but Josh is following me to my car like a lost puppy, and I'm more than a little concerned. "Where's your car?"

"Don't have it."

A mixture of dismay and fury grips me. Holy shit, did he lose his SUV in this game, too? Tell me he didn't bet his vehicle.

He sees my expression, and he quickly adds, "It's at home. I got a ride here with a friend."

Who left him here, high and dry. Some fucking friend.

Stalking toward my car, I unlock it with the remote. It beeps twice. I'm half-surprised it's even still here.

"Get in," I order.

Josh obeys, pulling open the door and sliding into the passenger side. I start the ignition, checking the clock, because I have no goddamn idea what time it is other than some hour of the morning. Frustration grips me when I see that it's eight thirty-three a.m. Twelve-and-a-half hours past when I was supposed to be at Brooke's.

I can't even text her, beause neither of us has a phone.

The car ride is eerily silent as I make it across town to Josh's neighborhood in record time, running several questionable lights along the way and nearly hydroplaning twice.

Signaling, I steal a glance at him. "You need to go back to rehab."

Joshua slumps in the passenger seat, saying nothing. He rakes a hand through his hair while he looks out the window, steadfastly avoiding my gaze. This is his go-to response when he doesn't like what he's hearing. He doesn't argue—he just straight-up ignores it.

Kind of like how he ignores responsibility and adulthood in general.

"I can't deal with this shit anymore, Josh. It's fucking up my life. I was supposed to be with Brooke last night and now she probably thinks I'm either dead or that I stood her up. Either way, I'm sure she's really upset." Guilt crashes over me at the thought. If I made her cry again, which I am sure I did, I'm going to feel like a world-class asshole. In retrospect, I should have texted Brooke to let her know I was making a stop before coming over, but I had no idea things would spiral out of control. What are the odds? I'm supposed to be good at calculating those.

He huffs a loud, long-suffering sigh. "I'll think about it. Rehab really sucks, though."

"Do you think I fucking care? You need it, period. Don't make me get Mom and Dad to stage another intervention. Do it voluntarily, it'll be easier on all of us. You know they'll foot the bill." If they didn't, I would, but Josh already knows that.

Josh stares at the dash of the car in front of him, but doesn't argue with me. Somehow, it makes me even more upset.

"Don't know if you realize this," I add, "but dealing with you is fucking stressful, man. Taking a toll on my sanity. I'm scared that if I don't bail you out, you're going to end up dead. But I can't keep enabling you like this. It's expensive, and now it's gotten dangerous."

"I know." His voice is quiet.

Since he's obviously determined to avoid discussing the matter further, I drop it for the remaining few minutes of the drive and turn on the radio instead. Several turns later, I tear into his driveway and bring the SUV to a screeching halt. Josh lurches forward, restrained as his seatbelt locks up to hold him in place. I've never wanted to smack him so badly in my life, and it he doesn't get out of the vehicle right now, I might.

"Lay low for the next twenty-four hours and don't do anything stupid. Thanks to last night's little escapade, I don't have a phone, so if you don't listen, you're on your own. I need to deal with Brooke and that is my only priority today. I'll call you at home tomorrow about rehab. You'd better be there."

Actually, that's not entirely true. In addition to handling Brooke, I also need to call my bank to cancel all my cards, borrow her computer to remotely wipe my phone, and strongly consider moving. They kept my ID, and now they know where I live. Doubt anything will come of it, but that doesn't make it any less bothersome.

I barely wait for Joshua to close the passenger side door before slamming the car into reverse, speeding out of the driveway.

When I finally pull up at Brooke's apartment, I park haphazardly across two visitor parking stalls. Too impatient to wait for the elevator, I take the stairs two at a time until I reach her floor.

Drawing in a breath, I gently tap on the door to her unit. There's quiet rustling on the other side, but no one answers. I knock again, a little more loudly.

"Brooke."

"Go away." Her voice is scathing even through the thick metal door.

"Just let me explain."

Brooke opens the door a crack, peeking around the corner and glaring at me. Her eyes are red and puffy, skin blotchy. My stomach twists, knowing it's because of me. "So you are alive? Good to know." The door shuts again with an ominous click.

I press my forehead and palms against the cool surface, closing my eyes. My head throbs in conjunction with my pulse. It feels like I'm being hit in the temples with a sledgehammer, the byproduct of exhaustion and stress and vodka. But the pain is nothing compared to the ache in my heart.

The elevator dings behind me, and Brendan's voice echoes down the hall. "Dean?" He strides toward me, clutching two takeout cups of coffee and a bag of gourmet donuts from Crave Donuts down the street. One of Brooke's favorite places, which leads me to question how much Brendan knows. Are these consolation donuts? Is he about to kick my ass?

His expression hardens when he takes in my current situation, voice taking on an edge. "What did you do?"

Okay, so Brendan knows nothing.

My gaze darts between him and the closed door. I incline my head to the bank of elevators, indicating for him to follow me. No sense in spilling all the gory details where everyone on Brooke's floor can hear.

Tension radiates off him in waves as we come to a stop in the corner of the hallway. I can only imagine what he's thinking. Probably that I stood Brooke up intentionally, though he should know by now that I would never do that.

Brendan eyes me warily. "You look like shit. Did you go on a bender last night or something?"

"In the ten years you've known me, have I ever gone on a bender?" If anything, I'm usually the sober one. I hate feeling out of control. Half the time, I'm the designated driver for that very reason.

"Then what's going on with all of"—he makes a sweeping gesture to me, confirming I look every bit as bad as I thought—"this?"

It's a fair question. My suit is wrinkled, my dress shirt has a stain that I can't even explain, my hair is rumpled, and I appear to have aged ten years overnight.

I do, in fact, look like I've been on a bender.

"I had to triage an 'issue' with Josh last night." I make air quotes for emphasis. "And I haven't slept in twenty-six hours. "

His stance relaxes, and his brows draw together, tone softening. "Josh? Is everything okay?"

"It is now. But it was a fucking disaster. I thought I was coming to bail him out with some cash like usual. Instead, I was conscripted into an illegal poker tournament, strip searched—invasively—and robbed of my favourite pair of cufflinks. My phone, too, so I couldn't even call or text Brooke to let her know what was going on."

Brendan lets out a low whistle. "Well, that explains why you look like shit." He glances at the coffee and donuts in his hands, then he passes me one of the coffees. "Here. You need this more than I do."

"I was supposed to come over to Brooke's at eight last night, but they wouldn't let me leave until about half an hour ago. Turns out that when you gamble with the Russian mob, you're not done until they say you're done."

"Brooke will understand once you explain."

"If she lets me explain." I tip back the coffee, savoring the liquid on my desert-dry tongue. Not only am I exhausted, I'm completely parched. The only liquid the Russians had was alcohol. "Wait, what are you doing here? She didn't mention having any plans today."

"It seemed like something was wrong. I just had a hunch, and I wanted to make sure she was okay. Guess I know why she seemed off, now."

"She thinks I stood her up, and she's pissed. Rightfully so. I shouldn't have let Josh fuck up our night." It's never simple with him; I don't know why I thought it would be.

He cocks his head. "Does Brooke know the full extent of the Josh situation?"

"I've told her a few things, but no... not really."

While Brooke is the only person on the planet who knows that I blame myself for Josh's gambling problem, she doesn't know how severe it is or how tangled up I am in his chaotic life. And she definitely doesn't know that I enable him.

He studies me for a couple of seconds, then shoves the bag and the other cup of coffee into my hands. Turning on his heel, he speedwalks down the hall and knocks on the door to Brooke's apartment. Unlike when I tried, she answers right away.

Brendan ducks his head closer, saying something to her I can't make out, then jerks his thumb in my direction. Brooke pokes her head out and her eyes widen when they land on me, like she's only just fully realizing how terrible I look. They exchange a few more words and he leans in to gives her a hug before releasing her and heading back in my direction. Brooke lingers in the doorway with the door open, watching him walk away.

Meanwhile, I'm still holding the coffee and donuts, completely unclear as to what's going on.

He comes to stand in front of me, giving me a sympathetic look. "I told her to hear you out. Go talk to her. But if you want my unsolicited advice, I think you'll need to give her all the details for her to fully understand."

Relief washes over me. "Thanks, Bren."