The following Friday, Vera forces me to confront a painful truth: I promised her we’d go dancing. When she calls mid-afternoon to remind me, I try to use a drunk pass. I didn’t mean it, I was drunk.

No luck.

At seven, I pick up dinner from Rhubarb and drive to her apartment in West Hollywood, which is closer to our destination. After eating, I sit on the rim of the bathtub while Vera curls her long hair.

“How’s Robert?” she asks around the bobby pins in her mouth.

“Great.”

Her eyes flicker to me. “How’s Robert?”

I frown. “He’s great. Really great. Thanks for asking.”

Pins fly as she spits them out and whirls in a flurry of sparkly red dress and long, half-curled hair. “You’ve lost your fucking mind,” she says, her mild tone in sharp contrast to the emotion in her eyes. “Great? Really great? You’re going to destroy this poor man. At dinner last night he had the Look.”

I stammer, “W-what are you talking about?”

She stabs my shoulder with her index finger. “Don’t play dumb. It was the ‘wants to put babies in you’ Look! He’s falling hard, Candace.”

Anxiety pricks the soles of my feet. “Shit, I know,” I whisper brokenly. Her expression shifts rapidly to concern and she squats in front of me, hands on my knees. I grimace. “For God’s sake, put on some underwear.”

She smirks. “I will. But first we need to hash this out. You’ve had more than enough time to process. What’s going on?”

I take a deep breath; my chest feels painfully tight. “I care about Robert,” I tell her honestly. “He’s pretty much the perfect man.”

“But?”

I mutter under my breath, “I can’t, um—”

“Speak up!”

“Damn you,” I snarl, but without any real heat. “Fine. I think about Sebastian when I’m with Robert. When we’re having sex. It’s the only way I can have an orgasm.”

Vera sits on the floor with a thump. “Oh. Well… Oh.”

I drag a hand through my hair, breathing heavily. My heart is pounding so hard my armpits are tingling.

“I’m the worst person in the world, aren’t I?”

“I don’t know about that,” she says hesitantly. “I don’t think you should beat yourself up too much. It’s probably not that uncommon.”

I narrow my eyes. “What?”

She shrugs. “You’re just one of a million women who picture Sebastian Bellizzi inside them instead of their boyfriends or husbands.”

I groan. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“Does it?” she asks lightly.

My lips twitch. “I hate you, I really do.”

She grins. “I know. By the way, are you seriously going to wear that?”

I look down at my Armani cocktail dress. “I look good in this,” I say hesitantly.

Vera snorts. “You look like a stuffy heiress.”

“Hey! This heiress is getting you into the most exclusive nightclub in Los Angeles.”

She’s immediately contrite. “You’re right. Sorry, sweets. I just think maybe you should loosen up a bit. Show some skin. Maybe flirt a little.”

I wave a hand in front of her face. “Hello? Robert?”

“I didn’t say sleep with someone else,” she retorts. “I like Robert. He’s swell. I even think you should keep seeing him, primarily because he treats you like a queen. But let’s be honest, you’ve been dating him for a month not five years. For the last week you’ve been acting like you’re walking the plank toward matrimony. It’s sad. And you’re giving yourself wrinkles with all that frowning.”

“Bitch,” I say halfheartedly.

She smiles smugly. “We’ve been besties for four years. I can tell when you’re not sleeping enough or drinking enough water. You’d better believe I can tell when that big brain of yours is chewing hard on something it shouldn’t be.”

I snarl, “I’m going to chew on your face if you don’t get it out of mine.”

Vera laughs and stands up. “That’s my girl. Back to fourth grade. Now go put on the dress that’s on the bed. I stole it from a shoot for you.”

As I head into the bedroom, I realize my anxiety is gone. I also can’t help but wonder what the fuck just happened.

After draping my dress carefully on the back of a chair, I shimmy, contort, and wrench myself into Vera’s sorry excuse for evening wear. I recognize the designer, but though I’ve admired some of his dresses, they’re not my usual style. I’m more of a leave something to the imagination gal, while this dress screams, My back zipper is for easy access.

Gunmetal grey, with a dull, metallic sheen, it has just enough stretch to allow me to breathe. The only reason I don’t immediately demand that Vera cut it off me is that I’m afraid she’ll slice me bloody.

“If I bend over, my ass is going to fall out.”

Vera’s grin is wicked. “Exactly. You smudged the shit out of your eyeliner. Get in here and let me fix it.”

There isn’t a damn thing wrong with my eyeliner. Vera merely wants an excuse to glob dark eyeshadow all over my lids. I let her do it, but only because she has a magic touch with makeup brushes.

When she’s done applying two more coats of mascara to my lashes, she tackles my hair. Two minutes later she sighs in defeat—it’s ramrod straight and has never held a curl longer than ten minutes.

“Why do I bother? At least it’s thick and shiny.”

“Are we done yet?” I gripe, but actually don’t mind playing dress up. Growing up with brothers, I missed out on moments like this.

Vera primps for a few more minutes, altering absolutely nothing of her physical perfection. On looks alone she could probably walk right into the club sans me. Well, sans my name.

“I look like a vampire hooker next to a Brazilian supermodel,” I grumble as I step into my stilettos, which are thankfully black and go with the alien-repellant dress. I still barely come up to Vera’s shoulder.

She winks. “If that’s the role you want, play your little heart out.”

Ignoring her, I glance at my watch. “Now can we go?”

I offer to drive but Vera insists we take a cab. And that I do two shots of Jameson before we leave. Whether it’s the burn of whiskey, giddiness from lack of oxygen, or the fact that Vera’s ADD keeps my brain flipping from topic to topic, I finally begin to loosen up.

She’s right—my head has been in a bad place for a week straight. I have been feeling trapped by Robert. Again, not his fault. I’d rather eat dirt than admit it, but my brothers are right, too. I’m afraid of commitment. The idea of getting serious about someone or—God forbid—falling in love, scares the bejeezus out of me.

Strangely, admitting it—even if only to myself—takes a weight off. More worry releases as I realize that this fact about me probably isn’t news to Robert. But for some reason, he’s sticking around. I like him sticking around. In fact, when I’m not sabotaging our relationship in my head, being with him is wonderful. He makes me feel good.

Hopeful, even.