Oh, perfect. How many times had I heard that in a past life? The truth is, if you have to say that, it’s almost always exactly what you’re thinking. It took me forever to learn that lesson, and it wasn’t a program I was going to delete very soon.

I turned off my phone again, this time determined to leave it off for good.

Max returned Friday, I knew, but I still hadn’t called. He didn’t come by my work, and when I turned my phone back on a few days after checking my texts, I realized he’d stopped calling, too.

Which was worse: His clichéd insistence that I misunderstood? Or his silence?

Was I even being fair? I hated the in-between space, where anger met uncertainty. I’d lived in that space for so long with Andy, feeling like something was happening behind my back, but never knowing for sure. I had been caught in a horrible battle between feeling like a guilty nag and being positive he was doing me wrong.

This time my angst was so much worse. Because this time, I’d truly thought Max was a man worth knowing. In comparison, I realized I didn’t know that I’d ever felt that about Andy. Maybe I’d just wanted to make him into a man worth knowing.

What was the story with the other woman? Was she someone he hooked up with once before we were serious? Could I really hold that against him even though we’d agreed to be monogamous? But when had that picture been taken? Was it really only a few days before he spent the night at my house?

“Sare-bear. I can practically hear you thinking in there,” George called from his desk. “It is shrill and growing hysterical. Calm your tits. I put a flask in your desk drawer. It’s pink and sparkly but don’t fall in love; it’s mine.”

I pulled open the drawer. “What’s in it?”

“Scotch.”

Slamming the drawer shut, I groaned. “No go. That’s a Max Stella staple.”

“I know that.”

I glared at the wall, hoping he could feel the burn of my eyes on the back of his neck on the other side. “You’re an ass.”

“You haven’t called him, have you?”

“No. Should I?” I pressed a hand to my face. “Don’t answer that. He has Spanish flavors of the week. Of course I shouldn’t call him.”

I stood up and slammed my door closed, but just as I sat back down, three soft taps landed on the other side.

“You can come in, George,” I growled, defeated. “But I’m not drinking the scotch.”

Bennett walked inside, filling the space as only Bennett Ryan really could fill a space. I sat up straighter, looked down at my desk to instinctively inspect the level of paperwork disorganization.

“Hi, Bennett. I was totally kidding about the scotch. I don’t drink at work.”

He smiled. “I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”

“Okay . . . ,” I said, wondering what he was doing here. We rarely had cause to interact one-on-one at work. He studied me for a beat before saying, “In Chicago, when I’d hit rock bottom, you came into my office and yelled at me.”

“Oh.” Oh shit.

“You gave me perspective, hinted that my feelings for Chloe weren’t a surprise to anyone. You made it clear that everyone knew I was hard on her because I held her in particularly high regard.”

I smiled when I realized he wasn’t going to chew me out. “I remember. You were both such sad sacks.”

“I’m here to return the favor. I’ve known Max a long time.” He sat down in the chair on the other side of my desk. “He’s always been a bit of a playboy. He’s never been in love, I don’t think. Before you,” he added, eyebrow raised.

I knew it wouldn’t matter how long I knew Bennett; I would always feel intimidated by him, especially when he pulled the eyebrow move.

“And he hasn’t told me what’s going on, even though I’ve broken my own unspoken rules and actually asked, but he did say he hasn’t heard from you. And from what I hear from Will, he’s not doing well. If you really felt strongly about him, you owe him the chance to explain.”

I groaned. “Sometimes I think so, and then I remember that he’s a jerk.”

“Look, Sara. The way Andrew treated you was unconscionable. We all saw that, and I regret not speaking up on your behalf. But you have the choice to decide how you grow from it. If you’re going to think every man is like him, you don’t deserve Max. Max isn’t that guy.”

He watched me for a moment and I had no idea how to respond. But the way my heart squeezed painfully at the thought that I didn’t deserve Max told me that Bennett was right.

And that I needed to find a dress for the fund-raiser.

Chloe and Bennett picked me up in a town car and, as I climbed in, I took a second to appreciate Bennett in a tux. Honestly, the man was so pretty it was a little unfair. Beside him, Chloe glowed in a shimmering pearl halter gown. She rolled her eyes at something he whispered in her ear, and she replied, “You’re a pig.”

He laughed quietly, kissing her neck. “That’s why you love me.”

I loved seeing them happy, and wasn’t cynical enough to think that person didn’t exist for me. I just realized, as I stared down at my dress, that I’d spent more than an hour getting ready for this. I had really wanted my person to be Max.

I turned and looked out the window, trying not to remember the last time I’d been to his building, and how safe I’d felt with him in the shower. But to my tangled horror and relief, when we arrived the security guard remembered me, and smiled.

“Good evening, Miss Dillon.” He escorted us to the elevator and pressed the button for the penthouse before stepping back to leave us to ourselves. “Enjoy your night.”

I thanked him as the doors closed, and I felt like I might fall over.

“I’m legitimately worried I’m going to have a stroke,” I hissed. “Remind me why I’m here?”

“Breathe,” Chloe whispered to me.

Bennett leaned forward to look at me. “You’re here to show him how beautiful you look and that he didn’t break you. If that’s the only thing that happens tonight, it’s fine.”

I was swooning so hard at what he’d said that I’d completely forgotten to prepare myself to see Max’s living room. When the elevator doors opened, the sight of his place hit me like a wood plank to the chest, and I actually stumbled back a few steps.

The section that had been replicated in Johnny’s club was a minuscule portion of the room—a small area set back in a recessed corner and obviously meant for smaller gatherings. But to me it stood out like a beacon. Even with the vast open space and what felt like miles of marble floor between me and that memory, I could barely look away. A couple of men lingered there, sipping drinks and looking out the window. It felt invasive somehow, as if they were on the wrong side of the glass.