In the morning, the living room is filled with the smell of coffee, but there's no sign of Pete.

I drink a cup, eat a quick breakfast, dress in my best not quite business casual outfit, and drive to school.

Class grabs my concentration all day. I get dinner off campus and stay late in the library. When I get home, Pete is locked in his room.

I consider knocking. Asking for an apology. Asking for an emotionless fuck. Demanding he get his head out of his ass and realize he could love me.

Instead, I go to my room, and study until I'm too tired to think.

The next day, it's the same.

All week, it's the same.

Come Friday, I'm worn thin. My stomach in knots. My heart is achy. Avoiding Pete doesn't do anything to change my feelings. It only deepens the hole in my gut.

I reheat a plate of leftovers in the fridge and collapse on the couch, ready to give in to my exhaustion. I'm not due anywhere until eleven the day after tomorrow. Sleeping until ten-thirty Sunday is making a lot of sense.

My phone rings. Whoever it is, I'll call back.

It rings again.

Then again.

I push myself off my couch. Where the hell is that thing? It takes three more ring cycles for me to find my phone in my backpack.

Incoming call from Madison.

My chest tightens. All the missed calls are from her. This must be important.

I steel my nerves as I answer the call. "Hello."

"Jess…" Her voice breaks. "I know you don't want to talk to me yet, but it's important."

My instincts push me to soothe her. Something is wrong. Something bad. "What is it?"

"I… I want to say I'm sorry again. I know that's not enough, but I am. It was wrong of me to be with Nathan at all. It was worse that it was so fast. I should have put you first. You've always been my best friend."

Her voice is earnest.

"I miss you," she says. "Long Island isn't the same without you."

"I miss you too." I miss talking to her. I want to talk to her right now. To tell her how much it hurts that Pete will never love me.

"Really?" The happiness drains from her voice. "It's um… I looked into everything with Dad."

That doesn't sound good. My chest tightens. Deep breaths do nothing to soothe me. There's no running from this. I have to rip off the bandage. "What happened?"

Her voice drops to a whisper. "I found a bottle of vodka in Dad's room. It was empty."

Fuck. All my muscles tense at once. He's drinking again.

How long has he been drinking?

I need the facts before I panic. "When did you find it?"

"This morning. It was in the bottom of his bathroom trash can. It's new. I emptied all the trash last week."

"Did you ask him about it?"

"He said he had a woman over. That it was hers." Her voice is weak, like she doesn't believe herself. "It's possible."

I press my fingers into the back of the phone. "It's not."

"Maybe… it's a slip. Maybe he'll get over it." Her voice wavers. "Jessie, I don't know what to do."

"We can't do anything. He's almost sixty. If he wants to drink, he's going to do it." I take a deep breath. I know the words are true. I know there's nothing I can do if he doesn't want to help himself.

Still, my legs go weak. I grab onto the nearest thing—the wall—and use it to brace myself.

I'm empty.

It's eighty degrees outside but I'm freezing.

"You don't mean that." She chokes back a sob. "There must be something."

There's not. "He only went to rehab the first time because of Aunt Zoe. If he doesn't want to get better—" My stomach clenches. I can't feel my feet. "If he doesn't want to get better, there's nothing we can do."

The hope drains from her voice. "Do you think he wants to get better?"

"I don't know." I take a deep breath, trying to figure out the answer. It won't come. I don't have a clue how this will go. But I know it's out of my hands. I have to be okay with that. "I'll think of something, Maddie. Give me some time."

"Okay."

"We'll do something. It might not work, but we will do something."

"Okay."

"We'll talk later."

"I love you," she says.

"I love you too."

I hang up the call and drop the phone on the couch.

Dad is drinking again.

What the hell am I going to do?

The microwave beeps. That must be the tenth beep. None of the other ones made it to my ears.

The food smells like nothing. Something with chicken, rice, and spinach. I'm sure it's delicious but it smells like nothing.

The forks are in the cabinet. I pour a glass of water. It tastes like nothing. Or is that how water always tastes?

My chest is tight. Has it always been this hard to breathe? Has the air always felt this heavy and cold?

I fill the glass again. I can't sit in this house. I can't decide which is harder—moving or standing still. There's the backyard. It's only a dozen feet away. I pull the glass door open, ready for my thoughts to tear me into pieces.

Pete is here, sitting on the edge of the pool, his legs in the water, his hands curled around his e-reader.

He looks up at me. The aqua glow of the pool casts highlights over his concerned expression. Thankfully, he says nothing. Simply nods a hello like we're polite and courteous roommates and nothing more.

I sit at the patio table and dig my fork into my food.

It tastes like nothing.

His attention stays on me as I eat in silence. No napkins. Fuck it, I wipe my hands on my skirt. It needs a wash anyway.

Dad is drinking. This is it. I can't watch him destroy himself. If he decides against getting help, I have to walk away.

He'll die on his own.

Probably in a pile of his own vomit, reeking of beer.

Tears sting my cheeks. I turn away from Pete. I only need to hold it together for the one minute it takes to get to my room.

I grab the edges of my seat and push myself to my feet. My knees buckle. I can't stand. I can barely breathe.

If I do nothing, Daddy is going to die.

I try to choke back my sob. It gets through. I pull my legs to my chest and bury my head between my knees.

Wet footsteps move closer. Then his arms are around me. I want them to feel awful, like an invasion, but they don't. They're warm and comforting.

Pete pulls me off the chair, into his lap.

His lips go to my ear. "It's gonna be okay. Jess, you're gonna be okay."

"You heard everything?"

"Yeah."

"Then how can you say that?" I dig my fingers into his soft cotton t-shirt. That too feels warm and comforting. "You promised you wouldn't lie to me."

"I'm not."

"You need to go." I tell myself to bring my hands back to my lap but the damn things won't cooperate with me. "I can't take you acting like my boyfriend anymore."

"I'm not leaving you to cry alone."

"Sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind."

His voice drops to a whisper. "Look me in the eyes and tell me you want me to go and I will."

"It's for the best."

"For who?"

"For my heart. So it doesn't break when you wake up tomorrow and tell me you'll never love me."

His voice softens. "I'm not going to say that."

What the hell does that mean?

I can't stomach his mixed messages. "I can't figure out your intentions right now, Pete. Whatever you want, whatever you're doing, you're going to have to spell it out."

He shifts so we're eye to eye. His deep brown eyes are filled with concern. Like he's miserable that I'm miserable.

He does care about me.

His voice is steady. "I want to hold you. If you want something else, tell me."

He knows I want nothing else. He knows I want him to lend me those comforting arms every time I need solace.

"My dad is gonna die. If I don't do anything, he's gonna die." I stare back into his eyes. "How am I ever going to live with myself?"

"One day at a time." He finds the tie holding together my French braid and pulls it out. "You told your sister you can't save him unless he wants help. You believe that?"

"Yeah."

"You deserve to be happy, Jess." His gaze goes to the ground then it meets mine. "I'm not going to let you make yourself miserable."

"There's only a week and a half left of this non-relationship. You don't have a say over what I do."

He stares back into my eyes. "I blamed myself for my dad's accident. But trying to help him—" He takes my hand and brings it to his thigh. He presses it against his jeans so hard I can feel the outline of a scar through the denim. "Every time, I was the one who got hurt. I'm not going to let you get ground to nothing trying to save someone else."

"What if I'm kinda not really dating this guy who keeps playing with my feelings. What will you do then?"

His lips curl into a smile. "Kick his ass."

"How does that work?"

"Not sure yet."

"I think I'm falling in love with you."

His expression gets intense. "Are you there yet?"

I laugh. That response is ridiculous, but it's perfect too. "You sound like a kid on a road trip."

He runs his fingers through my hair. "Tell me when you're there."

"But… what about… isn't this doomed to not be forever? Aren't you set on not falling in love?"

"I was." His eyes turn down. "I can't promise shit, Jess. I've been doubting myself since I found out my ex was fucking my best friend. The only two people who knew me as a guy and not a celebrity and they thought nothing of betraying me. What the fuck does that say about me? Been trying everything to make the doubt stop. Only thing that works is being with you."

Something inside me melts. I make him stop doubting himself. It's very difficult to tell my feelings to slow down. This isn't a confession of love. It started with I can't promise shit.

But it feels like one.

His eyes meet mine. "Thing is—I'm not a gentleman. Once I decide I want you to be mine, that's it. I'm going to do everything it takes. Even if you're better off with some guy who isn't fucked up."

"I like that you're fucked up." I drag my fingers over the soft skin of his neck, sinking into his body. "We can be fucked up together."

He smiles.

I melt. That smile is the most beautiful thing in the history of the world. "Besides, that guy probably wouldn't have sexy tattoos."

Pete laughs. "Probably won't be a millionaire."

"Certainly won't be as good a musician as you are."

He nods.

"Probably won't kiss as well as you do. Remind me about that."

"That's your line?" He cocks a brow, shaking his head like he finds my story ridiculous.

"You don't like it?"

"No, I do. But I'd rather you ask for what you want."

I press my fingertips into his skin. "Kiss me."

Pete slides his hand to the back of my head and pulls me into a deep, slow kiss. Mmm. For the first time all week, I feel good.

The pain around me fades as I sink into the sensations in my body. His lips are soft. His tongue is aggressive. His arms are hard against mine.

I blink my eyes open and stare back at Pete. "He definitely won't kiss as well as you do."

"You think that's good, just see how well I fuck."

"That's a worse line than mine."

He smiles. "You saying you don't want to?"

"No." I slide my hands through his short, thick hair. "I want to. Soon." My eyes rake over him, slowly. He looks tired. Like he's as worn out as I am. "Have you been as miserable as I have this week?"

He nods. "Yeah."

I stare into his eyes. They're filled with affection. "So that whole thing about not wanting a relationship… not wanting to fall in love. You changed your mind?"

"Getting there."

Okay. He still doesn't know how he feels. Right now, I can live with that. I can live with anything but the sinking feeling that I'm sentencing my dad to death.

"I don't want to think anymore," I say. "Help me stop."

He pulls us to our feet. His eyes lock with mine as he presses his palm flat against my lower back. "You won't even know what day it is."