I don’t bother packing these carefully; Jamie would have a whole new wardrobe of shoes by now. When he left, it was with one suitcase. That’s how fast he had to leave before he committed homicide.

Tom returns. “Thanks for letting me use your room. I don’t think I’ve slept so well in years. Your mattress is …” He can’t even think of a word. I know what he means.

“If I marry anyone, it will be that bed. It’s why I sleep so much.” I’m getting more wiped out by life. When I travel, I have to lie down in the afternoons. Together, we flip the generic mattress on Jamie’s old bed, and we make the bed with fresh flowered sheets. “When I travel, I miss my bed more than most people I know.”

“You must love traveling to leave a bed like that.”

“As hard as it is for you to believe, yeah. I do. I swear, if Jamie took my passport I am never going to forgive him.”

“Sure you would,” Tom says tentatively. He’s got a rawness in his expression. “You’re exaggerating, aren’t you?”

“Anyone who knows me, knows that that would be the worst thing to do to me. I hate being forced to stay.” I wish my brother would stop intruding on my limited time with Tom. “Are you even going to fit on this little bed?” Jamie didn’t get a lot of action when living here; hence the books.

“I’m sure I will. Don’t forget, I’ll be out in my tent when the renovation starts,” Tom says after a beat. “Hey, what’s this?” He’s pulling out a large canvas from under the bed, and we lean it against the wall. It’s my Rosburgh Portrait Prize–winning portrait. Of who else but my brother.

“He really worked the room like a celebrity that night,” I say as we stare at Jamie. He stares back at us.

Objectively, it’s a phenomenal image. I clicked the camera, but I didn’t do it alone. That’s just the way Jamie’s face interacts with light. That night of the award, he was drunk on his own beauty and cleverness. And champagne, naturally. I felt like he’d won the prize, not me. I had to give short interviews as the youngest award winner and watch Tom fading into the sidelines, Megan hooked onto his arm.

“He slept with two different cocktail waitresses that night. Two.” Tom is dumbfounded, like it is scientifically impossible. It occurs to me that Megan is his one and only. The combine harvester keys are in my hand, so I begin to babble.

“Well, if you insist on carrying the boxes, you could move those five, and the room’s basically done. Jamie won’t believe I helped, probably. Maybe I should soak a handkerchief in sweat and he can get it verified by a lab.”

“You’re obsessed with proving you can work harder than him. It’s just a permanent battle with no ending.” Tom regards the portrait with an expression I cannot read. “You two are so tough on each other. Why don’t you try being friends? When you are, it’s amazing.” He grins at a memory.

“I have to prove myself. Every time I call someone out of the blue, they’ve got this tremor in their voice. Hello? Like they’re imagining me making an emergency call with my blue half-dead hand. That’s why I like guys like Vince. They don’t treat me like an invalid.”

“Vince,” Tom says, seizing on a name at last. He turns it over in his mind like one of Loretta’s tarot cards. “Vince. Not Vince Haberfield from high school.”

“Yeah, Vince Haberfield. He either doesn’t know about my heart, or he forgot, so when we hang it’s not this huge deal.” I don’t really care for Tom’s expression so I go into the kitchen and unearth a takeout menu. “Should I order a pizza for you before I go over to Truly’s? Silly question. Of course I should.”

He’s now sitting on his new bed. “You’re with Vince Haberfield? How’d that little piece of shit turn out?”

“He’s still a piece of shit. And I’m not with him.” I hold out my hand until he realizes what I want; he gives me his phone. I order a pizza I know he’ll like and hand the phone back. “Say something.”

He’s just sitting there. I don’t know what he’s processing, but it seems like a lot. I pat him on the shoulder. “I can see you’re not exactly overjoyed. Bad news to report to Jamie, huh?”

“I’m not reporting anything.” He says that with a tight jaw. But he’s still himself. I don’t get that hint of wolf that I thought I might when we look into each other’s eyes.

“Hey, don’t judge. Dating is an absolute nightmare. Be glad you don’t have to worry about it.”

“I thought you weren’t dating him.” He’s got me there. “Well, I have to worry about it now.” He rubs his hand on his face.

“You are not looking after me,” I tell him in my most firm voice. “No matter how much you want to, I’m not yours to look after.”

I watch as something like a wordless protest twists up out of him, and he’s groaning and putting his face in his hands. He’s miserable. I’m breaking his brain just being in this house.

Time for me to get out of here. One wrong move and he’ll be jamming his stuff back into his suitcase like Jamie did.

“I’m going to Truly’s now for a while. Save me some pizza.” I don’t need to change my dusty clothes. Keys, wallet, shoes, I’m out the door. I am the queen of the instant exit. I’m practically jumping out a dog door. “Bye.”

“Wait,” Tom calls from back in the house, surprise in his tone.

Patty slips out behind me. “Hey, come back!” I chase her up to the pavement and scoop her up. “Naughty.”

There’s a car approaching, and it’s not a pizza delivery car. That’d be one instant miracle pizza. It’s a noisy, black car. I know this car. I set a sprint record running back to the front door, my blood whooshing in my ears, and stuff Patty into Tom’s open hands. “Bye.”

The black car stops at the top of the drive, blocking my car in, and the ignition is turned off. The driver’s door opens.

Vince has either perfect timing, or the worst timing of all time.

Chapter 9

Moments like these make me certain that Loretta is lying facedown on a cloud, stuffing popcorn into her mouth, nudging Vince’s car a little faster down Marlin Street. Two minutes later, I’d be gone, and Vince would be just cruising past.

Vince rounds the hood of the car, sees me and Tom, and stumbles a little in surprise before recovering. He sits on the hood of his car. Speak of the devil.

“You still have no phone.” That’s Vince’s way of saying: I haven’t seen you for a while, I wanted to see you, and this is tough on my ego.

I’ve got new eyes now, looking at him. Tom’s straightforward gorgeousness has spoiled me for my usual type. Vince is whipcord lean, pale and dark haired, dressed in head-to-toe black. Tattoos galore. Dark circles and an air of tortured artist. He cups his hands around a cigarette, there’s a flick, and now he’s exhaling plumes of gray.

“Thought I’d drop by.” Vince clearly hates these sorts of moments where he’s got to justify his actions or give a shit. I’ve never required it from him. Another drag, and his blue eyes look anywhere but at me. “But you’ve still got company. Tom Valeska, right? Haven’t seen you for years, man. How’s it going? Cute dog.”