Ethan rolled the fork back and forth against the placemat, realized what he was doing, and pulled his hand away. He glanced across the table, wondering if Cindy had noticed. No, she hadn't. She was still sitting there, pushing the food around her plate without really eating it.

Worry wrapped around him as he studied her. Her face wasn't pale, she wasn't fidgeting—except for pushing the food around. She didn't look tired or—and Christ, he hated to use the word, didn't even like thinking it—depressed. If things were getting worse, if she was slipping back into the blackness she had tried to describe to him, wouldn't she look different than she did? He didn't know, had no idea what signs to look for. She had told him that it had been happening in St. Thomas—before then, even—just little slides here and there, things that didn't seem quite right. But he thought she had been fine in St. Thomas, hadn't noticed anything wrong at all.

No, that wasn't exactly true. Now that he thought about it, there had been one or two times where she had seemed…preoccupied. Maybe a little tired. But he hadn't paid any attention, just chalked it up to too much sun and sand along with too many late nights.

Was she slipping now? How would he be able to tell? Would Cindy even know if it started to happen again? And if she was slipping back into that hole, what could he do to help her?

Or maybe he should stop reading into things, stop thinking the worst. Maybe she just wasn't in a talkative mood—something he could definitely relate to, given the conversations he'd had with his accountant and the real estate agent.

The finances part was good. Better than good. Why wouldn't it be? He didn't spend money, not like some of the guys did, especially the younger ones. He didn't need to. The condo hadn't been expensive and was completely paid off. He helped out with some of the finances back home but even that didn't amount to much. His investments were strong and diversified, growing daily. So yeah, his financial situation was great.

The real estate situation…not so much.

He brushed a hand against his chest at the memory of his last conversation with the agent. Fuck, it still made his heart stammer in his chest whenever he thought about it. He hadn't been expecting some of the figures the agent had been throwing around. Not even close. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting but it sure as hell wasn't that.

Ethan pushed those worries away for now. He'd find something, he knew that. And he'd swallow and bite the bullet and that would be that. Because it would be worth it, that much he was positive about.

Maybe.

He let his gaze drift back to Cindy, noticed she was still pushing the food around. He forced a smile to his face and nudged her foot under the table.

"It's not that bad, is it?"

"Hm?" She looked up, her eyes unfocused. She blinked then shook her head, a ghost of a smile teasing her mouth, there and gone too quick. "No, it's not bad."

"You sure about that? Because I don't think you've even tasted it yet. I mean, I know I'm not a gourmet cook, not even close. But it's spaghetti and garlic bread. Even I can't mess that up."

She smiled again, a little longer this time, then twirled some spaghetti onto her fork and took a bite. He watched her throat move as she swallowed, waited to see if she would smile again.

Or at least pretend to.

Her gaze met his across the table and yes, she even smiled, just another small one that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Not bad."

"See? Told you I couldn't mess it up." He took a bite of his own, washed it down with a swallow of beer. Cindy was focused on her own meal, not looking at him. He cleared his throat, lowering his gaze to the brown bottle in his hand.

"So. I was wondering. Have you, uh, talked to Maggie at all?"

Cindy started choking, her eyes going wide as her gaze darted to his. She reached for her glass of water, took a long swallow, then coughed. Once. Twice. Once more. Ethan was halfway out of his chair when she waved him off and shook her head. She wiped her mouth with the napkin and shook her head again.

"I'm okay. Just, uh, went down the wrong way, I guess."

"Are you sure? Did you want something else—"

"I'm fine. Honest." She fidgeted in the chair as her gaze roamed around the room, almost like she was afraid to look at him. Was it his imagination, or was her face turning the slightest shade of pink?

No, it was probably just his imagination. Or maybe it was just from her coughing. Why else would she be blushing?

"So. Maggie. Uh, yeah, we talked."

"So she mentioned it?"

"Um—" Her voice cracked and she reached for her glass, took another long swallow before looking at him.

And just as quickly looking away.

"She, um—yeah, she mentioned…something."

Ethan's heart dropped to his stomach as disappointment filled him. He shoved it away, forced himself not to be caught up in it. So what if she didn't sound excited about it? Maybe he could change her mind, convince her to go. He pasted a bright smile on his face, a smile that almost felt like a grimace. And maybe it was, judging from the way Cindy was now staring at him.

"You don't think it's a good idea?"

"I—"

"Because I do. I think it would be fun."

"I don't think—"

"Remember how much fun we had? It would be just like that. Not as long, I mean it's only for a few days and—"

"What are you talking about?"

Ethan's mouth closed with a snap. He finally noticed the confusion on Cindy's face, the way her head tilted to the side as she frowned at him. He reached for his beer and took a quick swallow, trying not to squirm in his chair.

"What do you think I'm talking about?"

"You asked if Maggie talked to me."

"Yeah. Didn't she?"

"Yes but—" Color flooded her cheeks and she looked away. "I think maybe we're talking about different things."

"Maggie didn't talk to you about this coming weekend?"

"This weekend?" Cindy's gaze flew back to his and just as quickly left. "No. We were talking about—never mind. What's this weekend?"

"What did you think I meant?"

Cindy shook her head, the blush fanning her cheeks deepening even more. She took a hasty sip of water, averting her gaze when she spoke. "Nothing. It's—it's not important. So. This weekend?"

Ethan leaned back in the chair, his gaze steady as he watched her. Curiosity bloomed in his chest, pushing some of the earlier doubt away. What had caused the blush on her face? And why was she suddenly interested in the pile of pasta on her plate? She and Maggie had talked about…something. Something that was making her uncomfortable now. But what? Discomfort slowly replaced his earlier curiosity. Maybe he didn't want to know. Maybe he was afraid to find out. It was that fear, just a small frisson, that kept him from asking.

"It's the All-Star break, so we have a few days off. Some of us are heading back down to St. Thomas, leaving Thursday morning. Just until Monday."

Cindy looked up, gave him a small smile, then looked away again. "Sounds like fun."

"Yeah. I, um, I was wondering—" He hesitated, unable to gauge her reaction, unable to guess how she'd react. Then he took a deep breath and plowed forward. "I was wondering if you wanted to go. With me, I mean."

Silence, heavy and absolute, greeted his words. Ethan held his breath, waiting. Then he waited some more, his lungs burning with the need for air. He inhaled, the sound sharp in the continuing silence. Then he pushed away from the table with a short laugh and gathered up his plate and empty bottle.

"It was just an idea. No big deal."

"Ethan—"

"No, it's cool. Probably short notice or something. I understand." He moved into the kitchen, had to take another deep breath so he wouldn't throw the plate into the sink.

Stupid move. So fucking stupid. What the hell had he expected her to say? It was too soon. Or maybe too short notice, just like he said.

Or maybe she just wasn't interested, period. Not like he was. Yeah, they were friends. He had thought more than friends, had honestly thought—

Who the fuck was he kidding? He should have never opened his fucking mouth last week, should have never told her how he felt. It all made sense now: why she was so quiet, why she seemed so preoccupied. She didn't know how to act around him. Of course not. Why would she? They were friends—maybe even friends with benefits—and he had to go and make more of it than it was. Had to open his fucking mouth and totally fuck things up.

He scraped the leftover spaghetti into the trash then rinsed the plate in the sink. But he didn't move, didn't put the plate in the dishwasher, didn't bother to turn the water off. He was staring, lost deep in thought, trying to figure out how the fuck to fix things.

Because he had to fix them. Had to do something, anything, to get things back on track. But on track to where?

To where they used to be, before…before everything. Before the week they'd spent on St. Thomas after Dillon's wedding.

Back to just…friends.