“Dude, week five is where it all falls apart—don’t you know that?” Lucas asks as he brings his beer up to his lips.

“No. I never watched the goddamn show.” Not wanting to face the outside world, I had Lucas come over to my apartment for beer and wings. I provided the beer; he brought the wings. By the time he showed up, I was already four bottles in and cracking my fifth, which has made me, let’s say . . . a little loopy.

“The producers put bouquets and boutonnieres in week five on purpose, because at this point, you’ve either felt the pressure of consistently losing and you need a win, or you’ve been on top and a failure would be devastating. The challenge is brutal, not being able to see, being timed, and having to communicate by describing what to do.” He chuckles. “Fuck, I can’t wait to see this air.”

“Glad you think it’s so fucking funny.”

“It really is.” He picks up a wing and bites into it. “But from the way your eyes are glassed over, I’m going to assume it’s not the challenge that ate you alive today.”

“Nope,” I say, slouching in my chair. “It was my soon-to-be sister-in-law.”

“Ahh, Naomi, right?” I nod. “Did she yell at you for not making a bouquet that’s worthy of her hands?”

I shake my head. “No, she told me what a shitty brother I am and how Thad idolizes me, but she doesn’t get it. Direct quote: she’s ‘unimpressed’ with me.”

“Ouch, really?”

“Yup.” I take a long pull from my beer, and I mean long, letting the cold liquid soothe my throat.

“Is she right?”

I sigh and stare down at the brown bottle in my hand, as if I’ve never seen a beer bottle before. Is she right? Well, do I want to admit to being a shitty person?

I chug the rest of my beer and set down drink number five on the coffee table before I reach for drink number six.

I pop the top off. “She’s unfortunately very accurate about how I treat my brother.”

Lucas nods. “Which says something about your current level of alcohol consumption.”

I tip the bottle toward him. “Truth.”

“So you’re feeling like shit.”

“Pretty . . . much.” I down half the bottle, staring up at the modern light fixture that hangs over my living room. There’s nothing personal about it, just plain black with lights attached to it. Sleek lines, no character . . . probably a direct reflection of the person I’ve become. “Have you changed?” I ask Lucas, suddenly.

“Changed? In what regard?”

“Since you became a lawyer. Do you feel like your character has changed?”

“Not really. I’d say I’m the same—maybe bigger balls than when I was in college, even though back then I was a know-it-all punk. At least I have facts to back up my statements now. Why? Do you feel like you’ve changed?”

“I know I have.” I press my palm to my eye. “I wasn’t always this . . . emotionless, unattached. But the minute I exited that apartment and left Thad behind, I felt so free, like I could finally breathe. And I clung to that feeling. I’d carried the burden of my parents for so long that the minute I didn’t have to carry it anymore, I ran.”

“Leaving Thad behind.”

“Precisely.”

“Brutal, man. And now you’re feeling the consequence of running.”

“Not only feeling it, living it.” I shake my head. “He wants this so bad. Really fucking bad, but we’re so far behind, easily the underdogs, with no chance of coming back. And with every loss, I can see Thad’s spirit fall further and further. Today was . . . fuck, it was rough, seeing him like that—not just emotional, but truly beside himself. I know he’s more sensitive than other men, but he was in tears today. Not dramatic tears, but tears that basically said he was giving up on a dream.”

“Hell, man.” Lucas takes a sip of his beer. “I wasn’t expecting to get all the feels tonight.”

“Tell me about it. I have no idea what to fucking do.”

Lucas passes me the tray of wings, but I push them away. He pushes them toward me again. “Eat, dude. You need food in your stomach.”

He’s right. I put down the beer and place a few wings on my plate.

“Now, did you bring me over here to help you, or to just listen?”

I pause for a moment, chewing on a wing. “At first listen, but now I feel like I need some advice.”

“I don’t think you’re going to like what I have to say.”

“I’ve already been dragged through the mud—might as well put the cherry on top of the cake.”

He chuckles and clinks the neck of his beer bottle against mine. “Then let me ask you this: Do you miss your brother?”

“What?” I ask, feeling a little too drunk to be having this conversation now.

“The boy you grew up with, the friend you could rely on. Do you miss him?”

“I mean . . . yeah.” I set my wing down and stare at it. “But I don’t think I know the man he’s become, and that . . . fuck, that’s shameful.”

“Do you want to know him?”

I’ve spent my adult years avoiding my family, ignoring invitations to birthdays, casual hangouts, even holidays. I’ve sent texts here and there, but the majority of the correspondence from them has gone unanswered. I kept telling myself I would catch the next call or the next text. I would answer later, until I just never answered. I never called back.

Now Thad is getting married, to a woman I barely know.

Thad is a grown-ass man, about to become a dad, and I don’t even know the man he’s become. I don’t know the kind of dad he wants to be.

I know practically nothing about his life, the boy I raised, the boy who would cry on my shoulder whenever Dad slammed the door and we wouldn’t see him for days.

All I know is what we used to have. I have no idea what kind of relationship we could have now, and hell, that pains me, especially when I see how close Luna and Cohen are.

I notice the way she looks up to her brother, the love in her eyes, the same kind of love Thad has for me. The kind of love I don’t deserve.

But it’s the kind of love I want to deserve.

And even though the last five weeks have been hell on earth, this is the most excitement I’ve ever had in my cold, sterile adult life.

“Christ,” I mutter. “I do. I want to know him. I want to know Naomi. I want to know their child. I want to be a part of their lives, but I have no idea how to do it. I’ve been so goddamn neglectful.”

“Well, what matters to Thad?”

“The wedding, and giving his family a great life.”

“Then it’s time to start taking this competition seriously. You have three weeks left before the weddings. There’s still time to change everything. And mind you, if you’ve saved up enough money, the last challenge of the competition before the weddings is what you’re going to spend the rest of your budget on.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean . . . the shitty bouquet and boutonnieres you made can be switched out. Those aren’t final—just what you’re stuck with if you can’t afford anything else. Use your money wisely, bro. This is The Wedding Game. Anything goes.”

“Really?” I sit up taller.

“Yeah, dude. You still have a chance at winning.”

“So . . . I could actually help Thad?”

“Yup.” Lucas smiles over his beer. “If I were you, I’d start looking up YouTube videos on DIY weddings. Next week is cakes. Know your shit.”

Know my shit . . . I can do that, right?

“What the actual fuck?” I say the next morning as I squint at my computer screen, pen in hand and notepad next to me. Thank God we have the day off from filming. A PA called this morning, saying Mary DIY had come down with food poisoning last night and we’re rescheduling for a double shoot next Sunday.

Which is why I’m hunkered over my computer, nursing more beers—because why not at this point?—and taking notes as I watch DIY wedding cake videos.

And when I say taking notes, I mean writing swear words over and over in my notebook as I listen to one YouTuber after another talk about different types of flour, letting the cakes cool, decorating with a flat knife, and the difference between each frosting and the look it can give you.

All I can say is . . . holy fuck.

I’ve become overwhelmed in the half hour since I started searching simple wedding cakes, thinking, Hey, that is a great place to start.

Wrong.

There are a million different types of “simple” wedding cakes.

“Simple, right?” the current YouTube star says after flipping a cake on top of another with a knife and just her hand, not a crumb out of place.

“Yeah, okay, lady.” I lean back in my chair, sip my beer, and jot down my first actual sentence in my notepad.