I curl my feet under me and look up at the stars. The moon is bright and high in the sky, yet the air chilly.

I tug the blanket closer to my body and look at Lola sitting on the other side of the patio furniture. She picks up the bottle of cheap wine and offers me more. I motion for her to fill it up.

“You’ve had three glasses,” she points out, having grabbed some sort of logic on the way over after my frantic call when Huxley went to sleep. “You’re a lightweight. We’d better cut you off.”

“Don’t even start making sense now, Lo. This is not the time.”

She laughs and tosses the now-empty bottle into the trashcan by the door. It hits the bottom with a thud.

“So ...” She waits on me to stop talking about the research paper I finished tonight and about my early shift at Hillary’s. I’ve discussed why my oil needs changed in my car and how I’m suddenly craving hummus. Anything and everything has been toyed with tonight, except the reason I called her, a reason we both know.

“So ...” I heave a breath, not sure how to bring it up or what part to bring up or if I even want to bring it up to start with. What I wanted was to not be alone with my thoughts.

“What happened after I left?” she asks carefully. “Did things go okay?”

I nod and down the rest of the wine in my glass.

“Why do I think you’re lying? No, strike that—why do I know you’re lying?”

“I don’t know, maybe because I’m drinking wine like a fish?”

“Good point.”

I sigh and rest my head on her shoulder, the low alcohol content in the inexpensive wine finally adding up to enough percentage to dull my senses. My thoughts aren’t so jammed. They’re clearer if not a little muddled, which makes no sense and all the sense in the world.

“He said he was sorry. He swore to me he didn’t know the statement was going to say that, and the other article about the baby was a shocker.” I shake my head. “No, not a shocker. He knew it was happening, just not today.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you believe him?”

“Mhmm,” I mumble, letting my eyelids drift closed. It’s a delightful feeling to trust the peace of the dark.

“You do?”

“Yup,” I say, fluttering open my lids. “I do. I don’t think he knew it was going to be so unflattering to me and there’s no part of me that really, truly believes he staged this to happen at the same time.”

“So you don’t think the timing was suspicious?”

I shrug. “Maybe it was a coincidence or maybe his people knew exactly what was happening with the ex-girlfriend or whoever in the hell she is or was. But did Barrett? I don’t think so.”

Her face scrunches in thought as we gaze across the yard. We sit like that a long time, both of us lost in thought, trying to make sense of this ridiculous situation with a man neither of us imagined we’d ever be discussing like this. Maybe it would be easier if we weren’t.

“So boil it down for me,” she requests. “If you believe him, what’s the problem?”

I take a deep breath and look at Lo. She gives me a small smile, encouraging the words out of my mouth. They’re on the tip of my tongue, but I hesitate. She’s going to just tell me I’m stupid and, truthfully, maybe I am. Maybe it’s ridiculous to feel the way I do, but I can’t help it.

Once you’ve been burned by someone, the scars never leave. They become more sensitive to the same type of fire that got you once, tingling when you get too close to the heat. And as much as I’m starting to really, really adore Barrett Landry, the sensation is still there that maybe this is another fire.

It’s possible I’m being overprotective of myself. There’s a chance I’m overthinking things. But if I had overthought them a little more with Hayden, maybe my scars wouldn’t run so deep.

My lips twist together, feeling swollen from the wine. My eyes wet, glaze over, and I fight hard not to cry.

“Ali?”

“Tell me I’m being stupid. Tell me I’m being completely idiotic for being scared.”

“Oh, my friend,” she says, amusement thick in her voice, “I’ll never tell you that being scared is wrong. Being scared saves lives. Hell, it saves venereal diseases and unplanned pregnancies,” she laughs. “But that doesn’t mean it’s always warranted either.”

Looking up at the night sky, I try to find the stars that look like a baseball. I don’t find it—the sky still looks like an erratic mess of twinkling lights. But it also causes my heart to beat wildly as I remember my first walk with Barrett.

“He makes me feel like I’m important to him. Barrett looks at me and sees me, Lo. He sees my heart. And he’s so great with Hux. He makes me feel like I matter to him, he asks my opinions. He ...”

“Sucks grapes out of your hoohah?”

I burst into a fit of laughter. “That too.”

“So what you’re saying here is that he convinced you he’s this great guy, one that was good enough to lay aside your reservations and give it a whirl. And yet, at the first sign of struggle, you’re rethinking everything?”

Gulping, I feel my cheeks heat. “I’m not necessarily rethinking everything. I’m trying to be smart, Lola. I’m trying to make sure I’m not walking into a replica of what I walked away from.”

“No offense,” she says, tipping back the rest of her wine. “But Barrett Landry is spades over Hayden Baker. Okay? Regardless of what Barrett’s done to upset you, let’s not put him on the level with your asshole ex. It’s not like he has paraded up the steps of a swanky hotel with a hooker at his heels.” She groans. “And with a hooker in ridiculously ugly heels.”

I glare at her.

“What? They were. They actually looked Bedazzled, Ali. Who does that? And who fucks that?”

I roll my eyes, grateful for the bit of levity but knowing it’s not enough to completely distract me.

She wraps her arm around my shoulder and snuggles into me like only a best friend can. I wonder absentmindedly what would’ve changed if I’d had her in New Mexico when I was going through everything. I was alone then. Would it have been easier if I’d had her there? Because this is a lot easier with her here.

“I think, in my infinite wisdom, you need to give the disastrously hot mayor the benefit of the doubt,” she says matter-of-factly.

“What if it destroys me in the end?”

“Hey,” she says, tugging the blanket around her waist. “You were the one that insisted on tangling up the heart and vagina. I believe my initial suggestion was to keep them separate.”

“They’re pretty wound together.”

“I think they’re more wound together than you even realize.”

The stars twinkle a little brighter as I acknowledge that she’s right. Every part of me is tangled up in this irresistibly handsome politician and I’m afraid there’s no way out.

I’m really afraid I might not want a way out.