I’m led up a flight of stairs, the wood stained a rich cherry, shined to a gloss, my hand dragging along the smooth wood as we climb farther to the next level of living space. As a contractor via side hustle, I can appreciate the details of the house and the architectural elements, and I wonder if Hollis bought the place this way or refurbished it.

I also wonder if she bought it with family money or on her own—then get my head out of my own ass for even wondering, considering it’s none of my fucking business. Who cares anyway? What difference does it make?

I’m just curious. Sue me.

The friend and I arrive at the kitchen. There’s a balcony overlooking a small, fenced-in courtyard and a view of the neighbor’s balcony. Views of the entire neighborhood and their backyards—it reminds me why I don’t live in the city.

No privacy.

I bet everyone knows her business all the time.

It’s strange that she’s not living in a more private, secure building, considering who her family is. They’re loaded. Hollis is ripe for kidnapping and ransom demands, and maybe the girls aren’t the only ones who are dramatic.

I clear my throat, feeling like a giant in this feminine space. Pull out a chair at the table, but then push it back in. I’ll wait for Hollis to come out from wherever she is before I sit or don’t sit, remaining rooted to the floor near the stairs we just climbed.

Her friend leans against the counter, arms crossed. As if I’m the asshole in this scenario.

Guilty by association, or just someone to take the brunt?

I’m about to find out.

Hollis appears from down a hallway, wearing jean shorts and an oversized white sweater, hair in disarray. Tiny and cute, I want to hug her—but also have no desire to be sacked in the ball bag by the bodyguard in the corner. Her stink eye is freaking me the fuck out.

“Hey.” Hollis crosses her arms and does that thing where it looks like she’s giving herself a hug. Or like she’s cold and trying to stay warm. She glances at her friend. “Did you introduce yourself?”

The friend raises a brow. “Oh, he knows who I am.”

My head shakes, half out of fear, half out of spite. She scares me. “I can’t remember your name, sorry.”

“How can you not remember my name? We met before.”

“I don’t think you—”

“Ugh,” she loudly groans. “It’s Madison. Madison! We met at that fundraiser.”

“I meet lots of people, sorry.”

“Whatever. What do you want to say to Hollis? Make it snappy.”

“Madison!” Hollis gasps. “Don’t be rude.”

“Um, I thought we hated men tonight.”

She glances at me, grimacing. “We do, but you don’t have to be rude.”

“Well,” I can’t help adding, “this is awkward.”

“Buzz, want to…go outside and talk? It’s still nice out.”

And light, with no bugs. Although I could eat again, I follow her to the patio doors and the balcony beyond. It’s small but has a few chairs and a tiny table. I imagine she comes out here in the mornings for coffee or to watch the sun rise.

Or like, to fuck.

I can picture banging out here at night—risky but private, depending on how dark it is outside and how many lights are shining from the surrounding house lamps.

Maybe even sex against the sliding door? Her ass cheeks pressed against the glass—believe it or not, I’ve never screwed anyone against a window, not even at a hotel, though I could totally get into it.

Is that weird?

Hollis leads the conversation, which surprises me. “I’m assuming Noah told you what happened.”

I nod, pulling out a chair across from her and plopping down. It’s cold and uncomfortable, an intricate metal contraption that looks pretty but feels like hell against my back. “He did and I wanted to see how you were doing.”

“I’m fine. Marlon is a jerk.”

“Jerk. Asshole. Douche. Prick.” Take your pick. “How do you feel?”

“Shitty.” She’s playing with the ends of her sweater, fiddling with the cuffs, which are a bit too long. “I know none of it is true, but it still makes me feel crappy—that’s what breakups do. I’ve never felt right about ours because he always made me feel like less of a person.”

Then why the fuck are you wasting time worrying about it? “Are you still hung up on him?”

“No!” She pauses. “I think what I’m…‘hung up on’”—she uses air quotes around the words—“is how taken advantage of I felt and how easily I let him.”

I can relate. “That’s one of the reasons I haven’t been in a relationship since I was in eighth grade.”

She looks up at me as if suddenly remembering that I have the same shit happen to me on a daily basis, people wanting something from me, wanting to be seen with me. Autographs, appearances. Some paid, some free—it’s all the same, and occasionally? It feels shitty.