I’m fucking useless. When I leave Emilio’s, I walk past a liquor store, and on impulse I buy a bottle of expensive vodka, just because it’s there and I can.

And because I’m so fucking certain we’re done, and a couple shots of the good stuff only makes me more certain. I said horrible things about his dead brother. I basically told Trent that he didn’t deserve love, that he may as well rot away forgotten, and I can’t fucking blame Trent for getting angry.

I was an asshole. A total fucking asshole, and I’m pretty fucking sure that telling me I was heartless and then leaving without a peep spells THE END in big-ass neon letters that even my dumb ass can read.

I fall asleep that night with the TV blaring. I don’t even brush my teeth, even though I think about it, because who fucking needs teeth if they’re heartbroken? Ten thousand dollars of dental work can go fuck itself right now.

* * *

I wake up hungover at noon, and you know the best way to cure that? More vodka and stupid television. I only get out of bed to pee and put the Do Not disturb sign on my door, then get right back in, feeling nauseous and drunk and like I don’t want to think. Someone knocks on my door a couple times during the day, and I just ignore it.

And you know the worst part? I still fucking wish I could do something to make Trent feel better, even though I’m pretty sure I’m the last person he wants to think about right now.

* * *

By mid-afternoon, the vodka’s gone. In my defense, it wasn’t a huge bottle, but I’m drunk and feel like hell and I’m fucking hungry, so I put on pants and walk around the corner to McDonald’s, where I manage to scarf down a Big Mac and fries without causing a scene.

I spend another hour in my hotel room. I’m sobering up a little, which isn’t so bad, especially since the thought of more vodka makes me feel like I might puke.

Then, the knocking starts. I try to ignore it, but it doesn’t stop. Two, three minutes, ceaseless.

Go the fuck away, I think. I can’t see people right now, I’m fucking useless, just leave.

They don’t leave. They keep fucking knocking, and finally, they win.

I open the door to Gavin’s hand, mid-air, Joan standing behind him.

“What,” I say, closing my eyes since it feels like the world is shifting unpleasantly beneath my feet.

“Christ on a cross,” he says

I lean against the door frame and flip him off.

“What do you want,” I say, not even putting in the effort to make it a question.

“We’re intervening.”

“No.”

“Sorry, that’s incorrect,” Gavin says.

“Fuck off.”

“Also no.”

I shut the door in his face. Or, I try, because he sticks his foot in before I can get it closed, and even though I shove my shoulder against it, he doesn’t budge.

“If you think you’re going to win this you’re quite wrong,” he says. “I’ve got loads of experience in dealing with drunk and belligerent people, and Liam’s got about eighty pounds on you.”

Fuck. He’s right. Even in my current, blitzed state, I know that me on my worst day is nothing compared to Liam’s shitshow on any given Friday.

I yank the door open and glare, even though Gavin and Joan seem like they’re slowly sliding off to the right, and I have to prop my head against the door frame to stop it.

“I don’t want an intervention,” I say. “I just want to be drunk and feel like shit.”

“Noted,” Gavin says. “Now come the fuck on.”

* * *

They drag me down to the hotel lobby and prop me up on an ugly, modern couch that’s out of the way and not far from the women’s restroom. Joan sits opposite me while Gavin gets me a cup of coffee, and then they both just watch me as I take several sips, my head in my hands.

“All right,” Gavin finally says. “Start.”

I take a deep breath, steel myself, and swallow hard, feeling nauseous. I don’t want to talk about this, but I don’t really see another choice.

Besides, Gavin’s one of my closest friends, and I really like Joan.

“I was awful to Trent and he’s never going to forgive me,” I start. “I told him to just let the prison bury Eli, because Eli’s kind of a dick and he’s always been kind of a dick and if I’m being really fucking honest it’s what he deserves, but Trent was really pissed—”

Fuck, I’m crying now, and I take a big gulp of air.

“Darcy,” Joan interrupts. “Can you start at the beginning?”

I take another deep breath, and realize: they don’t know about anything. They think that Trent and I are just really close friends and don’t know that whatever we are or were, it’s definitely more than that now.

I clear my throat. Joan offers me a tissue and I blow my nose, then sigh.

“So, uh,” I say, not really sure how to phrase this. “...Trent and I are sleeping together.”

I glance nervously at Gavin and Joan. I’m expecting shocked faces, mouths open in horror, gasps of surprise, something.

Instead, I’m pretty sure they’re both trying not to smile.

“Are you?” Gavin says, almost managing to keep a straight face.

“Oh,” says Joan without an ounce of surprise in her voice.

I just stare, too drunk to come up with a next thing to say, and look from Joan to Gavin and back.

“You knew,” I accuse, leaning back on the couch. It’s kind of a mistake, so I close my eyes.

“I thought that might be the case,” Joan says carefully.

“Have you got any idea how loud you are?” Gavin asks, much less carefully. “Apparently I ought to be asking Trent for tips, because—”

“Could you not?” I ask, eyes still closed.

“Right,” he says. I crack one eye open.

He’s fucking grinning, and I’m fucking confused.

“You’re not pissed?” I ask carefully.

Gavin sighs.

“I might have been a bit,” he says. “But then you two managed to act all right, up until now at least, so I figured it wasn’t such a big deal.”

I rub my hands over my face, massage my temples.

“How long have you known?”

“The day I came looking for Trent in your room and his trousers and pants were strewn across the floor,” he says, and he looks pretty fucking pleased with himself.

Shit, and here I thought we were doing great keeping this a secret.

“Okay, fine, we’re fucking, whatever,” I say quickly. “But anyway, yesterday we got in this fight and then he just left for California and didn’t even tell me, and I’m pretty sure everything’s fucking over and ruined and he never wants to see me again...”

Joan and Gavin are very, very patient. It probably takes them a good thirty minutes to tease the full, blow-by-blow story out of my dumb, drunk self, and they’re fucking nice about it.

When I finish, they’re just quiet for a long moment. I swig the last sip of my coffee, and then just stare at the disposable cup in my hand. The silence feels ominous, like they’re trying to figure out how to tell me that I’m right, I’m probably never even going to talk to Trent again.

Finally, Joan clears her throat.

“Have you talked to him yet?” she asks.

I shake my head.

“He doesn’t want to talk to me,” I say, miserably. “He told me I’ve got—”

“Darcy, he said that about twelve hours after finding out his brother died,” Joan says, gently. “Grief tends to make people say things they come to regret.”

“Knowing Trent, I doubt he feels very good about himself right now,” Gavin points out.

I sigh dramatically, my face in my hands.

“Even after I said what I said?”

“Even after that,” Gavin confirms.

“You don’t think he never wants to see me again?”

“I very sincerely doubt that,” Joan says.

“You’re really overreacting here,” Gavin says, leaning forward on his chair, leather bracelets sliding down his forearms.

I flip him off, and he shrugs.

“It’s your first fight, and the first one always feels like it’s the goddamn apocalypse,” Joan says. “But it’s usually not.”

“Usually,” I echo.

“This is what I mean by overreacting,” Gavin teases, and I flip him off again. “Three in one day,” he says to Joan.

“What’s the record?” she asks him.

“I think it’s five,” he says. “I might get there.”

“So what do I do,” I interrupt.

“You bloody talk to him,” Gavin says like it’s obvious. “You apologize for hurting his feelings and he’ll probably apologize for hurting yours.”

I give him a weird look, because I can’t believe that Gavin Fucking Lockwood, of all people, just gave me relationship advice.

“This might sound a little crazy,” Joan says. “But you know what I’d do?”

I raise my eyebrows.

“Fly to California,” she says. “Be there for him. He’s got no one else, not really.”

I glance at Gavin, wondering how much he’s told Joan, and he shrugs, then nods.

“Like they say, go get your man,” he tells me.

“But what if he—”

“He won’t,” Gavin says.

I make a face.

“You don’t have to trust yourself, but fucking trust me for once,” Gavin says. “I’m a fucking expert on winning someone back, you know.”

He has a point.

“Okay,” I say. “Okay, I fly to California, and I talk to him, and...?”

“That’s all,” Joan says.

I have to admit, it sounds... simple. Talk to him. How did I not think of that?

“We’d best get moving,” Gavin says. “You’ve got a flight to catch.”