“Cate! Hello, darling!” the voice hollers pleasantly over the other end of the line. I take a quick glance at my phone clock. Saturday at seven o’clock in the morning? Who the hell is so chipper at this time of day? The number was unlisted.

“Good morning,” I say back. “I’m so sorry, but may I ask who’s calling?”

“It’s Margaret, dear, you remember.”

I most sincerely don’t, but I’ve spent the entire week putting out feelers for anyone in the area who might be interested in personal training, so I suppose this could be anyone. I did, after all, ask everyone to tell their friends about me.

“Of course, Margaret,” I lie, slipping into my pleasantly professional tone. “It feels like it’s been ages. When’s the last time we spoke?”

“Oh, my,” Margaret responds. High-class, society woman, older. I rack my brains.

“I know, dear,” I respond, matching the tone and timbre of her voice. The wealthy are suckers for kinship, fake or otherwise. “The days move so quickly now, don’t they?”

“You’re so right, you’re so right,” Margaret responds. There’s a beat of silence, and I think maybe I’m going to be found out. “Oh,” she exclaims, and I exhale in relief. “I think it may have been the MacMillan charity event last year, you remember.”

Oh. That Margaret. Now I remember. Margaret St. John, the Manhattan socialite. She’s the rail-thin, overly cloying woman who is just chock-full of nitpicky opinions about how she finds the modern design movement to be utterly gauche. The last time I saw her, she was six champagnes deep and comparing the charity event’s design work to a common beach brothel. Where the hell had she seen a beach brothel before? What does that even mean?

I pinch the bridge of my nose, thankful this isn’t a video call. It’s absolutely too early for this.

“Right. Of course,” I say, doing my best to not sound as grumpy as I am. “It was Designs on the Dock if I’m not mistaken. I’m so sorry that you had such a negative experience.”

“Oh, darling, don’t dwell on it,” she responds with thick, chipper venom. “There’s a learning curve for everyone, is there not?”

“You’re absolutely right,” I say through gritted teeth. “I view all criticism as stepping stones on the path of perfection. Is there anything I can do to help you this morning, Ms. St. John?

“Yes, actually,” she started. “I don’t know if you’re aware, but I summer in Cape Cod these days. I understand you’ve recently made a grand return to Boston, is that right?”

“That’s right,” I respond. “About two weeks ago now, I think? The days have gone by so fast, it’s hard to tell.”

“Well, that’s just positively lovely. I always say that a young woman should travel while they still have their looks, and those years do start to dwindle fast, don’t they?”

Fuck you, I scream inside my head. Fuck you and the whole army of horses you rode in on.

“They certainly do,” I reply, biting back that other voice. “Forgive me for cutting to the chase, but I assume someone let you know that I’m now offering personalized fitness sessions?”

“Yes, they did.”

Finally. A bite. I force a smile, hoping it will improve my attitude about the prospect. Truth is, I need this. After shopping for necessities, my savings have started to dwindle a lot faster than I anticipated they would. Not that last week’s dinner table fling wasn’t ten different types of lovely, but I do not plan on getting caught without panties again.

“That’s wonderful,” I say, and my forced smile must have worked, because even I can hear that my voice sounds a bit more cheerful.

Of course, that could also be due to memories of dinner with Jack and Dylan.

I yank my thoughts back to Margaret. This isn’t the time to get distracted, and she’s the sort of person who thinks milk at the grocery store costs fifty dollars. I can probably get away with a very generous rate for my troubles, and the thought cheers me up even more. Maybe this move to Boston really will work out.

“If you’d like to discuss the types of services I offer, I can give you a free consultation,” I tell Margaret, and now the pleasure in my voice is genuine. Things are looking up all around. “There are many options that I specialize in.”

“Oh, darling,” Margaret says, cutting me off. “No, I’m sorry, I’m afraid I may have gotten your hopes up. Unfortunately, I will not be availing myself of your services this summer.”

And just as fast as my mood had risen, it now free falls right into the toilet. What the hell is she calling for? And at 7am?

“You… won’t be using my services?”

“No,” she says flatly. “I had considered it, of course, but imagine my luck when I was presented with a more sensible alternative, someone who is the picture of fitness. I was calling merely to express my sympathy about your late grandfather, and to encourage you to keep at your new little business. It’s always so difficult to transition between two completely different fields, isn’t it?”

I’m honestly surprised that I can even form words right now. I’m seeing blood-red. What a bitch.

“Yes, it certainly is,” I grit out, politeness too ingrained for me to say what I really think. “Well, if that’s all, I’m afraid I have an appointment to get to.”

Okay, maybe that last line slipped over the edge into rude, but I have no regrets. As bad as this conversation is making me feel, it doesn’t even feel like a lie: I’d say I’m totally justified in making myself an appointment to bury myself back under the covers and never come out.

Either that, or setting one up with a hitman who specializes in wealthy socialites.

“Of course, I don’t want to keep you,” Margaret replies, saccharine sweet. “Perhaps I can provide a recommendation. A sort of train-the-trainer arrangement? I hear that the professional I’ll be working with is amazing at getting all of those hard-to-reach spots.”

That settles it. Hitman it is.

I pinch the bridge of my nose again, willing myself not to get a stress headache, and I’m suddenly very thankful that I have the house to myself for most of the day. Dylan took an overnight event job with a catering company up in New Hampshire, and said he won’t be back until much later today.

“I’ll keep it in mind, Ms. St. John. Goodbye,” I manage.

“Yes, we’ll be in tou—”

I hang up. I can’t help it. I’ve been awake for not even ten minutes, and I’ve already hit my limit for the day. I swing my legs out of bed and take a moment to enjoy the cool hardwood on my soles, then I walk over to the dresser and remove my oldest set of underwear: a white bralette and a pair of faded yellow boyshorts.

No wires, no lace, all comfort.

Since I get the whole day alone, I’m going to enjoy it.

I head toward the bedroom door, then stop. So far, every time Jack has shown up unannounced, he’s caught me in my underwear. My body reacts to the thought immediately, but that’s silly. There’s no reason to think he’d show up today. Dylan told me about Jack pushing him away when they’d gone out to lunch, and neither one of us has heard from him since.

It’s been more than a week.

I’ve tried not to be hurt by that—not only had the sex been amazing, but I’d really felt connected to him. And… yeah. I’d had to fight my own sense of having gone too far after it was all over, but honestly, it hadn’t taken me long to shut down those voices. Maybe some might have called it kinky, and I know for sure some would call it wrong. All I know is it was the hottest sex I’d ever had, an orgasm that had nearly wrecked me, and that—with Dylan there, and even Jack, for all our history—I’d never felt more okay with anything in my life.

Obviously we’d have to hear from Jack at some point. Grandpa Sully had made sure of that when he’d tied us all together with this townhouse, but when that would happen? With Jack, I had no idea.

Still, for today, I turn back to my room and grab my comfortable plush white robe. I’m not in the mood for more surprises. Margaret St. John was more than enough of one for today, thank you very much.

I walk downstairs and fill the coffeepot, pouring the water into the reservoir and setting it down on the warmer. I flip the switch and spend the entire time it brews marveling at the nerve of Margaret to call me up like that.

Was this a morning ritual for her? Bump a little cocaine, flip through the Rolodex, pick out the poorest people she knows, then ridicule them in order to get through her day?

I scowl, staring blindly at the coffeepot. I hope she chokes on her overpriced cereal.

I get a little lost in my revenge-fantasy reverie, so it takes me a little too long to notice that I forgot to put coffee grounds in the filter.

“Shit,” I mutter aloud, staring at the half-full pot of water. It looks like seawater, light brown and unappealing. I shake my head and flip off the switch, then grab the coffeepot and turn for the sink. So much for salvaging the morning.

I grab the coffeepot to try again, but I spin too fast, splashing incredibly hot water all over my robe.

“No, goddammit,” I wail, reflexively dropping the coffeepot.

It falls into the sink, shattering, but I barely have time to notice that as I tear my robe off and brush frantically at my chest. Just red, thankfully, versus the harsher burns it felt like I’d just given myself. Still hurts like a bitch, though. I can feel hot, angry tears starting to well up in my eyes, and I blink them back as hard as I can.

“Not today,” I say out loud to nobody. “I refuse to spend my day like this.”

I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself as I pick up my robe and examine it. Perfect fluffy fabric everywhere except a big patch of damp, brown discoloration from the coffee water. I sigh and drop my head, then trudge off to the laundry room. I need to get a load going anyway, and this is as good a reason as any to avoid putting it off, I guess.

I can’t deny I’m starting to feel like I should have gone with the pull-the-covers-back-over-my-head option. I’m not usually a negative person, but while I don’t regret my spontaneous decision to uproot my life, I have to admit that it’s come with a lot of uncertainty. If I’m honest, it’s been eating me up inside, slowly but surely, and it’s also come with more of an emotional rollercoaster than I’d counted on.

I wonder if it’s more than I can handle.

A few minutes later, everything is in the wash and churning along, and I exhale, feeling my emotions start to ebb a little. I can do this. I can.

One step at a time. And next? There’s still a mess in the sink that I have to deal with.

“Might as well do it now,” I say, my mood starting to lighten as I wonder when I started talking to myself. Had I done that back in New York? I don’t think so. Maybe it’s living with someone for the first time.

I adore sharing the house with Dylan, and I guess I’ve gotten used to having someone there to hear me when I need to get something off my chest.

I start to head back to the kitchen when my phone begins to ring.

Please, not Margaret with her professional trainer recommendation. I look at my phone and groan. The way this morning has gone so far, it only makes sense. Not Margaret… it’s even worse.

My mother.

I take a quick second to debate whether or not I want to throw the phone in the wash as well, but it’s too important to my future livelihood. I indulge in one more sigh, then answer.

“Good morning, Mother.”

“Is that all you have to say to me, Caitlin?” she snaps, forgoing a greeting or any pretense of maternal affection.

“What are you talking about?” I ask, rolling my eyes. Really, it could be anything. Or, more precisely, everything.

Has she ever approved of anything I’ve done?

“It’s been two weeks since you went off on this little tantrum of yours,” she says, her tone clipped. The words sting; she always knows how to make them sting. “And now I have to hear about how rude you were to Margaret St. John this morning? What on earth is your problem, young lady?”

I didn’t think the day could get any worse, but I’m rapidly being proven wrong. I wedge the phone between my shoulder and ear, crossing my arms over my reddened breasts. I should get ice, but right now, I just want to get this call over with.

“Mother, that woman called up specifically to make jokes about my business and my weight,” I tell her, my patience running thin. “But despite that, I was perfectly civil.”

“If you consider hanging up on her to be civil, then yes, you did such a lovely job,” she says, sarcasm set to high. “It’s time for this nonsense to end, Caitlin. I’m sure your savings have to be nearly gone by now, and I know you haven’t gotten a job yet.”

My blood starts to boil at that. It’s all too easy to hear the smug satisfaction in her tone. What kind of mother wants her daughter to fail?

“All of this personal training business is cute,” she goes on. “But you need to face reality, dear. No one is going to hire a chubby girl to train them. Especially one who overcompensates for the deficiencies in her appearance by being a smartass with her own flesh and blood.”

And suddenly, I’m done. I’ve been brought to the highest of highs in the past two weeks, and now I’m at the lowest of lows. I feel the tears coming to my eyes, and I don’t make any effort to stop them this time.

“Julianne MacMillan,” I say sharply, refusing to call her anything motherly right now. “Did you put Margaret up to that call? Are you that cruel?”

She sucks in a sharp breath, but of course her response isn’t an apology.

“You will address me as Mother, you little brat,” she snaps. “And of course I told Margaret what you were up to. I never really thought she’d hire you; we both know how ridiculous that idea is, so I didn’t bother sugarcoating the facts when I explained your situation.”

“You’re so, so mean,” is all I can manage to say, choked up, tears streaking down my cheeks. I sniffle, but she talks right over me, not acknowledging my words any more than she does my feelings.

“You will end this nonsense now, Caitlin, and come back home immediately,” she says sharply. “I need you to work on our new summer seasonal presentation, and it’s too late to hire anyone else for the job.”

“I’m not coming back to New York, Mother,” I say raggedly. “I am home.”

Before she can respond, I hang up the phone and shut it off completely.

Fuck this.

Fuck all of this.

My entire body is racked with sobs as I struggle to fathom how anyone could be so cruel, or how any one day could turn so awful, so quickly. Forget coffee, forget cleanup, forget doing anything productive today. The only thing I want now is ice cream and pie, and I don’t give a shit about anything else.

Dylan, my best friend, my sweetheart, he’ll know what to do when he gets home. All I have to do is hold out until then. He’ll fix it, or at least he’ll listen to me vent it all out.

I head to the kitchen, on a comfort mission now. It’s all I have the capacity for anymore. I’m done with this day already, and it’s barely gotten started. I’m so wrapped up in my own thoughts that I don’t immediately realize that I’ve stepped on the tiniest piece of broken glass from the shattered coffeepot.

When I do, the pain hits me way harder than it should.

“Fuck!” I scream. “Why? Motherfuck!”

I start crying all over again, and I can’t help myself even a little bit. I gingerly remove the tiny piece of glass, crying openly and loudly while I do so, and toss it in the sink. I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve any of this. And sure, it’s a pity party, but right now? I really can’t find it in me to hold it together.

“Grandpa, just fix it, please,” I find myself wailing crazily. “Just fix it and take it away. I can’t anymore. I can’t right now.”

I get no answer… of course. My Grandpa Sully is dead, and there’s nothing I can do to change that.

Still crying, I move to the freezer and dig out the container of cookie dough ice cream, then pull the leftover strawberry pie out of the fridge. Dylan made it from scratch, and it tasted like heaven.

I put the ice cream and the pie platter on the counter, dig out a spoon from the drawer, rip off the ice cream lid, and dig in for a bite. The sweet vanilla mixed with the bit of cookie dough hits me like the hardest drug I’ve ever done in my life, and my sobs intensify for just a second longer before subsiding.

Oh my God. I’ve never tasted anything this good in my life before.

Not a single thing.

With the spoon still in my mouth, I pick up the container in one hand and the pie platter in the other, and limp tenderly toward the kitchen table.

And of course, there he is.

Completely unannounced and big as life, Jack stands in the kitchen doorway. Staring at me without my robe on, no makeup, face blotchy from crying, in my ratty underpants, my tear-and-coffee-stained bralette, giant tub of ice cream in one hand, big plate of strawberry pie in the other, and a spoon dangling from my mouth.

Fucking perfect.

Everything snaps. I’m flooded with emotions, all at once. Rage, desire, humiliation, regret. I can’t help it anymore. I’m done. Really, truly done. I spit the spoon out of my mouth and it clatters unceremoniously on the floor.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Jack?!” I scream, lobbing the pie awkwardly in his direction.

Jack jumps, avoiding the crash of the pie and the splatter of the filling, though it still manages to get all over the bottom of his slacks.

“Jesus, Cate,” he starts, building up his own rage-filled voice. “What the hell’s a-matter with you?”

“You! It’s always you!” I shriek, slamming the ice cream container down to the floor with a gigantic splat. It gets all over my ankles, and I’m so beyond caring. “The last two weeks, it’s just you throwing your dick around, you barging in unannounced, you refusing to work with us on the townhouse, you turning your back on this family.”

Jack’s eyes widen. “Cate, I don’t know—”

“This is the one thing that anyone who’s ever mattered to you has asked you for!” I yell over him, cutting him off with my hands balled into hard fists at my sides. I lean into it. In for a penny, in for a pound. “This one thing! You don’t need the money from selling the townhouse! Why the fuck are you stonewalling us at every turn?” I start sobbing into my shrieks. “Why the fuck haven’t you called? How dare you come in here and fuck me that way, then leave without another word? How could you? What kind of monster are you?”

I start to feel my legs go weak, and I realize that the only thing I’ve eaten today is a single spoonful of ice cream. Sobbing, I pull a chair out from the table and sit down, burying my head in my hands.

Even so, I still find reasons to yell at him through my fingers. There’s too much inside me. It has to come out.

“You can’t treat people like this, Jack! You can’t just walk into my life like this and use me all up, then drop me the second you get scared! You know how hot I think you are; how hot you’ve always been to me! But I’m not that shy little girl anymore, and I’m not afraid to tell you exactly what I think of you! I don’t care how ugly you always thought I was. You bastard, you fucking asshole!”

I continue to sob, but I’m coming down from the peak now. The righteous fury drains from my body, and all that’s left is sadness and hurt.

“I’m so tired of always doing my best, and getting nothing in return,” I weep. “I’m so exhausted by all of it. I’m done. I’m just done.”

I drop my head on the table and get the rest of the tears out, a heaviness coming over me.

I’m too tired to cry; I’m too tired for anything. I just want to sleep and make it all go away. I know Jack is going to start raging at me any second now, and I’m going to feel even more like trash than I already did when he walked in on me.

So I wait for it.

And wait.

And… wait some more.

But Jack’s rage never comes. What does come is a warm hand on my bare shoulder, and another sliding into my hair to gently cradle the side of my head.

“Hey, Duchess,” Jack says softly, and it’s the first time I’ve ever heard him sound genuinely kind and concerned. “It’s okay. I’m sorry, I mean it. It’s going to be okay.”

My heart constricts in my chest, so hard I can’t breathe for a moment. And then… warmth rushes through me. Not the hot need I’ve felt around Jack ever since returning to Boston, but something sweeter.

I love this man.

Him and Dylan.

I’ve loved them since the beginning, and it’s overwhelming to be confronted with that realization, all at once. It’s something I could never tell either of them, not in a million years, but it’s… nice.

I pick up my head and look up at Jack. “I’m a hot mess right now. I’m so sorry.”

He smiles. “It’s okay, Duchess.” It sounds like a genuine term of endearment, rather than the insult it always was in the past.

Jack’s comforting me. Soothing me. And I… I want him. I want him more than anything right now. But I’m also tired. So, so tired. I turn toward him, feeling his arms come around me as I press my face into his hard stomach and let out a shuddering breath. A couple more sobs shake my body as I get the last of it out, but for once, I feel safe around him.

Relief.

Trust.

“I’m here, and it’s okay,” Jack says, over and over. “I’m here and it’s all going to be okay.”

And with that lovely warmth in my heart, the strength of his arms around me, I start to think that it really might be, after all.