First Sunny takes me up to Waters’ condo on the top floor of the building. The space is massive, boasting a sweet view of Lake Ontario. It’s not a lake anyone wants to swim in, according to Sunny. Apparently pollution means going for a dip could result in extra arms growing out of funky places. I’m not sure if she’s serious or not, but I’ll take her word for it.

She lifts a set of car keys from a hook by the door. “I wish you didn’t have to go so soon.”

“Yeah. Me either.”

“You could catch a later flight.” She peeks up from under blond lashes.

“Is that what you want me to do?”

She flips the keys over in her hands. “Only if you want to.”

We’re here now. We might as well have the conversation I’ve been stupidly avoiding. I call Amber. She checks into alternate flights. There are only two options, and neither gives me a whole lot of extra time.

“Hold on.” I cover the phone. “I can either fly out at nine thirty or ten ten.”

“That’s the latest you can stay?” She doesn’t look happy.

“That’s all they’ve got for tonight. I have meetings in Chicago in the morning.”

“Can you take the ten-ten flight?”

I nod. Amber rebooks the flight and makes sure I have the correct information. The change gives me and Sunny an extra hour; I set an alarm on my phone so we’re not late getting to the airport. Sunny rummages around in the fridge for something to drink. She finds a couple bottles of beer and some Perrier. I opt for the latter so beer doesn’t interfere with our conversation.

I flop down on the black leather couch in the living room and put my feet up on Waters’ coffee table. Sunny puts down two glasses of fizzy water and sits beside me, close but not touching.

She starts before I can. “I’m sorry for not trusting you.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

“I should’ve had more faith in you.”

“I can’t change the past or how often pictures are taken, Sunny. I can only take ownership of what I say and do—not the context it’s taken in, not the way the media wants to skew it. You can tell me you’re sorry and that you should have trusted me, but it doesn’t change how you handled things or give me any indication you won’t handle them the same way again.”

She tucks her feet under her and picks at a loose thread on the knee of her jeans. “So you don’t want to get back together?”

“I didn’t say that.”

She stops fiddling to look at me. “So . . .”

“I’ve been telling you from the beginning that I want this to work. That hasn’t changed for me. I just don’t know if it’s possible.” I run a hand through my hair, aware that I have to lay it all out. “What was I supposed to think when you opted to drive home with Bushman Tiny Dick over staying to talk things out with me? I get that my past is problematic. I understand that it’s going to take some time to get used to managing the media crap, but it’s not something you’re not already exposed to.”

“It never had anything to do with me directly before. The rumors were always about Alex and the hooker bunnies. This is different.”

She has a point, but so do I. “Okay. I can understand how that might have been a problem in the beginning. I know I wasn’t good about the pictures and all that stuff, but that’s changed. I’m trying to be more careful and aware. I had no idea what that car wash was going to be before I got there, and then it was too late. I need to do better about that stuff, but I can’t keep having the same argument with you, over the same issue. It gets tedious. I think I’ve been pretty damn clear about where I stand, haven’t I?”

“You have.”

“Then why all the jumping to conclusions? I don’t get it.”

She’s back to fidgeting. “I guess I haven’t been completely up front with you.”

I don’t like the way that sounds. Not at all. Maybe she slept with Bushman Tiny Dick while we’ve been on the outs. Maybe he finally gave her an orgasm with his mini-cock and my orgasm magic isn’t magical anymore. It occurs to me I’ll see her at Vi’s wedding. I’ll have to get drunk to manage, or I’ll bring a trampy date so I don’t have to go alone. I don’t have my honey list to draw from anymore and I don’t want to create a new one.

“Up front how?”

“No one ever pushed me to be good at anything besides being pretty when I was growing up. All the focus was on Alex and how talented and smart he was. I refused to figure skate, which might have been part of the problem. My mom was crushed when Alex chose hockey as a career. It was crazy. She refused to see that he loved it so much more, and that doing both was making him miserable.”

“How long did he do both?”

“Ten years.”

Well, that definitely explains why he’s such an awesome skater. “That’s a long time.”

“Anyway, she got over it eventually. She didn’t really have a choice. Then she started to see things differently. Alex makes a lot of money. All the good players do—you know that. After a while I think my mom decided I’d end up with one of his hockey friends. That way I’d be taken care of or whatever.”

“What do you mean by taken care of?” I have an idea where this is going, and it’s kind of messed up.

“Financially.”