She stares at me with recognition in her dark eyes. But it's hazy. She's hazy.

She's high.

Walker is already on the other side of the room. He's calling someone. His parents, I think.

I can't stop staring at his sister.

She keeps asking him to bail her out of messes. That must be an understatement.

But she is trying. I've seen her at a few meetings. The ones in Beverly Hills. One of my friends from rehab talked me into going to sessions that were well-known for celebrity sightings.

We saw a ton of TV actors and musicians, but I still switched to meetings on the Westside. It felt shady trying to see famous people at their weakest.

She was there. Walker's sister.

She tilts her head. "You're Walker's girlfriend?" Her voice is easy. Slow.

"Close enough."

"And he knows you're…" Her brow furrows as she considers her words. Or tries to.

"No."

"Oh."

He tosses his phone on the counter. Runs a hand through his hair.

His eyes go to his sister. "You can't stay here."

"Are you… are you going to let me explain?" She pulls her arm over her chest. Wraps her fingers around the crook of her elbow, covering an injection site.

But it's too late. Too slow. Walker sees it.

His voice drips with frustration "What could you possibly say?"

Her eyes turn down. She looks wounded. Like she really is sorry she's hurting him. Like she has no idea how to stop.

No. It's not like.

She doesn't.

I know. I've been there.

He looks to me and mouths sorry then looks back to his sister. "I'll drive you home."

"But." Her eyes go to the floor. "I'm sorry."

He shakes his head no, you aren't.

But she is. It's all over her face.

This is way too familiar.

She's here because she trusts him. Because she has nowhere else to go. Because, deep down, she wants help.

Okay, I'm projecting.

But, God, the way he clams up when he mentions her…

There's no way he'll be with a former addict.

There's no way he'll be with me.

He looks to me. "You can stay here or I can drop you off."

I shake my head. "I'll come."

He arches a brow. "You want to?"

"Yeah." I… I have to see this. I have to understand. I have to know if the possibility of us is totally fucked.

* * *

Walker's sister sits in the backseat, her arms folded, her gaze on the window. She doesn't apologize, or try to explain, or comment on the music.

Walker keeps his hand pressed against mine.

He's trusting me with this. With something he doesn't share with anyone. With something that could break his heart.

And I'm holding onto my secret like my life depends on it.

I have to tell him.

But I can't.

The way he looks at his sister—it's like she's tearing his heart out of his chest and stomping it with her heeled boots.

If I tell him, he'll leave.

And he'll never touch me or kiss me or hold me again.

I'll never see his smile, hear his laugh, watch his dark eyes fill up with joy.

My coffee shop music is the only sound in the car. It's soft music, but it's still too loud. Too emotional. Too everything.

I press my lips together.

I stare out the window, watching fancy stores blur together. Then over-sized houses.

We slow.

Park in the driveway of a massive Spanish style house in that neighborhood just north of Santa Monica Boulevard.

Roses line the brick walkway. The lawn is lush. Green. The beige and tan paint is perfect.

Walker turns the car off and slides his keys into his pocket. His eyes find mine. They beg for understanding, comfort, honesty. "Help me with her."

I nod even though he doesn't need my help. He can carry me, no problem, and his sister is a lot slimmer. Though, she is taller. So it might even out.

He gets out of his car.

I follow suit.

I watch him open the door for his sister, undo her seatbelt, sling her arm over his shoulder.

"I'm okay." She pulls her arm to her side. Stumbles up the walkway.

Walker jogs to meet her. He pulls out his keys, unlocks the front door, steps inside.

She follows.

Then I do.

The inside of the house is just as beautiful. The foyer is a big, airy room with a winding staircase. Skylights let in the glow of the stars. They're dull the way they always are in the city, but they're beautiful all the same.

I follow them up the stairs, to the room at the end of the hallway.

It's a girl's bedroom. And I mean a girl. It looks like it belongs to a thirteen-year-old. The sheets and bedspread are pink. The wallpaper is ball gowns and tiaras. The bed is a white four poster thing with sheer lace hanging off the top railing.

It's the perfect place for a princess.

No wonder his sister is this fucked up.

He treats her like a child. Their parents probably do too.

I don't blame him—she's acting like a child, misbehaving for attention—but still.

She needs help. More than this.

He motions to the bed.

She sits. Kicks off her heels. Pulls the covers to her chest.

"What did you take?" I ask.

"Does it matter?" She wraps her fingers around her arm. "Are you going to scold me too?" Her eyes narrow. We both know you don't have the high ground.

"Yeah. It's easy to overdose on certain things." I adopt my best I'm going to be a doctor, well, not that kind of doctor, but trust me, I know this shit voice. I move closer. "What did you take?"

"She's studying to be a shrink," he says.

"It was only one hit," she says. Like that makes it better.

But it does. To her. I know. I've been there.

"You drink anything?" I ask

She shakes her head.

I look to Walker. "She should be okay."

He nods. Motions to the door. "Go to sleep, Bree."

"Walker, I'm sorry. I want to be better. I do. I just…"

"Call me when you're sober." His words are weary. Like he's tired of repeating them.

He moves to the door, flicks the light off, moves back into the hallway.

I follow him downstairs and back to the car.

He rolls the windows down but doesn't turn the key. The breeze blows over my arms. Crickets chirp. The moonlight bounces off the hood.

He brings one hand to the steering wheel. "I don't want to go home."

"Me either."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

He nods. "You need to piss or anything?"

"I'm okay."

He nods, turns the key, puts the car in reverse. "I know this is a mess."

It is.

But it's not the mess he thinks it is.

* * *

I squeeze Walker's hand. I think up a million ways to explain this, then a million excuses to keep my lips zipped.

If I tell him, it's over.

But he deserves to know.

He deserves the truth.

I… I don't know what to do here.

Eventually, we find our way onto Pacific Coast Highway.

The deep blue of the ocean bleeds into the sky. We drive far enough into Malibu that the stars start shining.

Walker pulls into a lot on our left. He parks, turns the car off, presses his back against the seat.

"You want to head to the beach?" I don't know what to say. Or how to fix this. I can't. No one can. I know that better than anyone.

He nods yeah.

We get out of the car.

He stays a few paces ahead of me as we move toward the water. I step out of my shoes, carry them with two fingers, press my bare feet into the freezing sand.

He stops at the edge of the surf and stares out at the water. "I guess I should explain."

"You don't have to."

"You don't want to hear it?"

"No. I do. I just… I know what addiction is like."

"It's your focus, right?"

"Yeah." My dissertation is on addiction. "But it's not just research. I…" I'm not hijacking his story. He wants to tell me. He wants to share this. I need to support him here. "Go ahead. Start at the beginning."

He nods. "Bree always liked to party. But I thought it was normal. I did too. Well, once I was old enough to get invites to parties. Sometimes I'd go with her. Dean too. We all used sometimes."

"You used heroin?"

"No." He shakes his head. "I had no idea she did for a while. But I tried a lot of other shit. Never quite developed a taste for anything but whiskey."

I nod.

"I thought it was the same for her. She went to college. She kept partying, yeah, but it seemed normal. It's not like I was a paragon of sobriety."

I move closer.

He rubs my arms with his hands. "You're shivering."

I nod.

He slides his leather jacket off his arms and slings it around my shoulders.

It's warm.

Sweet.

Affectionate.

I swallow hard. "What happened?"

"One day, I got this worried call from a party. Asking if I was Sabrina Williams’s brother. Telling me she was passed out. That an ambulance was on the way."

"She overdosed?"

"Yeah. A mix of prescription painkillers and alcohol."

"That's a dangerous mix. It's easy to OD."

His nod is weary, like he's been aware of this information for long enough for it to become a thorn in his side. "My parents got really serious. She went to rehab. For a while, she was clean. Then, one day, she wasn't. She graduated to heroin because it was easier to get."

"That happens a lot." It's common. Really common, actually.

"They made due on their threats to stop paying her tuition. She dropped out of school. Lived with some loser boyfriend. Then that went up in flames, and Mom and Dad offered to pay for rehab. She went, did okay for a few months, slipped. It's gone on like that forever. It's gonna stay like this. She doesn't want to get better."

"How do you know?"

"Evidence speaks for itself."

"It isn't like that. Addiction rewires your brain. It's not about willpower."

"Iris—"

"Sorry, I—"

"I'm sure you know a lot more than I do." His voice gets soft. "But I don't need a shrink's help right now."

"You need your friend?"

"Yeah." His eyes meet mine. They're vulnerable. Hurting. "She's gonna die with a needle in her arm and there's nothing I can do."

"I'm sorry."

"Thanks." He pulls me closer.

I can feel every ounce of his warmth. His trust. His need.

He's giving me everything.

And I want everything.

I want to tell him, to explain, but I can't.

Not now. Not here.

"You must think I'm an asshole, wanting to cut her out of my life," he says.

"No." I shake my head. "I understand." God, how I understand. "You can't help someone who won't help themselves."

He brushes a stray hair behind my ear.

The wind blows it in front of my eyes.

His laugh is more happy than sad. "I know there's nothing I can do." He pulls me closer. "But it fucking sucks watching her destroy herself."

"Do you really think you can cut her off?"

"I don't know. I haven't yet."

"I'm sorry."

"I'm used to it."

Tears well up in my eyes. He's hurting so much, and it's exactly the kind of pain I inflicted on everyone in my life.

I did this to Lily. To Mom and Dad. To a dozen other friends who dropped me long before Lily did.

I don't deserve his affection.

I don't deserve his trust.

I don't deserve another chance.

A tear catches on my lashes. Then another.

Walker rests his palm on my cheek. Catches a tear on his thumb. "Hey."

"I'm sorry."

"What for?"

"Everything."

He stares back into my eyes.

But I can't see his. Mine are blurry.

I blink. Bring my hand to my cheek to wipe my tears. "I'm really, really sorry."

"Hey. It's okay." He wraps his arms around me.

I shake my head. It's not. It's really, really not.

"This all for me?"

"No." Yes. Maybe. It's confusing. "I… I like you."

"Like me?"

"A lot." I choke back a sob. "Like I want you to be my boyfriend."

"Damn, I'm charming."

My laugh is anguished. "No, you are. It's not you. I just…" I try to stare back into his eyes, but I can't. I can't hold his gaze. "It's complicated."

"What isn't?"

"Coffee."

He laughs. "Is it your ex?"

Maybe. Ross was the person who introduced me to drugs. He was the last guy I trusted. And that didn't exactly turn out well.

But Walker was right before. Ross barely means anything to me.

How can I explain this without telling him?

How can I stay without telling him?

"I just…" I bury my head in his chest. "I don't want this to end."

"Me either."

"You…"

"Yeah." He runs his fingertips over my cheek. "You sure you want to be part of this train wreck?"

I nod. I'm sure.

But there's no way he wants to be a part of mine.