Do I have feelings for Miles? A few come to mind—frustration, confusion, lust. But that's not what he's asking.

He's asking if I love him. If I'm in love with him.

It's hard to breathe. I can't love Miles. He doesn't trust me. He doesn't respect me.

My inhale breaks up the tension in my throat. He plays everything casual. I can do the same.

"Mostly frustration," I say. "That what you mean?"

"You know what I'm asking."

He's staring at me, through me. It's enough to tear me in half. I look to the ground so I don't crumble. Of course I know what he's asking. But I can't answer.

I meet his gaze. "You know enough about my feelings."

"Meg."

"I know where we stand. We're friends who have sex. Nothing more, nothing less."

He studies my expression. Finally, he releases my gaze and gets into the car.

I follow suit.

There's something different about his posture, something serious. I blink and it's gone. He's back to that old Miles, the playful one who lives to tease me.

"I'm falling behind on breaking my orgasm records," he says. "Want to change that this weekend?"

There. The Miles I understand. I nod. "My place or yours?"

"Malibu is too far. I'm taking you to Hollywood." He starts the car. "There are a few places I want to mark as ours."

* * *

Tom fixes his gaze on me, eyebrows raised. He's the picture of concern.

Miles pushes the door shut. Shoots a passive aggressive nod in Tom's direction. "What are you doing here?"

"Pete's visiting Cindy in New York. Mom has a date. Says she doesn't want me cunt-blocking her."

Miles chuckles. "Your mom is a bad ass."

Tom nods. "I'm heading back tomorrow morning." His eyes narrow. "We need to speak. Now."

"Later. I have to put Meg to bed. She's very tired."

"No. Now." He offers me an apologetic glance. "We need a little privacy."

"Don't ask my guest to acquiesce to your bullshit."

"You don't want to have this conversation in front of her," Tom says.

The smile drops off Miles's face. He's not having fun anymore, not playing around.

His voice drops. "Give us a minute."

Tom offers me an apologetic look. "We have cable. Any channel you want. Even the dirty ones."

"I'm good, thanks." The mental image of Tom watching porn on the couch is burned into my brain. Fantastic.

Miles avoids my gaze. His hands are clenched and his jaw is tight.

"My room or yours?" Tom asks.

"Yours."

They move up the stairs with heavy footsteps. Not a fun conversation, I take it. Probably about me. About that secret Tom wouldn't spill and how it spells trouble for my torrid relationship with Miles.

I bite my lip. How can this be so damn important? I take a seat on the couch, attempting to push their conversation out of mind.

It's impossible. I have to know what they're discussing.

I creep up the stairs. Light footsteps, but they still sound so fucking loud. All the doors in the hallway are closed, but there's sound and light coming from one of them. Must be Tom's room.

"It's casual. She understands that," Miles says.

"You just spent Thanksgiving with her."

"So?"

"Then you bring her here for the rest of the weekend." Tom sighs. "How is that casual?"

"Sorry you can't wrap your brain around hanging out with a girl after you've fucked her. I understand, though. Not like any girl ever gave you the chance."

"Get off it, asshole. At least I'm honest about things being no strings attached."

Someone pushes against the door. I shrink backwards. There's nowhere to hide, so I press myself against the wall.

There's no movement from the door. No one is leaving.

Miles starts. "I've got it under control. No spinning out, no relapsing, nothing. I'm as clean as… well, clean isn't your strong suit, so I can't find the perfect metaphor."

"You remember what happened last time you lost someone you cared about?"

"That was my uncle. Not some girl."

My heart thuds against my chest. My mind reels, trying to piece this together to come up with a proper response. I'm not some girl.

Does he really think that?

"You keeping running off, spending weekends by yourself. Or with her. I don't fucking know." Tom's voice is heavy. "She deserves to know what she's dealing with."

"There's no dealing. I've been fine for the last fucking year."

"Yeah? What about after that girl in Detroit?"

"What about her?" Miles snaps.

"Found you face down on your bed next to a half empty bottle of vodka and God, I don’t even know what else you took. Only that it was enough you nearly went into a coma. Was that doing well?"

"She threatened to kill herself. That's a sensitive issue for me."

"Are you fucking blind? Even I see it. That girl is crazy about you. What happens when you fuck things up? What if she threatens to kill herself because she can't live without you?"

Relapse. Vodka. Enough drugs to go into a coma. Prescription opiates and alcohol are a dangerous combination.

The words rattle around my brain. Miles could be an alcoholic. A drug addict. But he's so casual about not drinking, and after what I said about Rosie… how much watching that hurt, how much I can't stand being around drugs… he would've told me.

That can't be right.

"Meg isn't like that," Miles says. "She doesn't even drink."

Tom makes that harrumph sound that usually means yeah right.

"It's just sex. That's how she wants it."

"You met her fucking parents!"

"And?"

"You need to tell her you're a drug addict."

"Recovering addict."

My stomach drops. Miles. Is. A. Drug. Addict. Recovering, sure, but still a drug addict. And he didn't fucking tell me.

"I'm not watching you relapse, Miles. I'm not going to spend my nights wondering if you're in some hotel room choking on your own vomit. I'm not going on tour with you in that self-destructive bullshit state."

"I won't."

"You want to be another 'Rock Star Dies of a Drug Overdose' tabloid headline?"

I lose track of their words. The same sentence keeps running through my brain. Miles is a recovering drug addict.

It's a lie of omission.

That night in Malibu, I was crying about my sister, and he said nothing.

The next day, I asked if there was anything I needed to know, and he said nothing.

He had a million chances to tell me, and every time, he said nothing.

My legs wobble. I hit the floor with a thud. Shit. That's loud.

The door opens and Tom steps into the hall.

He offers his hand. His green eyes fill with a mix of sympathy and concern. "You hear everything?"

I nod. "I need to go home now."

Miles steps out. His face is filled with dread. It's an expression I've never seen on him before. Regret, anguish, something like that.

Maybe he's actually sorry.

"Wait." Miles reaches for me.

"Wait? What for? I'm 'some girl' and this is all casual. What does it matter to you if I leave?"

"Meg…"

"Don't 'Meg' me. We had one rule, and you broke it." I push myself to my feet and take a step back.

They're both staring at me, nervous, like I'm that girl in Detroit who threatened to kill herself.

I could promise my mental fortitude, but screw that, Miles deserves to worry. He deserves the same sinking feeling in his stomach that's in mine.

"Fuck you both," I say. "Don't call me again. And don't write any more songs about me!"

I don't wait for an explanation. There isn't one coming. I turn and rush down the stairs.

Damn. I miss a step. I grab onto the banister, only barely managing to catch my balance.

Someone runs after me. Maybe it's Miles. Maybe it's Tom. But I don't care. My suitcase is in his car.

Screw the suitcase.

I rush down the stairs, grab my purse, and get the hell out of there.