Blake rolls his eyes. “You are not listening to me, you fucking idiots. We have bigger problems than if Holly is a squirter.”

My mind goes to Juliet, and I exhale heavily. “You’re right, we do.”

“I don’t think she will say anything. Nobody tells a family member that they gangbang,” Ant continues.

But my mind isn’t on this conversation.

It’s off wandering with sweet Juliet, thinking about how perfect she felt the other night . . . of how badly I fucked it all up.

I wonder what she’s doing right now.

Fifteen minutes later, my peace is interrupted, and I glance up. “Huh?”

“What the fuck is wrong with you today?” Ant snaps. “You haven’t said a word all morning.”

I shrug. “Sorry, distracted.”

“By what?”

“Nobody,” I snap a little too fast.

“Wouldn’t have something to do with that hot little neighbor of yours, would it?”

“Nope.” I cut into my breakfast and shovel in a huge mouthful. “We’re done.”

“Why? I thought you two were going to do the friends-with-benefits thing.”

“I’m no longer interested.”

“Bullshit.”

I shrug as I try to act casual. “I’m serious.”

Antony sits back in his chair. His assessing eyes hold mine. “Someone is going to swoop in and steal her from right under your nose, you fucking idiot.”

“Don’t care,” I fire back.

“We’ll see about that.”

“She’s not after a relationship anyway,” I tell them.

“Until she finds someone else to be her friend and he falls desperately in love with her. You’re a fucking idiot, man.”

The conversation turns to Blake’s work, and my mind goes back to her.

Always back to her, and I’m fucking sick of it.

I need her out of my system.

I sit at my desk and stare into space. The week has been long and depressing.

Every night before I fall asleep I tell myself that tomorrow I am going to go over to Juliet’s and apologize and beg to see her . . . but then tomorrow comes, and I just don’t.

Why am I like this? Or what could possibly be wrong with me to make me such a selfish prick?

Why do I torture myself the way that I do?

All I want to do is see her, to hold her in my arms and tell her that I missed her.

That shouldn’t be hard. It should be the most natural thing in the world.

Logically I know that, so why can’t I do it?

I open the top drawer of my desk and rustle through it, and I catch sight of what I’m looking for at the very bottom, buried under everything. I pull it out and stare at it in my hands.

A A R O N S T E V E N S

P S Y C H O L O G I S T

I’ve had this card for years. He’s supposed to be the best of the best, supposed to be able to fix anyone.

Call him.

It won’t help. What could he possibly say to make this all better?

Call him.

With shaky fingers I dial his number and wait as it rings.

“Aaron Stevens’s rooms,” a woman answers, and when I hear her voice, I immediately hang up the phone.

Fuck.

I drag my hands through my hair. I don’t need that shit. I’m fine. I just need to stop thinking about her, that’s all. If I’m not near her, then she can’t make me feel this way.

Onward and upward.

Juliet

I carry the towels up the hall and slow down when I get toward the end of the corridor. I’m at the nursing home tonight. And even though I know that he doesn’t remember his son, I know it’s his dad.

I stop at the door and watch him through the window for a moment. He’s lying in bed and watching the television, seemingly happy as a clam.

I mean, he is happy because, thankfully, he doesn’t remember to be sad. I brace myself and then knock softly. “Come in,” he calls.

“Hello.” I smile as I open the door. “How are you, Mr. James?”

“Good.” He keeps watching television. I glance up to see it’s a football game tonight.

I replace his towels and straighten his blankets. “Have you had a good day?”

“It was okay.” His eyes stay focused on the screen. “Better if that damn cat stopped scratching.”

I smile and fold the blanket up at his feet. “He’s annoying, isn’t he?”

“You have no idea,” he grumbles. “Getting on my last nerve.”

I smile, and something about Mr. James makes me feel better. I’m really missing my parents this week.

The phone on the bedside rings, and I glance at it.

“Get that, please,” he says casually.

“But . . .”

“Answer the damn phone,” he demands. “Push the talk button.”

I pick up the phone and hit speaker. I hear Henley’s voice. “Hi, Dad.”

Emotion fills me at the sound of his voice.

“Who’s that?” Mr. James replies.

“It’s Henley.”

Mr. James’s eyes light up. “Henley.” He smiles. “Did you go to preschool today, son?”

“Not today, Dad,” Henley replies.

My heart aches for him.

“Tell your mother to come and bring me home.”

“Okay.” Henley’s voice is soft, sad.

“Ask him if he’s all right,” I whisper to Mr. James.

He frowns.

“Ask him if he’s all right,” I repeat.

“Are you all right, Hen?” he asks.

“Yeah, I’m okay. Had better days, I guess.”

Tears fill my eyes. I can hear the sadness in his voice.

“What did you have for dinner?” Henley asks.

“They haven’t fed me yet.”

I look over to the empty dinner plates on the table that are still waiting to be collected.

“You would have had dinner, Dad. You just forgot,” Henley tells him.

“Nope. I’m starving. Put your mother on the phone.”

“She’s busy right now.”

“Is she coming to get me or not?” he snaps.

“Soon,” Henley says.

I smile. He’s so patient with him.

“I love you, Dad,” Henley says softly.

My heart constricts.

Mr. James nods but doesn’t reply.

“Say it back,” I whisper.

“Huh?”

“Say it back,” I repeat.

“Say what back?” he grumbles.

Fuck’s sake . . .

“I’ll let you go,” Henley says.

“You go back to school, Hen. Be a good boy now. We’ll build something when you get home.”

“Okay. Sounds good.”

I smile as I listen.

“Bye, Dad.” The phone goes dead as he hangs up.