Outside, I called Mrs. Belfort’s daughter, Kacey. A New Yorker with a family and kids, I’d once seen her at Mrs. B’s, which was more than I could say about her Bostonian brother. Kacey answered after the third ring and sounded less than happy when I told her who I was. When I explained that Mrs. Belfort wasn’t feeling very well, I heard a steel cabinet slam in the background and an animalistic growl.

“So. My overdramatic mother finally resorted to getting her teenage neighbor to call me? Jesus Christ. Get a life,” then hung up.

I sat there, staring at the ocean for a long minute, trying to figure out what had just happened. Then I shook off my anger and dialed Ryan, Mrs. Belfort’s son. It went straight to voicemail. I called again. Same. Maybe his phone was turned off. Or maybe he was at a meeting. Or maybe he didn’t want to deal with me, just like his sister. Anger sizzled in my blood as I wrote him a quick text message.

This is Juliette Belfort’s neighbor. I’m calling because your mother is not doing well. She needs you and your sister to come home.

He wrote back a minute later.

Don’t call me again.

Exasperation made my breathing labored and hard. I thought about how I would have reacted had my own father still been alive and in need. I would drop everything to be with him. Of course, I didn’t have that privilege, and that annoyed me, too.

Your mother is still alive, but you deem her a drama queen, even though you know she is slipping in and out of lucidity.

This is not a kiddie game, sweetheart. We’re both professionals.

Came his second text a minute later.

Yeah, I thought. Professional oxygen-wasters.

I got back into the café, finished my shift, and drove back home. On my way there, an unsettled feeling of a pending disaster formed in my gut. It was brewing, I could tell, because I wanted to be sick. I tried to call Roman, but he didn’t pick up, and I had to remind myself once again that everything was okay. I parked and pushed the entrance door open, feeling my mouth going dry before I even heard the yelp coming from the kitchen.

“Jesse? Jesse, is that you?”

Pam was heaving, her voice panicky and uneven. I dumped my backpack by the door and tucked my cell phone into my back pocket, heading over to the kitchen. Had she broken a nail or something?

“Nope. It’s the pope.”

“You need to come here, sweetie!” she called.

Sweetie? That was new. And worrying. The knot in my stomach tightened, and the need to turn around and run took hold of my legs, but I fought it. I rounded the corner into the kitchen and found Pam standing above the kitchen sink, sniffing. I arched an eyebrow.

“Are you sick? Do you need Tylenol?” Ever since Pam had twisted my arm into having an abortion, I tried very hard to generally ignore her existence. It was almost going against my nature to offer her help, but it was stronger than me.

Some part of me, albeit small and quiet, still wanted us to be close.

“I already took two and washed them down with water. You need to see something.” She grabbed my hand, and I nearly jolted. Another bad sign. Pam never touched me if she could help it. She slid the glass door leading to the patio open and nearly dragged me outside to the backyard with the oak tree, lush grass, and Olympic-sized pool.

“I found him like that this morning, a little after you left.” She rounded a red Moroccan-style sunbed and pointed at the grass. Shadow lay there, his eyes open, staring at the sun unnaturally. He was still, so very still.

I cupped my mouth, trying not to throw up. It looked all wrong. Him, staring at the scalding sun instead of squinting. A fly trailed along his unmoving ribs, and it occurred to me that he would try to bite it if he were alive.

But he wasn’t.

My dog wasn’t alive.

My dog was very, very dead.

I crouched down and gathered him in my arms, feeling the tears streaming down like a broken fountain. It took me time. Years, to be exact, but it had finally happened. After everything I’d been through—I cried.

“Goddammit, Old Sport,” I snuffled, pressing his head to my thighs. He felt heavier than usual. Slack, but stiff. Pam was standing behind me, motionless, and I wanted to turn around and throw something sharp at her.

“You said he was like this since this morning.”

“Yeah.”

“Why didn’t you tell me, Pam? Why didn’t you call?” I jumped up to my feet, my grief suddenly interrupted by sudden anger. Anger was easier to digest. Easier to pour out. Loss was crippling, breathtaking, chaining. Pam ran a hand over her bleached hair, her acrylic pink nails making an unbearable sound along her scalp. “I’ve been throwing up all morning. You know I liked that dog, too. But he was old, Jesse. Besides, he had cancer. There was nothing we could do.”

“Wait,” I lifted my palm up. “What cancer? What are you talking about?”

As far as my knowledge went, the blood work never came back, and last time I’d asked about it, Pam had said Dr. Wiese had never called. I’d been meaning to drop by his clinic today after lunch, but…

Pam scrunched her nose, like I was being unreasonable. Tiresome, even. I wanted to push her into the pool and watch her flail helplessly. More than that, I knew that I could. That I had it in me. I was no longer lethargic and sad. I was burning with rage, the kind of flame that sparked fast, consuming everything around it in seconds.

She threw her arms in the air. “Look, I’m sorry, but you’re a mess, okay? We didn’t want to tell you because we knew you’d make a scene. Guess what? Here you are, making a scene. I don’t need this in my life. My life coach says you’re messing up my Zen.”

“We? Darren knew, too?” I advanced toward her. She took a step back. I realized that I didn’t have to throw her into the pool. She was going to fall into it all on her own.

“Fine. It was me. Sue me, Jesse! You’re a weird, unpredictable girl. I don’t want to deal with you if I can help it.”

“I’m the girl you forced into having an abortion after you made me pretend I hadn’t been gang raped. What do you expect, cocktails at The Ivy?” I snapped. “I’m messing with your Zen? You messed up my life!”

“Really? This again?” She stumbled back another step, waving a dismissive hand in my face. “You were a kid! You’d have popped out that baby and left it for me to take care of. All I’ve ever wanted was to do my thing.”

I plunged forward, recognizing, perhaps for the first time, that maybe I wasn’t totally sane, but Pam wasn’t, either. She still couldn’t admit the simple fact that I’d been raped, and she was self-absorbed to a point of madness.

“When did you find out about the cancer, Pam?”

I needed her to tell me it was this morning, so I could look at her face again without wanting to do something horrible to her. But she lifted her hands in surrender and took another step back, her posture already defensive.

“A couple of days after the test.”

My stomach churned. I’d had time to tell him goodbye. I hadn’t gotten to hold him when he took his last breath. I hadn’t even been there to comfort him. Couldn’t make sure that he felt comfortable and loved. That he was lying down on one of my hoodies—he loved sleeping on my clothes—and looking up at me, and I would have said something soothing he would somehow understand. I hadn’t even had the chance to give him what no one else in this house deserved—the respect you give to a family member who’d been there for you when no one else had.

When Shadow had taken his last breath, I’d probably been messing around with Roman in his shower, grunting and clawing at his flesh.

This is what happens when you take a chance on life.

“I hate you! I fucking hate you!” I screamed, launching at Pam out of nowhere. She tripped backward and fell into the deep end of the pool. Pam wasn’t a good swimmer. For all the sunbathing she did, she never bothered to dip her toe inside the pool.

Her arms flailed hysterically, and she gasped for air, swallowing water in the process. She shrieked, looking like an ant in sticky honey, and although I knew she would get out of there eventually, I enjoyed the first time in our relationship where she did the squirming.

I crouched down, staring at her emotionlessly. “But you know what the worst part is?”

“Jesse!” She gulped more water. “Je-ssse! Help me out!”

“I can’t drown my demons. They know how to swim.”

I LOVE YOU, BUT YOU chose the worst fucking time to call.

Like all thoughts, it was mundane, spontaneous, and gratuitous. It flashed through my mind as I waited outside Darren Morgansen’s office to tell him thanks for the six million bucks, but I’d really rather bury my dick in his stepdaughter. In-fucking-definitely. Problem was, the person calling me was said stepdaughter.

And, I’d just said that I loved her.

Or at least thought it.

Yes. I’d thought it.

No, wait, I was sure of it.

Shit, I loved Jesse Carter.

Was in love with Jesse Carter.

But, of course, you are, little prick. Do you make a habit of impulsively pissing over six million bucks from an oil tycoon and breaking a contract with them?

This morning, in my dingy kitchenette, I’d known that I wasn’t just fucking Snowflake. I was also fucking SurfCity to death, because I would never come up with the money for the investment, and more than that, I was fucking myself over, because holy shit, I was about to be one million dollars indebted to someone. Wasn’t that the ultimate irony, though? I made so much money fucking people for a living, but in the end, it was one fuck that would cost me a million bucks.

Darren opened his office door and motioned for me to come in, so I let the call die rather than send it to voicemail. For the first time in a long time I didn’t feel cocky as a rooster. I was actually nervous. Not about the breaking the deal part. Fuck him. But about owing someone so much money. Usually, I was on the owed-to side, not vice versa. I could come up with the money, but not right away. I needed twelve months. Minimum. No one said he was going to give them to me.