I’ve done my hair and makeup by the time Harper arrives on Saturday night. I don’t really have a lot of “going out” clothes, however. Rob and I eat out somewhere nice a few times a month, but my work clothes suffice for that. I settle for the same tank and skinny jeans I wore the last time we went out, but her loud groan tells me she does not approve.

“No,” she says, taking one look at me before heading straight for my closet.

“No to what?” I ask.

“All of it. You’re 26, Erin. Stop dressing like the only stores you know of are Ann Taylor and Lady Footlocker. And you’re wearing daytime makeup.”

“There’s a difference between daytime and nighttime makeup?” I ask.

“Oh, my sad little butterfly,” she says, patting my head. “You still have so much to learn.”

When we arrive at the club an hour later, I’m wearing more makeup than I’ve ever worn in my life, along with the inside layer of a black dress, which Harper is making me wear alone with my highest heels. I’m not sure if I feel pretty or like I’m for sale. Perhaps a little of both.

It’s my first VIP line, and the club itself is the kind of place with which I have little experience: low lighting, club music, bass reverberating off the walls. The moment we’re inside, Harper starts dragging me toward the cordoned-off section of the room, where the men stand a food taller and a foot wider than normal human beings.

“Not ready for that,” I object. “I haven’t spoken to a guy who isn’t Rob or a client in four years.”

“You seem to talk to Brendan all the time,” she says with a brow raised. Ever since she saw us together at that show a while back, she’s been like a dog with a bone.

“He doesn’t count.” I sigh. “I need a drink first, at least.”

“How does Brendan not count?” she asks, waving a $20 at the bartender.

“It’s just not like that.”

“You’re sure?” she asks.

I think about Brendan, about his sharp cheekbones and the way that hollow beneath them seems to throb sometimes when he’s thinking. About his miles of smooth skin, his broad back in those bike shorts, everything I noticed contained within those bike shorts when he turned around.

I swallow. “Of course I’m sure.”

She slides a shot in front of me. “Keep telling yourself that. It doesn’t make it true.”

* * *

Twenty minutes later, I’m holding a drink I didn’t ask for—one that didn’t come straight from the bartender as Brendan required, because you can’t go through life assuming everyone is a rapist—and I’m talking to some guy named Jason. I assume he’s a football player, based on his size, but it hasn’t come up, and so far I’ve been pleasantly surprised. My only experiences with football players, prior to this, were with the dicks at ECU who fought us constantly for space on the track, and whose conversation at any party focused on how amazing they were.

But Jason is nice enough, telling me all about the house he’s trying to renovate in Beaver Creek. This is something I can discuss at length, since I directed most of the rehab of Rob’s place too, though I wonder, sporadically, if I should tell this guy I’m not single. I suppose I should have worn my engagement ring, but it’s been sitting on my nightstand since Rob left town. I’ve just never felt comfortable with it on. Three karats are for Kardashians, not girls who save mascara for a special occasion.

Jason and I are debating the merits of a glass-front refrigerator when a proprietary hand wraps tight around my hip, and a voice I’d know anywhere brushes my ear, followed by his lips. “Sorry I’m late, babe.”

Brendan. Who is warm and familiar and smells amazing, and when I turn is smiling at Jason in a way almost anyone would find scary—calm, self-possessed, friendly, and itching for a fight.

Jason looks at Brendan and the hand on my hip before politely excusing himself. Which I suppose means I would eventually have had to tell him I’m not single, so Brendan has spared me that awkwardness, but I’m still annoyed.

“I’m 26, Brendan. Which means I’m a little old to still require a babysitter.”

“That guy was bad news.”

“Yeah, it was super threatening the way he quietly walked off when you showed up—I really dodged a bullet,” I reply. “Why are you here? And how’d you get into the VIP area?”

“Friends in high places,” he says. “And I’m here because you didn’t answer my texts. I thought I’d better come check on you.”

I sigh and smile at the same time. Good lord, Brendan can be sweet. And also a pain in the ass. “I wasn’t checking my phone because I was getting ready, and then because I was here, doing what you’ve been telling me to do for weeks.”

“I’m pretty sure I didn’t tell you to dress like you want to get laid and go nestle up to the first football player you find,” he says, his words bitten off and unhappy.

I remove myself from his hand and take a step away from him. “I can’t believe you just said that.”

For a moment I still see anger on his face, as if he plans to defend himself. But then he pinches the bridge of his nose—the same thing his brother does every time Olivia’s frustrating him—and the anger recedes.

“You’re right. I’m sorry.”

I feel tears closing in and turn, walking rapidly down the stairs and toward the exit. But before I can get there, his hands are on my hips, and he’s pulling me against his chest.

“Please, Erin. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. It came out worse than I meant it to.”

I shrug him off. “Whatever, Brendan. It’s fine. I’m going home, though, so you’ve done what you came to do.”

“No,” he says. “Don’t do that. You look really good, okay? You sort of look too good. And it pissed me off because I’d been worrying about you already, and then I show up here and you look like that and that guy was looking at you like… Whatever. I just got pissed off. And I’m sorry.”

A small thrill shoots up my spine. Brendan’s opinion shouldn’t matter to me, but it always has, and I think it always will.

“Come on,” he says, pulling me toward the bar.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m buying you a drink.”

“If we’re staying, we should probably go back up to the VIP section with Harper.”

He sighs, his eyes pinching shut. “You look hot, Erin. I don’t mind throwing a few elbows, but I’m not in the mood to fight off an entire professional football team.” He orders my drink, knowing what I want without asking, and surveys my dress. “Jesus. Don’t let Harper dress you anymore.”

“I’m right on the cusp of being offended again, just so you know.”

“I’m not saying you’re doing anything wrong. I just don’t like worrying about people, and if you’re out dressed like that, I’m gonna worry.”

Stupid overprotective alpha male, acting like I’m fragile somehow and in need of his care. I don’t know why I like it so much, why it makes me feel like my heart is swelling in my chest. I guess because for most of my life it’s been me worrying about everyone else.

He nods at my drink. “Slam it and we’ll dance.”

Rob isn’t merely a guy who’d prefer not to dance. He’s a guy who’s horrified by the idea. I haven’t been able to persuade him to get on the dance floor anywhere since we first started dating.

“It’s been so long I don’t remember how.”

“I’ve seen you dance,” he says, cutting me off. “You dance like someone who does it for a living.”

“Are you saying I dance like a stripper?”

“I’m saying you dance like a dancer. One who’d potentially be a fucking awesome stripper.” And with that he pulls me into the crowd.

For the first few seconds I feel awkward, my limbs stiff and unnatural, as if this is something I’m no longer supposed to do. But the crowd pushes us close, and under the throb of the bass, his hips guiding mine, it all comes back to me. I find myself moving—so in sync with him you’d think we’d been doing it all of our lives. It’s fun, but it’s also something so much more than that. It reminds me of another time, a time when things still felt possible. It’s not a specific memory, just a general sense of well-being, excitement, a sense that all was right with the world and only getting better.

Dancing is another of the many things I loved, and gave up—live music, biking, baking, watching Grey’s Anatomy. It’s more like I didn’t just tone myself down for Rob, I killed myself off entirely.

The song changes into something slower, more bass. Brendan’s hands land on my hips, and with them comes the memory of those hands as we danced at Olivia’s wedding. It’s perhaps the most dangerous memory I have.

He’d spent the entire night hitting on the wedding coordinator, so I was surprised when he asked me to dance. I was more surprised by the way he pulled me against him—a way that felt decisive, almost aggressive. I’d wanted to object, but I also wanted to sear the moment into my memory so thoroughly that I would never forget a single piece of it: his fingers on my skin, his smell, his gaze sweeping over my face in a way it never had before.

“Put your arms around my neck,” he’d said, his voice rough and low, still watching my face as if it were the last time he’d ever see it. That’s when his hands slid to my hips, hands so impossibly large that I was certain he could wrap them around me if he really tried. Things with Rob had been new then, and I couldn’t even remember who he was when Brendan looked at me that way.

I’m also finding it hard to remember Rob right now, four years later. All I can see is the stubble on Brendan’s jaw, the tiny, beautiful scar at the top of his right cheekbone, and the look in his eyes as they brush over my face.

“I think the last time I danced was with you,” I tell him. “At Will and Olivia’s wedding.”

His eyes hold mine, a question there I can’t quite read. “I thought you’d forgotten.”

I’m not sure how he thinks I could have forgotten. That was the night he ruined everything, the night I gave up on him for good and decided to move on. I’ll never forget that night.

I thought I’d never forgive him for it either, but here I am.

He pulls me closer, and I realize neither of us is breathing normally. His eyes flicker to my mouth and hold there, and I feel just as desperate for him as I did the last time we were like this.

Yes, Brendan, do it.

I think it for only a moment, and my mouth parts as if being directed by someone other than me while his hands tighten around my hips. It’s so much like the last time, except I remember how that time ended.

Then—and only then—do I remember Rob. Rob who put me back together the last time Brendan broke my heart.

I pull away, unable to think of a single word I can use to explain or justify what I very nearly did, and I’m struck by a realization that sickens me: I didn’t give up on him after Olivia’s wedding. No matter what happens, no matter what he does, Brendan will always be the one I want most.