The next three weeks are a blur. Miles seeps further and further into my life. He texts me during the day. I text back between classes, while I eat lunch, on the walk home from the hospital. It's little things—jokes about Star Wars or promises to make me come until I'm screaming his name or details about our day—but I smile every time I see a new text from him.

This feels good. Better than it should.

For once, I allow myself to soak up the joy. He picks me up from work every Friday night and drops me off at Kara's every Sunday morning. The time between, at his place in Malibu, is ours and ours alone. It's like the rest of the world doesn't exist. Like nothing can ever hurt us.

Time goes so fast. All of a sudden, it's the day before Thanksgiving, and Miles is at school. A surprise. He takes me out for sushi and a special showing of The Matrix. Then he drives me home and makes me come more times than I can count.

* * *

When I wake, Miles is already dressed and ready to go. I speed through my morning routine, packing and dressing as carefully as I can manage.

There. Done. Now to spend two days at my parents' house. I can handle that.

Miles's eyes pass over me. "You look nice."

Nice is hardly the compliment I expect from Miles, but it's exactly right. I'm in my most parent-pleasing outfit—a polka-dot cardigan, skinny jeans, ankle boots.

"Thank you."

He focuses on the v-neckline of my sweater. "Are you wearing anything under that?"

"Yes. My parents will not be cool with us making out in front of them."

"I'm not sure. Your mom was asking if you're having safe sex."

"I will leave! I swear I will."

He laughs. "And go where?"

"Anyplace I don't have to die of embarrassment."

He pulls me into a hug and presses his lips to mine. "You won't die. I promise."

"I don't know if I can do this," I whisper.

"You can. Come on." He takes my hand and leads me to his car downstairs.

I let him take the lead, putting our things in the trunk, opening the door for me. Then we're in the car, the engine is on, we're heading towards Newport Beach.

"You hungry?" he asks.

I shake my head. I'm not sure I can eat right now.

"Want coffee?"

"Later."

The car moves fast, but it's not crazy fast like that first night we met. It's reasonable.

I turn on the radio. It's tuned to KROQ and what do you know, No Way in Hell pours out of the speakers.

Three a.m. and I can't sleep.

A common refrain, I know.

As a sentiment, it's cheap.

Someone to call, to hold,

to love, no way, that word—

She smiles and I drift away—

My cheeks flush. I stammer something incomprehensible and change the station.

"You know, most girls feel flattered when someone writes a song about them," he says.

I press my back against the seat. "You've never said that it's about me."

His fingers curl around the wheel. "It is."

"Oh."

"You're cute when you're nervous."

I turn my attention to the window, but there's nothing to see. Only overpasses, exit signs, rows of condos. "Why did you write a song about me?"

"Something came over me, an itch, and the song was the only way to scratch it."

I take a deep breath. "That isn't an answer."

"Yes, it is." He turns to me for a moment then his eyes are back on the road. "It's just not the answer you want."

I want him to look at me and tell me his feelings, to explain what it means—the itch he can't scratch.

The song sounds like it's about falling in love.

Is he falling in love with me?

The radio station goes to commercial. It's for some fast-food restaurant, some supposedly cheap and delicious breakfast item. The hum of the road, the wind leaking through the not-quite-airtight windows, fills the car.

Miles is supposed to be my secret weapon in getting through this awful weekend. If he's going to be defensive and make up bullshit about why he wrote a song about me… I can't deal with that.

I guess it's up to me to turn the mood.

"Is this your car?" I ask.

"Yeah."

"Then why do you always ride the death bike?"

"I like having something powerful between my legs."

"Besides your cock?"

He chuckles. "You're not supposed to spell out the joke."

"Yeah, but I like thinking about your cock." I take a deep breath. It doesn't help sooth me. What is he doing writing songs about falling in love with me then insisting I'm ruining our relationship by making it serious?

I tap my fingers against the windowsill. It's frustrating, the way he's so unclear about his intentions.

"I can't explain it. If I could, I wouldn't have to write the song." His voice gets low. "I felt something. I wrote the song. The end."

"Thanks. You really cleared things up."

"You're cranky today."

"Fuck off."

"Let's stop for breakfast."

"I'm not hungry."

I close my eyes and pretend to nap. Despite my insistence Miles takes the next exit.

He parks at a Starbucks. "Come on. I'll buy you coffee, green tea, whatever your heart desires."

My stomach rumbles. I am hungry. But that isn't why I'm cranky.

He must realize that I'm cranky over his non-answer. He felt an itch, the song scratched it. What a load of bullshit.

I follow Miles into the coffee shop. He slides his arm around my waist, pulling me closer. It's like we're a normal couple. Like we're actually happy we're seeing my family for the holiday.

The girl behind the counter recognizes Miles instantly. Her eyes light up. Her tongue slides over her lips. "Welcome!"

Miles smirks. "You want to grab a seat?"

"So you can flirt with the employee?"

He trails his fingers over the edge of my cardigan than over my skin. "I only flirt with you." His hand slides to my lower back. "I just don't want to subject anyone else to your hunger-induced mood."

"Maybe my mood is bullshit induced."

"Only one way to find out." He steps up to the register. Plants his palms flat and leans in towards the employee like he's about to share a secret. "Black coffee for me. Large. And for my friend—" He motions to me.

"Large latte. Extra shot."

"And," Miles says.

"One of the egg sandwiches. The one with spinach."

The girl nods. She stares adoringly at Miles. "I love Sinful Serenade."

He winks at her. "Thanks, honey."

"Would you sign something?" Her eyes go wide. She reaches under the counter and hands him a marker.

He nods, signs a napkin, and hands it back to her.

I flop on one of the cushy armchairs and check my phone. Nothing but a text from my mom to drive safely. Everyone else is far, far away. Kara is in San Francisco. I text her Happy Thanksgiving.

Miles slides into the cushy chair next to mine. He hands me my drink and my egg sandwich.

His expression is attentive. What the hell do I do with that?

I get up for sugar and a wooden stir stick. I can feel his eyes on me as I fix my drink. It's good. Sweet and creamy and incredibly full of caffeine.

Deep breath. I return to my seat with grace. I'm calm. I'm going to make the most of things.

My eyes meet his. "Why did you really invite yourself home with me?"

"The answer to that question is self-evident."

"Jesus, I forgot you were going to be a lawyer." I take another sip. More sweet, sweet caffeine. How did people live before caffeine? It must've been hell.

"I want to help you. With your parents."

"Wouldn't you rather see your family?" I ask.

"Sinful Serenade is my family." His voice gets low. "I don't usually talk about my family."

"I'm not going to push you." It's clear that pushing him to talk to me fails. And it's not at all pushing someone who would rather stay closed off.

His eyes turn to the ground. "Here's the thing, Meg. I'm only telling you this so you understand why I'll never fall in love with you."

My breath catches in my throat. "I know. We're friends."

Miles stares through me. "And you're sure you're okay with that?"

"Absolutely." I press my hand into my jeans. "This relationship is just sex."

He nods. "My dad left when I was in middle school. Bored of the whole suburban thing. I was angry. I did nothing but play my guitar and get into trouble. But my mom… she fell apart. She couldn't get out of bed, couldn't even bother to get herself to the shower. It broke her heart. That's what love does, it breaks your heart."

Miles's eyes fill up with this mix of hatred and frustration. His dad leaving must have hurt so much. And then his mom… he's never talked about her before.

"But she… now…" I can't bring myself to ask the question. I already know it leads down some dark and stormy path. He has no family that matters. His mom must not be…

His gaze drifts to the window. He focuses on something far off in the distance, like he's lost in thought. It must be a whole minute before he looks back to me.

"She killed herself," he says.

My stomach drops with a thud. My fingers slip. Oh no. My cup hits the ground. Then there's coffee everywhere. "Oh, God. I better get that."

I jump out of my seat. Napkins. I need napkins. They're by the counter, by the perky employee who doesn't know that Miles doesn't do boyfriend, that he believes love can only break you.

I grab a stack.

The perky employee spots the puddle of coffee. "I can get that."

"No, it's okay." She's not hearing it. She slides out from the counter with a white washcloth, rushes to Miles, drops to her knees, and mops up the coffee.

His eyes find mine, but he says nothing. I try to turn myself into stone. I try to give nothing away, but everything around me feels heavy.

He’s gone through so much. He hurts so much. And he mentions it casually in the middle of a coffee shop. By the way, my mom killed herself and that's why I have all these intimacy issues. Want to fuck in the bathroom?

Deep breath.

The employee finishes mopping. She smiles at Miles. At me. Totally oblivious to the change in atmosphere.

"I'll make you another. Latte, extra shot, right?" she asks.

I nod and return to my seat. "Sorry."

"That's about what I expected." He picks up the remaining half of my sandwich and hands it to me. "You're clumsy when you're hungry."

"I'm sorry you went through all that."

There's vulnerability in his expression. "I survived."

My heart thuds against my chest. "You're alone."

His expression hardens. "I've been alone a long time. It's easier that way."

"Oh."

Miles is silent. Of course he's silent. He's been alone a long time. It's easier that way.

Alone.

Without anyone.

Without me.

It's easier that way.

It's better that way.

He's happier that way.

He's happier without me.