I nod magnanimously. “That’s what friends are for, right?”

“Is that what we are, then?” she asks. “Friends?”

“Definitely friends, maybe more? I don’t know, we were married once, after all.”

“The best twelve hours of my life, to be honest,” she says in her best Scarlett O’Hara impersonation, and straightens her legs across me, her thighs shaking slightly as her muscles stretch beneath my hands. “The days since have been nothing but a pale impersonation.”

Oliver walks in from the back, carrying a tall stack of books. “G’day. Nice to see you, mate.”

It occurs to me that I’m still sitting with Harlow’s legs in my lap, my hand resting a little too comfortably on her thigh. I blink back up and meet Oliver’s gaze. He gives me a knowing smirk, so apparently it hasn’t escaped his notice, either.

“Dude,” Not-Joe says, emerging from the bathroom with a stack of comic books in his hands. He holds them up for Oliver to see, and the two of them exchange a look. “Look what I found.”

Oliver groans, but I notice he doesn’t actually take the books. “Not again.”

“Again,” Not-Joe confirms.

My eyes follow Not-Joe as he gingerly puts the comics on the glass counter. “Are those Wonder Woman?”

“Yeah. Every fucking time I clean the bathroom. It’s always Wonder Woman.”

Harlow stands and I immediately feel the loss of her warm skin under my palm. When Oliver nods, she says, “You mean people go in there and . . .”

Oliver nods again, picking up an empty box and using a stapler to slide the sullied stack inside. “Bloody oath. Is nothing sacred?”

Harlow leans over, peering into the box. “Well. I mean . . . can you blame them?”

She looks up to three sets of saucer eyes, all of us staring, slack-jawed at her.

“Can we blame them for . . . ?” Not-Joe begins, and lets his question hang meaningfully in the air.

“Oh, come on.” She reaches over and plucks a pristine, plastic-wrapped copy of Wonder Woman from the shelf. On the cover of this particular issue, Wonder Woman is astride a giant seahorse, her lasso of truth suspended in the air above her, while a man in some sort of watercraft attempts to fire a weapon at her. All of this is supposedly happening underwater, though I don’t bother to argue the logistics of how one would lasso a person mere feet above the ocean floor, or how a laser—or whatever it’s supposed to be—would work in this scenario in the first place.

“Look at her!” Harlow says. “Even I’d have a little alone time with Princess Diana.”

“You knew her real name was Princess Diana?” Oliver asks, and I swear to God he looks like a dog whose owner has just beckoned him to the porch for dinner.

She shrugs. “Of course I did.”

Looking at me with fire in his eyes, Oliver says, “Finn, if you don’t marry this woman again, I just might.”

HARLOW HEADS OUT a few minutes later, kissing each of us on the cheek before she leaves and I pretend I don’t hate that all three of us got the same treatment. Eventually I leave, too, making plans to meet up with Oliver later that night. I take the long way back to the house, deciding a drive along the harbor might do me some good, and then I remember the unread text still sitting in my phone. The missed call from Colton. Apparently Harlow is an excellent distraction even when we’re not having sex.

In the end, I spend the rest of the afternoon driving up and back down the coast, pulling up to the house after sunset and only about thirty minutes before Oliver. I search the fridge and cupboards, pulling out a box of pasta and a handful of vegetables from the crisper. My phone stares at me from where it lies on the counter.

I do everything I can to avoid looking at it. I start dinner and unload the dishwasher. I watch a little TV, and even walk out to grab Oliver’s mail, hoping the fresh air will clear my head. It doesn’t.

Edgy and unable to handle it anymore, I toss the envelopes to the table and reach for my phone, deciding it’s time to man up and face the music. It could be good news, I reason. My brother would have called and kept calling if it had been something really bad. Right?

I check my email first. There’s a notice from the bank, some sort of stupid forwarded video from Ansel, and an email confirming my meeting in L.A. on Monday at 10 a.m. That last one does nothing to ease the sour feeling in my gut.

Finally I move to the messages, opening the single new text from Colton.

We are screwed, it says. We are absolutely royally FUCKED. I’m getting drunk.

THE KITCHEN IS filling with steam from a pot of overboiling pasta on the stove, when the sound of a door closing carries down the hall. “Honey! I’m home!”

I’m pacing between the counter and island, my stomach having bottomed out somewhere near my feet, when I hear Oliver drop his keys and kick his shoes off near the door.

Colton didn’t answer when I tried to call him back, but Levi did. Just like his message said, Colton is off somewhere getting plastered—and most likely fucked senseless by one of his many regular bed-bunnies—which would explain why he didn’t try to call me again.

According to Levi, engine one has thrown a rod, and the damage is so severe it’s actually penetrated the motor casing and rendered it unsalvageable. Worse than that, because of the extra strain being put on engine two, the oil sample came back full of metal shavings, meaning we are only weeks from its complete failure. A few days ago we knew we were in rough shape but assumed we could limp through another season. Now we know we are, just as Colton said, royally fucked. We’ve all put nearly every penny we make back into the family business, and without income, have barely enough left over to cover our living expenses for the next six months. We can’t take the boat out on the water until we fix it, and I have no idea how we’re going to afford to do that.

Oliver crosses the room, turning down the stove before walking to the sink to wash his hands. “You all right, mate?” he says, watching me with concern.

“Yeah. Just ruining dinner.” The next words are just sitting on my tongue: I’m fucked. My future and the future of my entire family has just gone up in smoke—and oh, by the way, how’s the store?

I can’t do that. But I know I need to talk, to hear myself say what’s going on and hear someone else tell me it’s not as bad as it seems, that everything will work out eventually.

Basically, I need someone to lie to me.

Normally, Ansel would be the best person for this job. He’s stupidly optimistic, and has this way of making every doom-and-gloom situation sound like a perfectly timed stroke of luck. Unfortunately, he’s not even in the same country right now, and there’s no way I’m calling him and taking up what little free time he has to burden him with my problems. He’s out.

Perry would be the next obvious choice, because she’s bored and has historically been a good listener. But, Jesus Christ, I can’t. I know I shouldn’t take sides but even I’m mad at her for what she did to Ansel and Mia, and none of us are really talking to her right now anyway. She’s out, too.

Oliver has enough going on, with the store opening and his long days on his feet. The last thing he needs is for me to unload how my business is ending just as his is taking off.

And if I’m honest, I don’t really want to tell any of them. It’s not that I don’t think they’d be concerned, it’s that I don’t want them to worry. I don’t want them to know how dire it all is.

Oblivious to my mental breakdown, Oliver crosses the kitchen and pulls a cutting board out of a drawer. “So you and Harlow,” he says, reaching for a knife.

“Harlow?” I say, distracted, her name coming out a bit sharper than I intend. “There’s nothing between me and Harlow.”

“Course there’s not. Just noticed how cozy the two of you seemed today.”

Even with everything going on, I still manage to roll my eyes. “She’s a pain in the ass,” I tell him, and it’s such a lie. With most women, the novelty of a pretty face would have worn off and I’d be ready to move on. But with Harlow, I find myself liking her more and more with each conversation.

“You sure you’re okay?”

I turn to see Oliver watching me closely. “Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”

He shrugs, looks like he wants to throttle me, but then he blinks and the expression has vanished, and I wonder if it was ever there. “Don’t know, really. Just . . . you never did tell me what you were doing out here. Everything good at home?”

“Great. Just here to meet with a few investors. Thinking about making some improvements during the off-season.”

I can see a flash of relief on his face. “Finn, that’s great. Look at us, look at our lives. Everything fucking coming up roses, mate.”

Right.

I blink away, looking out the window. There’s really only one person I want to talk to right now.

“Listen,” I say, shutting off the stove. “I just remembered I promised my dad I’d give him a call tonight. You’re okay eating without me?”

If Oliver is suspicious, he’s a good enough friend to not call me on my bullshit. “Yeah, of course. Think I’ll call Lola and see if she wants to hang out. You think you’ll be back?”

I reach for my wallet on the kitchen table and push it into my back pocket. “Not sure. Just save me a plate and I’ll heat it up when I get back. I just really need to make this call.”

Oliver is already nodding, dishing up his plate before he waves me off.

My hand is wrapped around my phone before I’m even out the door.

Chapter SEVEN

Harlow

I’M MOPPING THE floor. Why, when the house cleaner was at my parents’ house today, am I mopping their floor?

Because I can’t seem to focus on even the smallest task, and dropped an entire casserole dish of enchiladas on the tile.

Dad walks in, looks at me in my ripped jeans and his old flannel shirt, and then at the stained-red mop and the smear of sauce on the white tile, and doesn’t even say anything. He just walks to the fridge, opens it, grabs a yogurt for Mom, and kisses my head on the way back out.

I make a couple of decisions in the next twenty seconds. First, I need another job.

There’s a tiny chance I’ll be offered a full-time, paid internship at NBC starting in January, but just talking about my current situation with Finn briefly made me realize I’m just spinning my wheels. I’m useless there and no self-respecting woman of the twenty-first century with no other earthly responsibilities works twelve hours a week.

Second, I can’t bang Finn, but I also can’t spend every free second at my parents’ house. The reality of illness is it’s a fairly miserable¸ isolating business. Mom doesn’t want us hovering, and if she wants anyone, it’s Dad. It’s time to cut the apron strings.

Third, and maybe most important, I need to figure out what I’m doing for dinner now that I’ve shattered Plan A all over the kitchen.

When I’m on my hands and knees, scrubbing the last of the stain from the grout between the tiles, my phone dings on the counter with a number I don’t recognize.

You up for getting a beer or two?

I squint at the screen in the darkening kitchen, typing back, Who is this?

The guy you were just fantasizing about.

Colonel Sanders?

The reply comes immediately. Try again.

I giggle as I type, Ethan? I hit send and quickly type, No! Jake, I’m so sorry!

Finn’s reply comes up after about a minute: Funny.

Finn and I exchanged numbers in Vegas nearly three months ago and I’m strangely tickled that we’ve never used them until now. Are we going to a lumberjack bar? I ask.

I think the word you want is fisherman.

Whatever, I’m just impressed you’re doing the texting. I type back. I look down at my outfit and cringe, before deciding—fuck it. And this is perfect, I’m dressed like you.

I’ll be there in twenty.

I run upstairs, kiss my parents goodbye, and head out of the house, diving into my car and hoping to beat Finn back to my place. I don’t want him to know I wasn’t home. I don’t know why, but maybe it’s because right now—and shockingly—Finn Roberts is my happy place; just being around him makes me feel better, and part of it has to be that he never asks me, “How are you feeling? How is your mom? Hanging in there?”

She’s such a fighter.

She’s so beautiful.

So young.

I can’t imagine how this must be for you.

Strangely, Finn is the one who probably could imagine how this is for us, and it’s a relief to not have to face it when I’m with him.

I get home in record time; the traffic light gods were smiling upon me. I could change out of my grungy clothes, but don’t bother. If we aren’t banging, I’m not primping.

He’s such a gentleman that he texts from the curb that he’s here, and I meet him at his truck and jump in.

“I forget how to get to Fred’s,” he says by way of greeting.

“Hello.” After buckling my seat belt, I tell him, “Hang a right on Prospect and then a left on Draper.”

“Oh, yeah.” He maneuvers out of the spot and then follows my direction. “I think I’ll remember from there.”

“Especially given that it’s on Draper,” I say with a cheeky grin.

But he doesn’t smile back. In fact, Finn seems lost in thought. He fiddles with the radio and settles on NPR, so instead of conversation, we have a rerun of Terry Gross interviewing Joaquin Phoenix to keep us company. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel at a red light, looking out his window away from me.