I spend the rest of the day going through all Melody’s paper files and her computer, to see what else she might have been up to. Ryan hangs out with me while I do it, though it seems like that’s mostly so he can crow about how he knew all along that she was up to no good.

I think, but don’t say, that he could have told me, if he was so sure. You know, before I almost got fired?

But I wouldn’t have listened to him, so I hold my tongue and just keep opening documents and archiving anything that could be important. I haven’t found anything nefarious, but who knows what she might have done that won’t make itself evident for days—or even weeks? She was playing a long game.

It’s almost seven o’clock by the time I shut the computer down. “Can you see that this goes in one of our cabinets or closets, clearly labeled?” I ask Ryan. “Just in case I missed something and we have to dig it out down the road?”

“Sure thing,” he says.

I stand, and pat him on the shoulder. “Thanks for everything. You saved my ass.”

“Good,” he says. “We can talk about my raise tomorrow.”

I laugh, which feels damn good after this hellish day, and head to my office. I have a report to file, and a couple of emails to follow up on.

I finally wrap that up, and head out. I stop at a store close to work, pick up some wine for tomorrow night, and hail a cab to get home. I’m not remotely up for packing into a subway car at rush hour. Not that rush hour traffic is all that great either, but at least I’m alone in the back seat.

I pay the cabbie and let myself in. Mrs. Corinthos is in the vestibule, collecting her mail, and I skirt around her walker, mumbling a greeting and heading for the elevator. But her words stop me cold.

“There’s a man up there waiting for you,” she says. “Is it safe?”

“Waiting for me?” I say, turning back.

“Yeah. Youngish. Black coat.”

Mitch? Home early?

But when I step off the elevator, it’s not Mitch.

It’s Drew.

He’s sitting in the hall outside my apartment door, leaning back against it with his head hanging down. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was drunk.

Then I get within three feet, catch a whiff of him, and realize he is drunk. Or he took a bath in booze. Which, given the way he was sucking them down last time I saw him, isn’t out of the realm of possibility, I suppose.

I crouch down and shake him. “Drew. Drew!”

He opens bleary eyes. “There she is,” he says. “You don’t ever call me back.”

His head rolls forward again and I realize he’s absolutely shitfaced, blackout drunk. When we were together, this would happen maybe once a year, but I haven’t seen him like this in a while. Not even after Marty’s, and all those martinis.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” I say to no one in particular.

I stand and unlock the door, then grab his shirt so I can open it without him falling back into my apartment and braining himself on the linoleum. I lay him down, half-in and half-out of the apartment, set down my stuff, and come back to “help” him inside. I can’t have Mrs. Corinthos asking me about some drunk passed out literally in my doorway.

I haul him inside; he rouses enough to help a little, and with some stumbling, staggering, and one memorable moment when he reaches out to steady himself and gets a handful of my ass, we make our way to the chaise. He collapses onto it, and looks up at me blearily.

“Why are you here?” I ask. I’m too tired to be polite.

“I wanted … to talk to you,” he says, in the careful cadence of someone who is very, very drunk, and formulating a sentence a few words at a time.

“About what?”

“My partners … voted me out.”

I’m human enough that I feel bad for him. He’s coming to me for some kind of comfort, and I don’t have any energy at all for him.

“But why?” I ask

“Too much … drinking.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, although it’s clearly his own fault. “That sucks.”

“’sokay,” he says. “I’ll start a new clinic.”

I lift an eyebrow at that. As far as I can tell, he’s one step from being a wino in the street. And he’s gonna start a vet clinic? Sure.

“Here,” I say, “sit up a sec.” I pull out most of the throw pillows and toss them on the floor, then get one situated under his head and pull the throw over him. “Sleep it off, man. We’ll talk about your imaginary vet clinic in the morning.”

But he’s already passed out cold, and doesn’t hear me.

Shaking my head, I go into the bedroom and shut the door. After a second, I push the little lock thingy in. I don’t want any visitors in the wee hours.

My sheets don’t smell like Mitch anymore, which is sad, but he’s coming home tomorrow, and that’s the opposite of sad. I don’t know how I’m going to sleep, when it feels a lot like Christmas Eve right now.

And, thinking that, I’m out like a light.

* * *

The next thing I know, there’s an insistent knocking sound. I know my alarm clock doesn’t make a noise like that, but I smack at the buttons anyway. I open one eye. It’s ten minutes to six. Who the hell is here at this hour?

I hear shuffling in the next room, and Drew calls out, “I’m coming already, quiet down.”

Oh, no. Oh, shit. This can’t be happening.

I bolt out of bed and fling open the bedroom door just in time to see Drew—wearing nothing but boxers—swing open the apartment door, revealing Mitch on the other side.

“Can I help you?” Drew says, and Mitch doesn’t answer. He doesn’t say anything at all—but both of his hands ball into fists, and again I think Oh shit.

I step out of my room, acutely aware that I’m only wearing my t-shirt and panties, and feeling very defenseless. Mitch looks over, and his eyes narrow.

Now Drew is looking at me too, as if to say, Who the hell is this guy? And I don’t know what to say to either of them, but all I can think is that I’d better get between them before somebody’s bleeding.

I mean, let’s get real here. It’s gonna be Drew.

I move across the floor, and when I step between them I can practically feel the air vibrating.

This is bad. This is really bad.

And then Drew makes it a thousand times worse. He shifts so that we’re standing side-by-side, and puts his hand on the small of my back. The body language could not be more clear—he and I, united against the interloper. For one crucial moment, I’m paralyzed.

Drew is first to speak, because of course he is. “Who—”

“You’re gonna want to take your hand off her right now,” Mitch says, “unless you don’t particularly want to keep it.”

Drew blinks but drops his hand back down to hang at his side.

“Whatever you two do on your own time is one thing, but if I ever see your hands on her again, you won’t have any.”

Shit.

Okay, think. Get Drew out, talk Mitch down. Have a good laugh about how ridiculous this scene is.

“Drew,” I say. “You have to go.”

“I’m not sure—”

I grab him by the wrist and drag him over to the chaise—I can’t leave him over by the door with Mitch—and shove his shirt and shoes at him.

“Jenna, I don’t think—”

“Drew, you need to go. Now.” His pants are under the coffee table, and I pull them out and add them to the pile in his arms. “Go.”

“I’m not dressed.”

“Dress in the hall.” I grab his wrist again and start dragging him back toward the door. “You need to get out of here. Seriously.”

“Who is this guy?”

“Drew. Just go.”

I push him past Mitch and out the door, and shut it behind him, then rest my forehead against it for a moment. This is literally the worst possible thing that could happen. How is this my life?

But no. Mitch knows better, after Friday.

Then he speaks, and his voice could cut glass. “What the fuck is this?”

I turn and look at him. I thought he looked angry that day in Petrosino Square, but I guess I didn’t know how bad it could get. He’s practically incandescent with rage.

“Mitch—”

“You told me you were done with Drew,” he says. “After what happened last time, you said you were done. I would never have … stayed here, with you, if I didn’t believe he was out of the picture.”

“I know—”

“You said—” He breaks off, breathes deep. His eyes flick over me from head to toe. “I guess it doesn’t matter what you said.”

“This isn’t—”

“What exactly was the plan, Jenna? Meet me in some park somewhere and tell me you did it again? Or just not tell me, and carry on like it didn’t happen?”

Oh, for God’s sake. Is this what it’s like for him? When I just act like a crazy person, and assume things, and make a bunch of decisions about things—about us—with my shitty, made-up information? “No—”

“I got into town barely four hours ago. What if I had shown up then? What would I have walked in on? But I figured No, I’ll let her get her sleep. I’ll see her after work.” He runs his hands through his hair, and his eyes are wild. “But then I couldn’t wait to see you. I woke up ten times, and finally I just had to be here. With you.”

“Stop it,” I say. This is his issue; this is his big red button. I get that. But he has to calm the hell down and let me talk. I reach out and lay my hand on his arm. “You have to listen to me.”

He shakes me off. “I don’t,” he says. “I don’t have to listen to you. I come over here to surprise you, because I don’t want to be away from you for one more minute, and here’s fucking Drew? In his fucking underwear? And you’re standing there telling me I have to listen to you, when you’ve got another man’s sweat drying on your skin? Fuck you.”

“No, that’s—”

“Lose my number, Jenna,” he says, icy cold. “We’re done.”

It feels like a punch in the stomach. I literally forget how to breathe for a few seconds, and while I’m trying to remember he brushes past me and slams out the door.