As if on cue, that night Max didn’t call. He didn’t respond to my texts, either. I tossed and turned in bed, sleepless, checking my phone every twenty seconds and wondering if Max had died.

The next morning he texted me apologizing, explaining that he’d had a crazy night at the office and would be traveling for business over the next few days. He said he’d call when he got back, which implied he wouldn’t be reaching out while he was away.

A whole week went by and I didn’t hear from Max. I finally mustered the courage to text him: Back yet?

His reply came twenty-four hours later: Back tomorrow!

But tomorrow came and went and he didn’t call or text, and I lay in bed paralyzed with confusion and anxious misery. My friends concluded that Max LaPointe was a royal douchebag and that I was better off without him. Isabel said she’d heard through the grapevine that he had a small penis; I couldn’t bring myself to tell them that I thought his penis was perfect.

A few more weeks of radio silence passed. Two weeks before Christmas, when I’d given up all hope of ever seeing the name Max LaPointe on the screen of my phone again, he texted me.

Starling! How are you? I’m so sorry I’ve been MIA, it’s no excuse but I’ve been drowning in work and grad school apps. Things are settling, though, and I’d love to take you out to dinner. I remember you were telling me about that place Rolf’s with all the Xmas decorations? Can we go there? I miss you.

Max’s text filled every inch of my body with the sweetest relief. I hadn’t been crazy to think that our connection was special. Max worked in finance; he’d told me numerous times how demanding and unpredictable his job could be. And he missed me, just as I missed him. God, did I miss him.

That week Max and I went to Rolf’s. We drank mulled wine and ate schnitzel and I laughed like I hadn’t since our last night together at the end of October. Max apologized for being such a poor communicator, and the pain I’d experienced during our time apart instantly felt melodramatic and far away. After dinner we took a cab up to Rockefeller Center, and in front of the great, shimmering tree, Max kissed me in a way that made me believe in the magic of Christmastime in New York.

But after New Year’s, Max went MIA again. A few weeks after that, he left me a heartfelt voice mail. In March he disappeared. In April he came back. And so continued our chemical, agitating on-and-off cycle for the next two years. If I’d been stronger, or smarter, if I hadn’t been quite so in love with him, I’d have nipped our cyclical “relationship” in the bud. But I was vulnerable and Max was good at his game; each time he lured me back in, he always promised a little bit more. It got worse when he started business school at NYU Stern the following fall.

When school stops being so insane, I think this could really be something, Starling.

I’m so bad at relationships, but you make me want to be better.

I enjoyed dropping Max’s name to people who asked about my love life. Max was ambitious and cool, the kind of guy everyone seemed to have heard of, and I was proud to be involved with him, whatever it was. When friends and mutual friends inquired about our status, it only affirmed my claim over him. I listened to songs such as “Hot N Cold” by Katy Perry and “With or Without You” by U2 on the treadmill and sprinted faster, imagining us. Just because our dynamic was complicated, it didn’t mean what we had wasn’t real. On the contrary, true love was supposed to be tumultuous—it meant there was passion. Max and I were Carrie and Big, Ross and Rachel. Our happy ending had to be earned.

But on the days when I got honest with myself—usually miserable, hungover mornings after a night of sending one too many drunken texts—I knew that what little he gave me wasn’t enough, not even close. And the longer our charade continued, the worse my emotional distress over the situation grew.

The summer I turned twenty-four, Max and his friends got a share house in Montauk. Max and I had been on the outs for most of the summer—I’d heard from Isabel that he’d started sleeping with some girl in the Hamptons—and I was a wreck. I’d promised my friends that I was done with Max, for good this time, but one weekday morning in late July a dozen white roses were delivered to my apartment, a card attached to the bouquet.

Happy belated, Skye Starling. I’m a fool. You’re prettier than all the white roses in the world. Please come out to Montauk this weekend so we can make things right.

In retrospect it was just another empty gesture from Max, but in that moment it was everything I needed to hear. My friends forbid me to go, but I was adamant. I’d been in a pit of gloom all summer, and I needed this weekend.

When she realized she couldn’t stop me, Andie insisted on coming, too. Spencer got pissed at her for ditching him last minute, but Isabel and Will weren’t going out to the share house that weekend, and Andie refused to leave me unsupervised with Max.

When we arrived in Montauk on Friday evening, Max said he was exhausted and not up for going out. Naturally I stayed in with him. I asked about the girl he’d supposedly been seeing, and he promised it was nothing—a “drunken, casual thing” that was over. We had make-up sex for hours, while everyone else danced the night away at Memory Motel.

The next day was sunny and hot, and we all packed a picnic and headed to the beach. Andie and I read paperbacks on our towels while Max and his friends played spikeball. He looked obnoxiously good, his sandy hair longer and lighter than usual, his skin golden brown from so many weekends in the sun. He seemed to be cracking open a new beer every ten minutes, and by the end of the day I could tell he was hammered. Max had barely spoken to me at the beach, and I was feeling shittier by the second. I couldn’t keep doing this to myself—I couldn’t. Back at the share house I decided to tell Andie that she’d been right, to beg her to take a Jitney back to the city with me that evening, but she was deeply invested in a group game of bocce ball outside. I’d always envied Andie’s ability to make friends wherever she went.

I decided to take a shower and was heading toward the bathroom when I heard Max’s voice call my name from upstairs.

“Starling! Where’s my beautiful Starling?”

My heart bloomed and quickly shrank; around Max, it was never sure how to feel. Nonetheless, I followed the voice into the bedroom upstairs, which was dark.

When Max saw me, he placed his hands under my arms and scooped me up, kissing my neck and chest. He threw me onto the bed and began wedging my legs apart with his knees. The smell of booze was thick and sour on his breath.

“Cut it out, Max.” I pushed him off me. “We need to talk.”

Then I heard the door slam shut, the room suddenly falling pitch-black. The lock clicked. Something uncanny wobbled through the air and my breath hitched—Max and I weren’t alone.

“We need to talk, Max, you’re in big trouble.” A male voice mocked my girlie twang, followed by the sound of collective snickering.

“Chase, shut your trap,” I heard Max’s voice, and as my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I saw him looking at me, his pupils unfocused, inches away from my face. “Show some respect for this beautiful girl. Look what she can do.”

“Show us already, LaPointe,” called a third male voice that I recognized—Max’s friend Wiley’s.

“Okay, okay. Hang on.” Max pinned his hands to my shoulders and leaned down to kiss me, pressing me into the bed.

“What the fuck, Max?” I whispered. “Stop it.”

He smiled, releasing his grip and standing. “Sorry about that, Starling. My friends are drunk losers. You can go now.” He flipped the switch on the wall, and the room was bathed in light.

I stood, smoothing my beach cover-up. I glared at Max as I headed for the door, stopping in my tracks as the familiar, immobilizing sensation seized me.

I knew then, and the fear was like a worm slinking through my insides. I knew why all three of them were staring at me. I knew why Max had called me into the room.

“Go on,” Chase prompted, waving me toward the door. “You can go now.”

“Max,” I said slowly. I tried to meet his gaze, but he was staring at Chase.

“C’mon, Starling, you heard Chase,” Max said. “You can leave now.”

I stood, frozen.

“Skye.” Max pushed me back onto the bed again. This time I struggled against him, but he held me down. He slid one of his hands underneath my cover-up, jamming his fingers around my bathing suit and inside me.

“Max!” I screamed, kicking him off. Chase and Wiley sneered behind him.

“Whoa, Starling, I said you could go.” Max stood again, stepping to the side to let me by. I was only a few feet from the door. I stepped closer, placing my hand on the knob. The current of my blood quickened, anxiety seizing me, tears pricking the corners of my eyes. Turning the knob was not possible. We all knew I was trapped.