The only place open is a horribly expensive organic store. I try to buy my sashimi bowl and green tea but Miles insists. I guess I agreed to this term—anything we do, he pays. I'm too tired to object.

Just to screw with me, he buys strawberries and a bottle of chocolate syrup. I'm not that inexperienced. I know what people do with chocolate syrup. God, how I want him doing it to me, his tongue lapping the treat off my thighs and breasts.

In the car, I do my best to get comfortable. It's a long drive to Malibu, and there's almost no space between us.

I press my back into the leather seat and turn the radio to an earblasting volume. It's loud enough to drown my thoughts. I need a break from everything. I need to not hurt for a while.

Miles slides the knob until the music is low enough for a conversation. Thankfully, he doesn't attempt one. His attention stays on the road.

He drives just as fast as he does on his bike. The city zips by. Then we're on Pacific Coast Highway and we're surrounded by ocean and sky.

I open the moonroof and watch the stars shine. There are patches of clouds in the dark sky, but we're far enough away from the city lights that the stars are bright.

There's something about being next to Miles. I feel so exposed and safe at once. It's like nothing outside this car, not even my memories of Rosie, can hurt me.

Him seeing me, knowing how close I am to breaking—that can hurt me.

"You know, when I mentioned conversation, I was assuming you'd also make an effort." His voice is light.

Okay. I can tease too. "Conversation isn't my strong suit."

"I can tell."

"Or yours."

He laughs. "We both know my strong suit. What's yours?"

I'm good at studying. At this point, it's probably my greatest skill. Not very useful outside of school, but I have another four years of that ahead of me.

Still, we're almost flirting. And flirting might convince Miles I want him as more than a distraction.

I do. I want him as more than a fuck buddy.

That can't happen. This is sex. Just sex.

"Spades," I say.

"How the hell do you come up with spades?"

I try to cobble together a joke, but the pieces don't fit "Well, it's obviously not hearts."

"And not comedy."

I flip him off playfully. My lips curl into a smile.

He laughs. "You're good at driving me out of my mind."

"In what way?"

"You mean besides how fucking crazy I go thinking about touching you again?"

I take a deep breath. "Don't tease me if you're going to stick to that ridiculous no sex tonight declaration."

"Not that you care?"

"Go to hell."

He stops at a light. The first light in ages. It changes to green, and we turn off the main road into an empty beach parking lot. There's a sign with posted hours: six a.m. to ten p.m. It's past eleven, but that isn't about to stop Miles. He was ready to burn a guy's house down an hour ago.

"It's flattering," he says. "That it upsets you so much."

He parks the car and gets a blanket out of the trunk. Maybe that was his original plan for the night—sex on the beach under the stars.

Damn, that sounds romantic. It's better that we aren't feeding each other strawberries on the beach. I can't handle that.

I slip out of my shoes and dig my feet into the rough sand. The water is only a hundred feet away. The roar of crashing waves fills the salty air.

Miles lays the blanket next to a lifeguard stand and places our bounty of snacks on top of it. "I figured you'd rather not eat in the car."

"Thanks."

"You cold?"

"Only if you're about to offer me your shirt."

"Leather jacket's in the backseat."

The same backseat where he was going to fuck me. Not that it matters. I shake my head, sit down, and focus on my dinner. I'm so hungry that even grocery store sashimi tastes good. Actually, it tastes amazing. Soft tuna, chewy rice, spicy wasabi.

Miles is deep in thought, but I have no clue what he's thinking. I have no idea how to broach the topic.

Once I'm finished eating, I move on to my other need. I undo the top button of my blouse and push my chest forward.

His eyes go to my chest. His tongue slides over his lips. But he doesn't touch me.

He does break the silence. "We are friends. You can talk to me."

"I'm not interested."

"Pretty sure I should take offense to that."

"Then take offense. But it's not something I want to talk about. And certainly not with you. You made it clear that you don't want that kind of closeness. That we're not confidants."

His voice gets low. "You're drowning in something. You don't have to tell me what it is, but I'm not going to watch without throwing a life vest."

Great. Sensitive Miles is out and he's speaking in metaphors. I have to convince him I'm fine even if I don't believe it myself.

I stare into his beautiful blue eyes. "Thank you for the sentiment. But I'm fine. My sister died three months ago. I still miss her sometimes, but it's nothing out of the ordinary."

"She was a drug addict, wasn't she?"

I scowl. I hate thinking of Rosie like that, but she was a drug addict at that point. "That's not any of your business."

"If it affects our relationship, it is."

"What relationship is that? We've had sex and breakfast." I finish my food and drop my fork in the bowl.

There's a tightness in my chest. I don't want to discuss this with Miles. Hell, I don't want to discuss this with anyone. I thought we were on the same page.

I take a deep breath. I can convince him it's nothing. "My sister, Rosie, starting doing drugs behind my back. It went on for about a year. She lied the whole time, and I looked the other way, because I didn't want to believe it was possible. I was studying for the MCAT, and I didn't have any spare energy to worry about her."

"Why are you trying to convince me you're over it?"

"I'm not trying to convince you of anything."

"You'll never be over it. Not really."

"How do you know what I'll be over?"

"I know how it feels to lose the person who matters more to you than anyone." His eyes go to the sand.

My heart is in civil war. I want to tell him he's wrong and offer him comfort. "Are you going to share those details with me?"

"That's not my point."

"It's mine. If you won't even tell me who you lost, why should I tell you anything about how I feel?" I grit my teeth. "Whoever you are, can you bring back the Miles I met last month?"

"Even that guy would notice how upset you are."

"Fine. I'm upset. You did your friend duty and asked what was wrong. I did my friend duty and gave you the details. Can we close the book on this conversation?"

"No."

"Then take me home."

He stares at me.

"Is there a reason why you're cross-examining me?"

He scoots closer. "It's the decent thing to do."

"You never struck me as a decent guy."

He shrugs. "You're lucky I don't offend easily."

"I can try harder to offend."

He rests his hand on mine. There's something in his eyes. He's uncertain. It's the first time I've seen Miles anything but confident.

"It's not something I talk about," I say. "It's not personal."

He shifts onto his back, his eyes on the stars. "Fine. But I'm still not having sex with you tonight."

* * *

Even without Miles's questions, I feel a pull to reveal myself, to share my pain with him. I want to feel the way I do when I listen to his songs, like he understands me and I understand him.

Why is that intimacy so elusive when we speak?

I close my eyes and sink into the sand. The gentle breeze sends a chill down my spine. I rub my arms with my palms but it only helps so much.

Miles wraps his arms around me and pulls my body into his. It's like slipping into my favorite hoodie—warm and comforting.

Everything that happened with Rosie hurts. Every time I see someone with a drink and a smile, every time I hear her name, every time I find one of her things—it hurts somewhere so deep I can't breathe.

Minutes pass. Maybe hours. I'm aware of nothing except the waves, the breeze, and Miles's breath. He pulls me closer, wrapping his arm around me and stroking my hair. This isn't the Miles I saw fucking some girl at a party. It's not the guy who teased me about being a virgin. It's the guy who wrote In Pieces, the one who knows what it feels like to lose everything that matters.

So why can't I talk to him? My lips refuse to move. I think up a million ways to start the conversation. Who did you write In Pieces about? How long ago was it? Does it hurt less? I used to live with Rosie, in a two bedroom. She died finals week. I was so depressed I missed two finals. I had to beg my teachers to let me make them up. My GPA took a hit. It's still not what it needs to be. What did you lose? How far did you fall?

I want to tell him, to tell someone. I don't talk to anyone about it. Not even Kara.

Still, my lips refuse to move.

I try to focus on the stars, something to center me and keep my mind from drifting to places it shouldn't go. It doesn't work. Vivid mental images form. Miles as my doting boyfriend, walking me to class, sharing my sashimi, whispering sweet nothings under the stars.

I don't want a boyfriend. He doesn't do boyfriend. It should be a perfect arrangement. Only he keeps acting sweet, like he's going to sew the pieces of my broken heart back together.

I sink into Miles. This time, I soak up every ounce of comfort. Minutes pass. Hours even.

He taps me on the shoulder and whispers, "are you asleep?"

"Yes," I murmur.

He chuckles. "Dreaming about anything good?"

"You could say that."

He lifts me, taking me into his arms and carrying me over the sand. My ear is against his chest, and I can hear his steady heartbeat. Whatever this is, I need it tonight.

He lays me on the passenger seat and presses his lips against my cheek. He looks at me like he knows I'm awake. "I was considering fucking you in that lifeguard stand."

"You should know that I hate you."

"I know." He slides into the driver's seat. "My uncle's place is nearby, but he's not around. I'm going to take you there."

I close my eyes and listen to the air rushing through the moonroof. I feel nothing except the soft vibrations of the car. Then Miles's arms are around me. His hands are pressed into my thigh. My head is against his shoulders. My body fits into his perfectly, even more perfectly than when we have sex.

We're in a strange house, up the stairs, in a bedroom. It feels like a guest room. It's clean and untouched. The bed is even made.

Miles lays me down and undresses me. He does it slowly. His fingertips linger on my skin.

Even though his touch is more sweet than sexual, I burn up with need. My blouse is gone. Then my skirt. I'm still in my bra and panties. That won't do. This feeling, this pain won't do. I need him with me, comforting me, erasing everything else.

I unhook my bra and slide it off my shoulders. His eyes pass over my body, but he doesn't touch me.

"Please," I say. "It can be quick."

He shakes his head. "It won't make you feel better. Trust me. I've tried."

He's wrong. I push my panties to my ankles and kick them off. Miles's eyes are glued to me. He's under my thumb but only enough to watch. Not enough to give me what I want.

I spread my legs and sprawl over the bed in an obvious invitation.

He climbs in next to me, placing his body behind mine. "I'm not fucking you." He slides his arm around my waist. "If you ask again, I'm leaving."

"Why?"

"Because if you ask two more times, I'll say yes, and that isn't happening." He runs his fingers through my hair. "Go to sleep. You'll feel better in the morning."

He's wrong again. I'll feel worse in the morning. Rosie will still be gone. And I'll still be heavy from the loss.

"If I feel worse, will you fuck me in the morning?" I ask.

He nods. "Sounds fair."

I melt around him. He pulls me closer.

I'm not going to cry on his shoulder. He's not going to fall in love with me.

But he's in bed with me, holding me.

It feels so fucking good, him holding me.

Like we're confidants. Like we're lovers. Like we're going to share every ugly thing in our hearts.