"Mmmm." I fall onto the bench seat as I take a long sip of my sugary cold brew. Sweet, sweet caffeine. "Thank you, surf gods."

"You're welcome." Walker slides onto the bench next to me. He taps the outside of my knee with the outside of his.

We're both in shorts and t-shirts. We both towel changed at the beach. After about a gallon of water, I'm finally hydrated enough to caffeinate properly.

"Don't you want to eat?" He arches a brow as he takes a long sip of his black cold brew.

"Eventually. This first." I lean back in my seat. Sip. Sigh with pleasure.

He wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me onto his lap. "You make me so fucking jealous, Iris."

"Yeah?" I lean back so my neck brushes against his cheek. It feels warm. It feels better than it has any right to.

"You don't fool me, sweetness. You do it on purpose." He places his palm on my quad and rubs my inner thigh with his thumb. "You sure you're good to do dinner at seven tonight?"

I nod.

"Fuck, we're jumping into relationship fast."

I laugh. "True."

"Too much?"

"No." Not even a little too much.

He brushes my hair behind my ear. "Tell me the truth."

I thought you'd ask. There's no way you're okay with the past being the past. I really, really want to believe that, but I can't. "Yeah?"

"You love surfing."

Oh. "I do." It makes me feel alive and vibrant. A natural high. It makes sense now, why so many former addicts drive motorcycles or jump out of planes. The rush is everything. "Walker, I—"

"Don't tell me you're already backing out."

"No. Of course not. This is, um, part of being a girlfriend. Or whatever we're calling this."

"I like girlfriend."

"Yeah?"

He nods. "I've never been a boyfriend before."

"You're a virgin?"

He nods.

"Not even once in high school?"

"Not even once."

"Wow. I'm not sure I've ever popped a cherry before." I turn so I can look into his eyes. They're dark and beautiful and filled with trust.

Is it really okay keeping this secret?

Is he really okay with the past being the past?

* * *

We spend the afternoon jumping from coffee shop to lunch to coffee shop. We swing by his place to pick up clothes, then we go to mine. We fuck, shower, change.

I spend forever fixing my hair and makeup. It needs to be perfect. So his parents don't see the cracks in my story. So his sister believes I'm honest. So I see Iris the future psychologist and not Iris the fuck-up when I look in the mirror.

He slides his arms around my waist. Brushes his lips against my neck. He's in jeans and a button-up shirt. It suits him more than it should.

It's unfair how good he looks in everything.

"You ready to go?" He slides his hand over my hip.

"Not if you keep doing that."

He chuckles as he steps backward. "I can't help it. You're too fucking tempting."

My cheeks flush. I smooth my dress. Sway my hips as I spin on my heels to face him. "I'm wearing a thong."

"You're evil."

"I learned from the best."

* * *

My confidence plummets as I step onto the hardwood floor. This place is even more beautiful with the sunset flowing through the sheer curtains. It reeks of money, taste, class.

Walker pulls me a little closer. His fingers tense. Then his arms. His shoulders. His jaw.

It's subtle. Almost imperceptible—he keeps a perfect poker face—but it's there. I'm getting good at reading him. At seeing past the carefree smile.

A woman in her fifties in a black shift dress, a royal blue cardigan, and expensive all-business heels crosses the foyer. She's taller than I am, with dark eyes and highlighted dark hair.

Her red lips—a subtle, work appropriate red—press into a smile. "Walker, sweetie. It's been too long." She turns to me. "You must be Walker's girlfriend."

"Iris," he says.

"Jen." His mom places her hand over her heart. "You can call me Mom, though I'm sure that's a bit premature."

I look into Walker's eyes for some sign on how I should react. Is she really suggesting we're going to get married? I guess it isn't unusual for the mom of a twenty-something guy who's never had a girlfriend before. But still…

"It's nice to meet you." I offer a hand.

She takes mine with both of hers. Shakes. "You too." She releases me then turns to Walker. "I miss you so much, baby." She wraps her arms around him. "I know you have issues with your sister—"

"Let's wait until we sit down," he says.

Her lips curl into a frown as she pulls away. "We worry about her too." She motions after me then turns and leads us through the main room and the sparkling, stainless steel kitchen, past the sliding door that leads out to the backyard.

The pool glows against the darkening sky.

It's inviting.

"Iris." Walker takes my hand. Motions to the dining room through the open doorway.

Oh. I'm staring at the pool. Stalling, maybe. What can I really say to his sister? To his parents? Trust me, I know how hard this is for your daughter. Why? Uh, I just do. No reason. It's not like I'm a recovering addict. You really think I'd keep that from your son? Of course not. I'm not a liar.

Ahem.

I'm not here to angst about my baggage.

I'm here to support him. To help him confront his parents.

I'm focusing on that.

I follow him into the dining room, to the massive oak table.

He pulls out my seat for me, a perfect gentleman.

I take it, cross my legs, smooth my skirt, hang my jacket off the back.

Walker takes a seat next to me. He nods to his mom. Then to his dad, sitting next to her. "Dad, this is Iris."

His dad nods. "Robert. It's lovely to meet you. I'd offer you a drink, but we're keeping the house dry."

The frown falls off Walker's face. It's news. Good news.

"Oh, that's fine. I don't drink." I press my lips into a smile. "It smells wonderful." Like lemon and cardamom. Which is weird, given the spotless kitchen.

"I wish I could take credit." Walker's mom presses her lips into a smile. "But it's takeout."

"You want me to bring it out?" Walker asks.

"Thanks, baby." His mom smiles.

Walker shoots me a hopeful look as he pushes himself out of his chair. He moves into the kitchen.

His parents' attention turns to me.

His mom takes a long sip from her water glass. She looks at it wistfully, like she wishes it was wine. "How did you two meet?"

Uh… I can't exactly say I brought him back to my place to nail him. "A friend's party."

"I'm always telling my younger coworkers that socializing is the best way to meet someone. I know all the kids are on Tinder and OkCupid these days, but it's not the same as an actual conversation." She takes another sip.

"It's not. I, uh…" Thought he was hot and likely good in bed. "Your son is incredibly charming."

"He takes after his mother." His father nods.

She beams.

It must be true. His dad seems more behind the scenes. His mom is quiet, but there's something magnetic about her eyes. The same eyes as Walker. And as his sister.

"What do you do, sweetheart?" she asks.

"I'm a PhD candidate." I fold my hands in my lap. "In psychology."

"Oh." She turns to the door, right as Walker enters with a set of plates. "You didn't tell me you were dating a smart woman."

"You didn't ask. You only asked if she was pretty." He sets plates in front of each of us, moves back into the kitchen, returns with silverware.

"She is." She looks to me. "He gushed about how gorgeous you are."

My cheeks flush. "Thank you."

Walker's eyes meet his mother's. "Bree isn't here?"

"She's at a meeting." There's a tone to her voice. An I don't want to hear your opinion about that. She turns to me. "I hate to talk shop at dinner, but, sweetheart, what are your thoughts about the twelve-step program?"

She's asking because of the PhD thing.

Not because she knows I've been through rehab. Because I go to meetings. Because I have a tenuous relationship with said meetings.

She has no idea I'm on shaky ground.

That I've ever been on shaky ground.

I muster all the confidence I have. I need to do this for him. I need to help him convince his parents. "It's hard to find accurate statistics, but most suggest that rehab in combination with a twelve-step program works best. Addiction is always difficult. Most people try to quite a few times before it sticks. But having a support network helps."

Walker moves into the room with two trays of food. One of chicken curry. One of rice.

His mom smiles. "Walker mentioned you love Indian food. We're excited to have him over. And to meet you. Walker has never introduced us to anyone. We thought, maybe…"

"Jen." His dad rubs her hand. "Go easy on the poor girl. Were you thinking about marriage in grad school?"

She nods true.

Walker sets the trays down, returns to the kitchen for more.

I try to pick up where I left off. "It's important having people who support you. Friends. Family. And other people who understand what you're going through."

His parents nod along, hanging on every word.

"Will she be back tonight?" I ask.

His mom stares at her glass. "She goes out for coffee after meetings sometimes. She knows to text when she's finished at eight."

They seem like they keep her on a short leash.

So how did she end up at Walker's place high last night?

"Does Sabrina work? That can help, having purpose, feeling like you're part of the world." It's what made the difference for me.

Her mom nods. "Yes, she works at a boutique at the Grove. She loves it there."

She must get into trouble after work. Or before. Or when she says she's working but really goes out with old friends.

It's easy to give into temptation.

It's possible last night really was one little slip. It's possible she is doing well.

"You should ask her manager for her schedule." Walker places a glass of water in front of me then takes his seat. He motions to the food let's eat.

"We're trying to treat her like an adult," his mom says.

He fights a frown. "You got my message?"

"Of course. But…" His mom picks up the serving spoon and scoops basmati rice onto her plate. "We're not throwing Bree back in rehab because of one slip."

He presses his lips together.

"I understand you don't approve of the way we handle things, but we're trying to give Bree her space. She has to come to this conclusion on her own." She sets the spoon back then scoops chicken tikka masala onto her plate.

"That is true." I take the serving spoon, focus on filling my plate.

Walker leans back in his chair. Presses his palms into his thighs. He waits until I'm done serving myself then grabs the spoon, fills his plate.

He stabs a piece of chicken with his fork. "You're right." He makes eye contact with his mom. "We need to treat Bree like an adult. She says this is one slip up, fine. But if she does it again, you need to give her an ultimatum—she gets clean or she's out of the house."

"Sweetie, we have done that." His mother cuts a tiny piece of chicken, brings it to her mouth, chews, swallows.

"No, you've threatened. But you always bail her out. You need to stop. To pull away her safety net." His voice wavers for a second then it's back to confident. "It sucks. I get that. I don't want Bree to die either. But you're not helping her like this. That money is just going to more needles in her arm. She needs to know you mean it, that she can't live here in exchange for a rehab stint a year."

"Walker, sweetie. You don't understand how hard it is for her. She's trying. She goes to meetings every week, sometimes twice a week. She goes to therapy. She wants to get better." His mom takes another tiny bite.

I mix my chicken with rice, scoop a bite. It's amazing, rich, tender, fresh. The tomato sauce is creamy and tangy in equal measures. But it still doesn't taste good.

I can feel every bit of Walker's hurt. His frustration. Like it's mine.

Is this how relationships are supposed to go?

It was never like this with Ross. Not even close.

Walker's voice is low. Hurt. "I know she's trying."

"You do?" I sound more surprised than I mean to.

"Yeah." He runs his hand through his hair. "Part of her wants to get better. But that's not enough. It's not working. I need you guys on my side. I'll be the bad cop. But I still need you to back me up."

His mom turns to his dad. They share a knowing look.

She turns back to him. "And what if she says no and she leaves? Where are we then?"

"Where are we now?" he asks.

"She's with us. She's safe," his mom says.

"Not from herself." His hand curls into a fist.

I reach for him. Place my palm on his wrist.

His fist unfurls. He looks to me like I'm his lifeline, the only person who understands him.

"She checked out of rehab early. How long do you really think it will be until she's using everyday again?" he asks.

His mom frowns.

Hurt seeps into his voice. "This is it for me. I can't keep rescuing Bree. If she doesn't get clean this time, I'm walking."

I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. That's the right decision. The mature, healthy decision.

But it's not easy.

I squeeze his hand.

He squeezes back.

"She's your sister," his mom says.

"I know." He stares at his plate. Mixes chicken and rice. "But I'd rather be an asshole than an enabler."

His mom looks to me like I have all the answers. "What do you think, Iris?"

Okay, this is it. I need to nail it.

"I don't know Sabrina, but Walker filled me in on her history." Under the table, I squeeze harder. "There isn't one answer with addiction, but whatever you've been doing hasn't been working. You need to draw that line. You need to make sure she knows that staying high isn't an option. That it means she's out of the house and out of your lives."

His mom swallows hard. "And if she chooses staying high?"

"She has to hit rock bottom on her own." And we have to hope that's enough.

His mom looks to Walker. "You're sure about this?"

"Yeah. I already called the center. They have a spot for her next month," he says.

She looks to her husband.

He nods.

"We need to think about this, sweetie." Mrs. Williams presses her lips together. "I know that isn't what you want to hear. I know you want all or nothing. But if Bree is destined to use forever, I'd rather she do it here than somewhere else."

Walker's lips turn downward. He stabs a piece of chicken. Stares at his food like it's poisonous. "I'm not gonna wait forever."

She nods. "I know."