Diane showed up at my door a few days later.

“You okay?”

“If you mean the head and chest cold from hell, then yes, I’m feeling better. If you mean the man who stole eighteen months of my life only to break my heart, then yes, also fine. It was time. If he can’t make a commitment to me, I’m done.”

I filled the basket in the coffeemaker. I hadn’t been sleeping well, other than a few naps here and there, and while I already had enough caffeine in me to last a week, I had things to do.

Diane grabbed two mugs from the cupboard and settled in at the kitchen table.

“I’ve got to go grocery shopping today, so I don’t have anything to snack on other than animal crackers.”

She shook her head. “I’m good. I didn’t come to eat.”

I grabbed the creamer from the fridge and joined her at the kitchen table while we waited for the coffee to brew. “What’s up? You hiding from Wally?”

She tucked a strand of flame-red hair behind her ear. “You don’t know, do you?”

I hadn’t noticed it when she came in, but I did now. She looked sad and a little nervous.

“I don’t think so. What are you talking about?”

She linked her pinky with mine, something we hadn’t done since around the time my father had died. Whatever it was, it had to be bad.

She inhaled deeply and then spoke rapidly, like she was pulling off a Band-Aid.

“Preston and Suzanne are getting married. He gave her a ring and everything.” She searched my face. “I’m sorry, Rain.”

I stared at our joined fingers. Numb. That’s what I felt. I’d pushed him away, and he’d gone right back to Suzanne. Or maybe that had been his intention when he showed up the other night. He wanted to solidify my spot on the shelf while he went on with his life.

I should feel devastated. I should be crying. Ranting. Cursing him. But I wasn’t. Other than a pinch in my chest, I was numb.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I think so. I just feel . . . kinda weird, ya know? And maybe a little empty.”

“He’s a jerk. I’ve always thought so, and this is just proof. Wally said that girl is a bitch. If that’s who he wants, they deserve each other.”

She was probably right. But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt—but shouldn’t it hurt more? Maybe the antibiotic was affecting me mentally.

Diane rose and grabbed the coffee carafe, then filled our mugs. When she returned to the table, she covered my hand with hers and squeezed. “Do you want to go shopping? We could go look at shoes. That always makes you happy.”

“Thanks, but I just want to be alone. I think I need to lie down.”

“You want me to take Izzy?”

“That’s okay. My mom is picking her up later. She and my Aunt Donna are taking her to the Bloomsburg Fair.”

“Well, let’s get her ready, and I’ll take her home with me. She can play with my nephews, and then I’ll bring her to your mom’s after she closes the shop. This way you can rest. Okay?”

I finished getting Izzy ready to go, made her promise to be good, and told her I’d see her in the morning.

Although my plan had been to spend the day catching up, I was fresh out of energy. With Izzy gone, I would have an entire twenty-four hours to wallow. I had a pile of dirty clothes and hardly any food in the house, but I had plenty of wine, my favorite tearjerker movies, and a stack of magazines. I wanted to cry Preston out of my system, once and for all.

After a long, hot bath, I slipped into my favorite pair of yoga pants and a T-shirt, grabbed a bottle of wine and a blanket, and curled up on the sofa.

When I was finally able to cry—which only started during P.S. I Love You, when Gerard Butler kept sending Hilary Swank all those letters after his death—I was hard pressed to put my finger on exactly why. Was I crying because Preston had proposed to Suzanne? If he were to show up at my door today, tell me he’d made a huge mistake, would I take him back?

For as much as I believed I’d loved him, the answer would be no. I’d been hurt and strung along, but while I’d once loved him, I was no longer in love with him.

The realization stunned me.

And if that was the case, why was I crying?

My heart and my head leaped to Chase. I’d surely blown it with him. If Preston hadn’t been in the picture, things between us could have been very different. The times I’d spent with him had been some of the best I’d ever had. Chase made me feel special in a way I hadn’t felt since my dad died.

Thinking of my father made me cry harder. What a fucked-up life I’d been living.

Between the crying and the wine, my head was pounding. I took some aspirin and climbed into bed.

When I woke, the pounding in my head was gone, only to be replaced by a muffled pounding in my ears.

Shit. The possibility of Preston standing outside my door frightened me. I couldn’t do this again. I didn’t want him. I just wanted him to go away.

I pulled the blankets over my head, but the knocking grew louder.

A male voice called through the door. A voice that did not belong to Preston. “Rain?”

I tugged the comforter off the bed, wrapped it around my shoulders, and went to the door.

“Who is it?”

“Chase.”

I unbolted the door and pulled it open to find Chase standing on my deck holding a bottle of tequila, a bag of limes, and a pizza.

“I thought you might want some company. Is that okay?”

It was more than okay, but before I could answer, the tears were back.

He set everything down on the deck, wrapped his arms around me, and led me to the sofa. I cried even harder.

When I’d finally settled down to soft, quiet gulps, Chase made me drink a glass of water and eat half a slice of now-cold pizza. My headache had faded, leaving me groggy and a bit disconnected, like I was floating.

“Can I do anything for you?” he asked. “Get you anything?”

I nodded. “Yeah, two shot glasses in the cabinet over the sink. There’s salt and a cutting board on the counter and knives in the drawer near the stove.”

When Chase returned and joined me on the sofa, I sliced a lime into wedges while he filled the glasses.

Before we took the first shot, I clicked his glass.

“What are we toasting?”

“I’m not sure. How about endings and beginnings?”

He nodded and raised his glass, then threw it back.

We did another shot after that one, but instead of feeling numb and disoriented, I was heating up. When he poured a third, I climbed onto his lap, straddling him. I slid the elastic from his hair and ran my fingers through the silky strands, pushing them to the side, exposing his neck. His head tipped back, and when he swallowed, I kissed the base of his throat, and licked my way up to his chin. He already tasted salty, but I sprinkled more on him, licked it off, drank my shot, and bit the lime.

While I did, he steadied me with his hand around my waist. I knew by the way he looked at me, the way his nostrils flared, and the way his breathing hitched that I had him—which was good, because I wanted him.

“Your turn,” I purred, sliding off his lap and rolling onto my back on the coffee table, a wedge of lime between my teeth. I raised my shirt and waited.

He knelt between my legs and ran his tongue from my navel up to my breasts, then sprinkled my belly with salt. When he poured the tequila into my belly button, I squealed from the cold.

He leaned forward and drew his tongue over me slowly, following the path of the salt, lapping up the tequila. He bit the lime in my mouth, then lifted me up, pulled the rind from my mouth, and kissed me like I’d only been kissed twice before.

Both times by him.

My body buzzed like a neon sign, like a plug being inserted into a socket. The sparks I’d felt the very first time we touched had ignited into something that already felt like it was burning out of control, and I was consumed. Nothing had ever felt like this before.

Nothing.

Chase’s response was more than I could’ve hoped for. I was so overwhelmed and emotional, and probably a little drunk, that I almost started to cry again. When we stopped for air, I rolled onto the floor with him, pulled his T-shirt over his head, and pushed him down.

“It’s your turn.” I worshiped the ridges of his rock-hard belly with my hands and my tongue.

We did more body shots, kissing long and slow in between, until it grew so dark in my apartment it was difficult to see.

I tried to stand without breaking our kiss and tugged him to his feet.

“I want you,” I whispered, nipping his lower lip.

“Are you sure?” he asked, kissing my neck as he did. “I think you might be drunk.”

“I’m positive. And I’m not that drunk.” I pulled back and cradled his face in my hands, feeling the scruff along his jaw, and looked into his eyes—eyes with a fire so hot, I could feel the burn. “Just please don’t hurt me. I don’t think I can stand any more hurt.”

He lifted me into his arms.

“Never,” he said, before kissing me again. “I swear, Rain, I will never hurt you.”