“You idiot, Annabelle,” I whisper to myself for the tenth time since texting my last message to Archer.

Far from allaying my concerns, my brief text conversation with Archer has left me more unsettled. His texts have been abrupt, completely lacking in the warmth that characterized our time at the lake. Am I reading too much into them, or is their shortness a message for me?

And why didn’t he mention anything about his meeting with Zac? Is he trying to hide it from me? Does he assume I know?

I wait up half the night, hoping that he’ll text me again or call. I should just bite the bullet and call him, but I’m too chicken. The whole situation is bringing out a passive-aggressive side I didn’t even realize I had. I'm afraid now that I’ve been a complete idiot, and that if I start calling him and texting him, I’m just going to make more of a fool of myself.

If he wanted to get in touch, he would, right?

For all that I didn’t want to be alone tonight, I end up avoiding my roommates by holing up in my room, where I replay in my mind every last word that Archer and I exchanged over the weekend. I pick up my phone at least fifty times, thinking I’ll call him and just ask him flat out if the whole weekend was a sham … then each time I lose my nerve and put it down again.

If it was a sham, I don't want to know. Not yet.

Eventually, I go to bed and drift off, but I sleep badly, and in the morning, I drag myself out of bed. I force myself to shower and dress and eat something, then spend what's usually my most productive time of day just staring at Archer’s wallet.

Was it only two days ago that I was telling myself that I’d be willing to throw away all common sense and dignity just for a chance to sleep with Archer—even knowing that it wasn’t likely to go anywhere?

I stroke the worn leather of the wallet and sigh.

I can’t regret sleeping with him—not yet, anyway. It was the most amazing, intense experience of my life. I realize now that ever since I started dating, I’ve been playing it safe, settling for guys I didn’t feel incredibly passionate about because I didn’t want to risk getting hurt. Even losing Tommy Lipstein to his fantasies about Carina was more a blow to my pride than my heart.

Even if nothing comes of my relationship with Archer, I know I’ll never settle again.

But I’m beginning to think I might regret falling for him the way I did.

I slam the wallet on my desk, stand up and pace around my room. Why can’t I be one of those girls who can sleep with a guy and walk away the next day? Or at least one who can ask him straight up what the deal was. Better to know than to exist in limbo like this.

It’s that thought that finally does it. I’m going to get to the bottom of this once and for all. I can’t hold onto Archer’s wallet indefinitely anyway—even if he wants nothing more to do with me, I’m not a thief—so bringing it back to him is as good an excuse as any.

It would make sense, of course, to call or text him first, but there’s a devious part of me that I didn’t even know existed that makes me think I’ll be more likely to get to the truth if I take him by surprise.

So, with that in mind, I get ready to go out.

My heart is starting to thump with anticipation, each beat sending a nervous thrill throughout my body. I’m excited to see Archer again, but also anxious.

I’ve driven to the address listed on Archer’s driver’s license. He lives in a bland apartment complex in a neighborhood of strip malls and coffee shops that looks like it caters to twenty-somethings.

I park, check my make up quickly in my rear view mirror before I get out of my car, then make my way to his apartment and knock.

Nothing.

Oh, stupid Annabelle! I’ve been so caught up in my anxiety about the whole thing that it never occurred to me that he wouldn’t be home.

I’m about to knock again when I hear a scuffling noise and the sound of a bolt being pulled back. The nervous vibrations in my stomach threaten to make me lose my balance, then the door opens.

It’s not Archer.

A girl about my own age stands there wearing a thin pink tank top that does nothing to disguise the fact that she’s not wearing a bra, and a pair of cut-off sweatpants that show off long, tanned legs. Her hair is up in a messy bun, she has no makeup on, and her face is sickly pale. She looks like death warmed over, but she has a nice figure, and I can tell that if she were healthy and dressed properly, she’d be pretty.

Very pretty.

“I’m sorry,” I say, taken aback. “I think maybe I have the wrong apartment. I’m looking for Archer Carleson?”

“Oh,” she says. It comes out as kind of a groan. “He’s not here at the moment.”

“Oh,” I say back. The shock of seeing a half-dressed woman in Archer’s apartment has made me forget why I came. “Um … do you know when he’s coming back?”

She shakes her head. “No. Listen, I hate to be rude, but I’m not feeling all that well at the moment …”

“Yeah, sorry.” I begin digging in my purse for Archer’s wallet. “I brought him his wallet …”

She blinks as I hold it out. I’m reluctant to let it go, my one tangible reminder of Archer’s existence, but I let her take it from me.

She frowns at it. “Did you find it somewhere?”

“Um, not exactly. He left it at my house this weekend.”

Now she sort of squints at me. “Oh … well, that was nice of you, to put him up.”

Whatever she thinks Archer and I were doing over the weekend, she obviously doesn’t see me as a threat, and I’m not sure if that’s a good sign or a bad one.

“Are you his roommate?” I ask. Surely Archer told me his roommate was a man? Or did I just extrapolate that from the name? I’ve already come up with a half dozen excuses for her presence here: maybe she’s his roommate’s girlfriend or his sister, or maybe she’s Archer’s cousin, in from out of town unexpectedly, or—

“Yeah,” she replies. “I’m Alex.”

“Oh,” I say stupidly. All this time I assumed Alex was a man. It never occurred to me that Archer might be living with an attractive woman. But he always referred to her as his roommate, not his girlfriend, so that was a good sign, right?

But of course, he wouldn’t have told me he had a girlfriend if his goal was to seduce me into a meeting with Zac.

“He said you had some kind of problem? Is everything okay?” I ask. Sorry to say, I don’t honestly care if she’s okay or not, but I’m desperate for more information about what’s going on.

Alex sighs and misinterprets the problem I’m asking about. Or maybe not. “Yeah. Archer and I had a fight, and I kicked him out for the weekend, but we’re fine now. Listen, I’m really sorry, but I had way too much to drink over the weekend, and I’m not really up for a conversation.”

I’d been prepared to believe that maybe she was really ill, that Archer had come back to take her to the emergency room or something, but drinking? Last night? Had he come all the way back to LA just to party with her? I just stare at her, feeling as if I’m getting shorter and dumpier and plainer—and stupider—by the moment.

“Okay,” I finally say. “Well, you’ve got his wallet. Maybe … just tell him I stopped by or something? My name’s Annabelle.” I immediately wish I could take back the words. I sound pathetic.

Alex must hear the pathos in my voice, for she gives me a look of profound pity, and anything that’s left of my self-esteem drains away.

“Oh, honey,” she says, “I’ll tell him you stopped by, but don’t get your hopes up.” She says it with the jaded air of someone stating the profoundly obvious. “I love the guy, but he's a total man whore.” She gazes into space for a moment. “Men in general are just assholes.”

I nod without really thinking about it. She waves the wallet at me and starts to close the door. “Thanks. I’ll make sure he gets it.”

The door clicks shut and I’m left standing on the doorstep with an empty space where my heart used to be.