“Did you want to come in?” Declan asks.

“Yes, sorry.” I clear my throat. “Can I please talk to you two?” I hold up the box of muffins. “I brought the muffins Luna once told me you guys like—which, by the way, it’s surprising you two like muffins, you know, given you’re gay and all . . .” They narrow their eyes. Wrong thing to say. “I, uh, make really inappropriate and terrible comments when I’m uncomfortable and nervous.”

Cohen sighs. “Come in, but you’ve got five minutes.”

“Yeah, sure,” I say quickly, stepping inside their modest apartment and glancing around. The space is bigger than Thad and Naomi’s and definitely better decorated. Very minimalistic, with high ceilings, exposed brick on the wall that features a pair of black-framed windows, and sleek furniture that almost looks untouched.

Declan takes the muffins from me and sets them to the side before standing shoulder to shoulder with Cohen. Both of them have their arms crossed, both visions in red—and both pretty intimidating, despite the tiny elephants that decorate the stripes on their pants.

“You going to talk, or stare at our pants the whole time?” Cohen asks. “Clock is ticking.”

Jesus, very intimidating.

“Yeah, sorry. I, uh . . . I came to apologize to you. Luna won’t speak to me, so I have no idea if you’ve made up or not—”

“Haven’t talked to her since Saturday.”

Oh shit. My heart immediately sinks for Luna and what she must be going through, what she must be feeling. Declan and Cohen are getting married in two days, and they’re not talking to Luna? She must be losing her mind.

“Has she reached out?”

“Is that any of your business?” Cohen asks.

“No, it’s not.” I stare at their parquet floor for a second, trying to find my words. “I’ll just get straight to the point. I never should have asked her to lie to both of you—well, not lie, but at least keep our relationship hidden.” I dig my hands in my pockets, still trying to get used to this whole confessional thing. “I had a shit childhood, which led to me freezing out Thad. The Wedding Game was a chance for me to repair that relationship. I had no intention of falling in love with your sister, but it happened, and I was terrified that—”

“Wait.” Cohen waves his hand. “In love? You’re in love with Luna?”

I nod. “I am. Desperately.” And hearing it out loud for the second time brings a whole new wave of regret and sorrow crashing over me. I knew I loved her; I could feel it deep in my bones, and when we told each other we were “falling,” I meant it . . . so fucking hard. But admitting right now, to her brother . . . fuck. It hurts.

Declan mumbles something I can’t quite make out as Cohen exhales loudly. “You’re not just sleeping together. You’re in love?”

“Well, I am. She’s not.” I shake my head. “She made that quite clear the other day after everything went down. But that doesn’t matter.” I take a deep breath. “What matters is your relationship with her. I’m sure there’s a lot more that I don’t know about, a lot more that’s gone into your fight with her, but I wanted to let you know the circumstances. I asked her to keep quiet—it’s on me. I know she made the ultimate decision, but I didn’t make it easy on her. She wanted to tell you.”

“She said that,” Cohen says, his stern look relaxing.

“She loves you, man. The way she looks at you, it reminds me of the way Thad used to look at me when we were young. Like I could never do anything wrong. I was a hero in his eyes. There’s no doubt you’re a hero in hers, and if it weren’t for me and my ignorant request, this wouldn’t have happened. If you’re going to be mad at anyone, please be mad at me, not her. She’s worked so hard to make sure you have your moment with Declan, to celebrate the love you’ve always deserved to celebrate. Trust me—these major life moments need to be cherished with the ones you love. I’ve spent most of my big moments with no one. It’s lonely, and it leaves everything feeling smaller, sadder. This argument is not worth it. Not even close to worth it.” I take a step back as their silence hangs between us. “I should go. Good luck on Friday. I hope it all turns out the way you want it to.”

I give them a curt wave and am headed out the door when Cohen calls out my name. I look over my shoulder. “She hasn’t talked to you at all?” he asks.

“No, man. She’s done with me. Pretty sure she needs you now more than ever.” With that, I take off, feeling like maybe, just maybe, I’ve helped.

At least that’s what I hope.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

LUNA

“I’m approaching slowly. The broom is in my hands again. Three feet away. Two . . . lowering the broomstick, annnnnd . . . a gentle poke,” Farrah’s voice whispers as the broom handle nudges me in the side. “Poke, poke, poke.”

“You don’t have to say ‘poke’ while you poke,” I say, voice muffled as I lie flat on the couch, my face buried in a throw pillow. “I can feel it.”

“Wasn’t sure.” She continues to poke. “You’ve been lying like that for the past half hour, and before that, you were sitting with your legs spread and your hand down your pants. What do I do with that?”

“Nothing. You do nothing.”

“What happened to you going to see your brother?”

“I texted him. Told him I was coming over. He said don’t bother.” Repeating the words out loud makes my throat grow tight as tears build in my eyes. “He doesn’t want me to be his sister anymore.”

“Jesus, you’re dramatic. Of course he wants you to be his sister, he’s just . . . God, he’s being bitchy.”

That makes me snort all kinds of snot right out of my nose. I lurch from the couch and beg for a tissue, snot draining onto my lip.

“Good Christ,” Farrah says in horror as she reaches for a tissue and hands it to me.

I laugh, then cry, then laugh as I wipe my nose.

“He’s acting like he’s never fucked up. Uh, I beg to differ. He’s the reason Gregory Thompson broke up with you—remember that? He let the cat out of the bag about your first period and scared poor little Gregory away. Granted, if Gregory couldn’t take a little period story, he shouldn’t have been hanging out with a girl, but still, Cohen did that. And you were very upset.”

“This is different.”

“In what way? You didn’t tell him about a relationship. Big deal. Do you tell him when you masturbate? Should he know your orgasm schedule? Does he need to know when you get waxed?”

“Why do all of your examples have to deal with my vagina?”

She opens her mouth to respond and then quickly shuts it. “Huh. Good question.” She shrugs. “Either way, I think you need to realize he’s not perfect, you’re not entirely in the wrong, and instead of moping around here, you should be a couple of blocks away, making up with your Chris Evans look-alike. I miss him.”

Yeah . . . I miss him too.

Badly.

More than I thought I would. Not that I didn’t think I was going to miss him, but his abrupt absence hurts on an almost physical level. Every time I want to text him or run over to his place, I remember I can’t, and the reality of how terribly I’ve messed everything up hits me all over again.

More tears stream down my face, and Farrah pokes me with the broom again. “See, right there—you still care about him.”

“I more than care about him, Farrah.” My lip trembles, and I feel my heart shatter in my chest as I whisper, “I love him.”

“I knew it!” Farrah shouts, slamming the broom on the ground with both hands. She twists and punches the air a few times. “I freaking knew it. You don’t get this depressed over your brother. You’re yearning for your—”

Knock. Knock.

Farrah and I both crane our necks toward the entryway and then back at each other.

“If that’s Chris Evans,” Farrah hisses, “you are making up with him, and I don’t want to hear another word about it. Do you understand me? I will get my sparring partner back.” She springs over the couch and opens the door. Her shoulders slouch and she groans. “I’ll have you know, you’re the reason Gregory broke up with her, sooo you better get your shit together, mister.”

“Good to see you too, Farrah,” Cohen’s voice rings into the apartment.

The sound makes my stomach do a somersault, and a flood of emotion hits me at once.

Nerves.

Excitement.

Relief.

“Are you here to make up with your sister?” Farrah asks, playing keeper of the door.

“None of your business, Farrah.”

“Ohhh, no you don’t.” I see her poke her finger, probably hitting his chest. “Do you even know the number of times I’ve had to poke her with a broom this week? Because of you? Too many to count. Unless you’re here to tell her everything’s okay, you can leave, and I’m taking my wedding gift back, because there is no way in hell you’ll get a three-hundred-dollar espresso machine from me. And yes, I may have stolen it from work because we have ten extra in storage, but you still won’t get it.”

Cohen exhales loudly. “I’m here to make amends.”

“Did you hear that?” Farrah shouts. “He’s here to make amends.”