Slowly, I turn to look at him, eyes narrowed. “Are you really blaming this on me right now?”

“You’re fucking blaming this on me, Luna.” Alec stands. “I told you I could wait, and you were the one who chose to lie, to keep it a secret.”

“Because I wanted you!” I shout, bewildered that he would even bring this up. “I wanted you more than anything. You asked me to keep it a secret. I’m sorry that I was so infatuated with you that I thought it could work, that even if I had to lie, I could at least be with the man I was falling for.”

He sighs. “I’m sorry, I’m just—fuck, this is such a mess.”

“Because of you,” I say, springing up from the couch and pacing the room. “If you just had the balls to talk to your brother, this wouldn’t have been a problem. But you have such a shitty relationship with him that you just had to drag me down and make my relationship with Cohen just as shitty.”

“Wow.” Alec blinks. “So you think everything that happened with Cohen is my fault?”

“You certainly didn’t help!” I shout. I know I’m being irrational, that the words coming out of my mouth are spiteful and untrue, but there is so much anger and pain building up inside of me that I just can’t stop them. “We could have avoided this whole shitstorm if you hadn’t asked me to lie.”

“I gave you a goddamn choice!” he yells, spreading his arms. “I gave you a choice, and you chose me.”

“I chose wrong,” I say before I can stop myself.

He rears back, stunned.

And I realize what I said, what it means for us . . . for him. I wait with bated breath to see how he reacts.

I stare into his eyes as they grow darker and darker.

He presses his lips together, nods, and then walks past me toward the door. My heart sinks. He turns the handle but then pauses and glances back at me. “For what it’s worth, I thought I chose correctly, because I chose you.” And then he’s gone, letting the door click quietly shut behind him.

I crumple to the couch and bury my head in my hands, sorrow sweeping over me faster than I can blink the tears away.

I lost Cohen today, and I just pushed away the man I love, the man who’s worked his way into my life faster and deeper than anyone ever has.

And even though I want to point the finger at everyone else, I know that if I want to peg the blame on anyone, I should go look in a mirror.

Luna: Cohen, I’m so sorry. Please, will you answer my calls?

Luna: Please don’t be mad at me. I can’t take this.

Luna: Cohen, this is breaking me.

Luna: Please, Cohen, you’re getting married on Friday. Four days. I don’t want to taint this happy moment.

Luna: I love you and I’m sorry. Please just call me, text me, visit me, anything. Please let me show you how sorry I am.

I sent the last text ten minutes ago, and still nothing. I even tried texting Declan, but given the lack of response, it seems like Cohen has shut down all communication with me. And that hurts, more than I can even describe.

We’ve never not talked; we’ve never fought like we did on set. I’ve done some pretty stupid things that have affected Cohen, but nothing of this magnitude, nothing that made him so mad he surpassed the vein popping in his forehead and went straight to disappointment . . . and unbridled anger. Anger so deep, so palpable, that I could feel it steamrolling over me as he walked away.

I wipe away a tear and take deep breaths as I try to comprehend the magnitude of this fight, of his distance and silence. I hate to admit it, but I’m not sure this is something I can fix my way out of. I think this is a situation where I might just have to let Cohen take the lead, and that’s entirely new territory for me. Taking the back seat, waiting, hoping . . . praying that he will come back to me and accept my apology.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

ALEC

“Hey, man, how was your week—whoa, what the hell happened to you?” Lucas asks as I stumble into his office and shut the door behind me.

I’m currently dressed in what some people might call sweatpants and a holey shirt, but I call them my breakup gear. For my first-ever breakup. Heather-gray sweatpants with elastic around the ankles, a Columbia shirt with holes in the armpits, holes so large you could apply deodorant through them. In a concession to professionalism, I’m wearing dress shoes—without socks—and have a tie wrapped around my neck haphazardly.

Honestly, I thought the tie was a nice touch.

I slouch in the chair and rest my hands on my stomach. “My life is shit. Absolute shit.”

The creak of Lucas leaning back in his chair fills his questioning silence as he studies me, probably trying to decide where to even begin.

I don’t give him a chance to guess.

“Luna broke things off.”

“Yeah, I could have guessed that.”

“Mary DIY—your bitch with a glue gun—spilled the beans about our relationship. Thad freaked out, just like I thought he would. Cohen was insulted. Luna cried. Helen threw a hissy fit.”

“The overbearing mom?”

I nod. “Thought it was an unfair disadvantage that we were dating, said we were ganging up on them. Diane lectured us. Cohen walked off set without Luna. Luna walked off set without me. And Thad won’t return any of my calls or texts.”

“Jesus Christ . . .” Lucas falls silent for over a minute, scratches his jaw, and then asks, “Did they happen to catch that all on camera?”

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He waves his hand and clears his throat. “Did Luna end your relationship while you were on set? Maybe it was a heat-of-the-moment kind of thing.”

I shake my head. “No, I wanted to talk to her then and there, but I could tell it wasn’t a good idea—she was way too upset to talk, and I didn’t want to do any more damage, so I went home, took a shower, and changed before heading over to her place, hoping she’d cooled down a little so we could figure out how we could make this all better.”

“She wasn’t cooled?”

“No.” I glance down at my hands. “It was like all the life had been sucked out of her. I’ve never seen her with an actual frown on her face, but she had one. She was sad, dude. Really fucking sad.” I press my lips together and look up at the ceiling. “And I had a hand in it all. Fuck.” I breathe out. “What the fuck is wrong with me?”

“An inhospitable environment growing up, no example of what a loving relationship looks like, saw alcohol and prescription medications used as a coping mechanism, had to grow up faster than a kid should . . . shall I go on?”

“No,” I deadpan. “Your honest approach is positively refreshing.” I press both my palms to my eyes. “I really need to go to therapy.”

“That would be step number one to getting healthy. Just like I said the last time you were looking for a therapist.”

“And what would step number two be?”

“Fix things with Thad, because unless you two are okay, you’re never going to be able to patch things up with Luna.”

I fiddle with my tie. “Fix things with Thad . . . easier said than done. In case you were wondering, he fucking hates me.”

“Looks like you have to make a grand gesture, then.”

“To Luna?”

Lucas shakes his head. “To your brother.”

The door opens, and I can feel my entire body stiffen as I gaze into a pair of eyes that perfectly match my own.

I had my first therapy session yesterday—Lucas’s therapist, Margaret, was able to fit me in that day because I paid her overtime. Diving into my childhood wasn’t fun, but it at least granted me a little relief. And I mean a little, because I probably have about two years’ worth of heavy sessions in front of me. This is not an overnight cure, but it’s a step in the right direction.

I told her about my current predicament, and that I need to patch things up with my brother, with no idea of how to make that happen. Given that I’m on a short timeline, his wedding being on Sunday, I need to act quickly. Not knowing me just yet but doing the best she could, Margaret said it seemed like Thad was holding on to the past, so maybe I should show him what the future of our relationship could look like.

I smiled, nodded, and walked out of the office, texting Lucas that Margaret was “really helpful.”

Enter sarcastic tone

But the more I’ve thought about it, the more I’ve realized Margaret might be right. I need to show Thad what our future could be if we manage to move on from this.

It’s why I’m here, staring at the person who’s broken my heart more times than I can count.

“What are you doing here?”

“That’s a great way to greet your son,” I say. My mom clearly wasn’t expecting company; in lieu of her usual slacks-and-sweater set, a robe is cinched tightly around her waist, and her hair is pulled back into her night turban, which keeps her hair silky—at least that’s the explanation she gave me years ago.

Not waiting for an invitation, I let myself in, maneuvering past her and keeping my hands in my pockets.