The way Whitney rebounds, pouncing on me in the bedroom, already excited and wet, takes the edge off.

A little.

Not enough that the headache goes away, but enough. Enough that I’m not furious with her for springing this on me at the last minute. It’s fine. It should be fine. Dayton’s my oldest friend, and Summer is her best friend, and there’s absolutely no reason we shouldn’t have them over for dinner tonight.

I know I hurt Whitney when I didn’t get on board with making some strange dating announcement, but Jesus. The tension has curled right up into the base of my neck, and even with her above me, with the delectable curves of her breasts inches from my face, my heart pounds. My mouth is dry. I don’t want to fucking do this.

And it has nothing to do with Whitney.

I’m not ashamed of her.

God, how could I be ashamed of her, when I need her this way? When every single inch in my body bends toward her, every single cell, so I can feel the pull of her the moment she enters the room.

“You’re so here,” she whispers, her voice throaty and full of an impending orgasm. “You’re so solid.”

If this is supposed to be dirty talk, it’s the least dirty thing I’ve ever heard. No—it’s not dirty. It’s Whitney. She’s telling me what she thinks the truth is, the realest, rawest truth, and she’s wrong. I’m not fucking solid. I feel like my feet struggle to touch the ground. The only thing keeping me on the bed is the weight of her. The curves of her haul me along to a violent, utilitarian orgasm, hers on top of mine, that makes her laugh.

She jumps off the bed and stretches in a luxurious circle. “Shower with me. I want to wash your hair.”

The world rocks underneath me. There are too many avenues to go down when it comes to Whitney washing my hair. My skin vibrates with all the possibilities. It makes my head ache to think about it, which is insane. It’s certifiable. Whitney, naked in the shower, servicing me? There should be no question.

I wrap her up in my arms and propel her into the bathroom, my muscles settling, now that I’m the one driving the motion. “No time,” I say into the crook of her neck. “Not if there are guests coming.”

Whitney throws open the door to the apartment two hours later and screams with unadulterated joy, Summer’s answering shriek just as shrill. Dayton reaches for my hand over their shoulders. “You’d think they’d been apart for years.” He’s barely able to make himself heard over the big reunion.

Summer releases Whitney and follows her into the apartment. “Oh, my God, it’s so different in here.”

“I’ve kept it mostly the same,” says Whit, leading her into the living room like she’s a realtor at an open house. “I liked it so much the way it was before.”

“It’s the vibe,” my sister says solemnly. “Much more manly. Much more—” She snaps her mouth shut, her eyes going from me to Whitney and back again. “There’s a different vibe.”

“Is it the heavenly scent of my cooking?” Whitney bats her eyelashes at her best friend. “Because I’ll tell you what. My vibe is hungry.” She’s beaming, so happy, and I’m surprised she doesn’t come right out and say it now. The horrible dread of waiting settles in the pit of my gut. It shouldn’t be like this. It should be exciting.

Whitney waits until we’re seated around the kitchen table, each person with a face stuffed full of a chicken pot pie casserole that Dayton raves about. Each bite I take is a crapshoot. One moment it’s delicious, amazing, the best thing I’ve ever tasted. Then the next bite is tasteless. Cardboard.

“I have some news,” Whitney announces into the quiet, and I see her enjoying the little hop Summer does in her seat, the way her fork clatters to the plate.

“Tell us right now.”

“What kind of news, Whit?” My chest seizes. Dayton’s totally relaxed. He takes another bite of the food, watching his wife with a certain amusement, his eyes flicking to Whitney across the table. How can he be so calm? How can he be so calm when she’s so unpredictable? Doesn’t he feel that in the air?

I can’t breathe.

Whitney straightens her back, her chin lifting with pride. “I got a part in an off-Broadway show.”

“What?” Summer leaps from her seat. “What? Oh, my God, what?”

Another crescendo of screams. We’re going to get a noise complaint.

“When is it? We have to buy tickets!” Summer is alight with excitement for her friend, and my heart squeezes at the sight of her. She doesn’t have a jealous bone in her body, except when it comes to Day. She was always fierce about him. I just didn’t want to see it. “Are they selling tickets yet?”

“No.” Whitney laughs. “And you don’t think I’ll set some aside for you? Yeah, right. I need somebody in the front row.” There’s a break in the moment, a crack in Whitney’s joy, and it’s clear as the morning sun. Summer doesn’t seem to notice or feel it. “You have to come. I’ll get you the finest babysitter in the city—”

Summer waves her off. “We’ll take care of all that. I can’t wait. I can’t wait. When is opening night?”

“Three weeks.”

“That soon? Let me put it in my phone. What’s the name of it?” Summer races for her purse, pulls out her phone, and taps the date into it.

“All The Way Home.”

“Damn, that sounds good. Friday night, right? Day and I will be there. Are you coming, Wes?” She looks at me out of the corner of her eye. “You have to, Wes. You’ve got to bring someone. It would be so fun. A double date.”

Whitney’s face changes. The moment is being handed to her on a silver platter, and I can’t let her have it. I can’t. How the hell is she going to paint this? I was never supposed to want her, never supposed to give into the temptation of a whirlwind of a person—

“Whit and I are together.” My gruff words fall like a rock onto glass.

Dayton swings his head around toward me, eyebrows raised. Whitney’s mouth drops open. Summer doesn’t look up from her phone. She’s still typing something, her eyebrows knitted together in concentration.

“Whit who? Is that who you’re bringing on your date? That’s so funny, someone with the same name as—”

“Me,” Whitney cuts in. “It’s me. Wes and I are together.” She clasps her hands in front of her, a compromise between a clasp and a beg, and waits.

“Hold on. What?” Summer pops her head up and looks her friend in the eyes. “Have I crossed over into an alternate universe? You and Wes? That Wes?” She cocks her head in my direction without looking at me. “Together? My brother, and you. Together?”

“Yes.” Whitney’s gone pale, and I realize for the first time that her excitement has masked a fear she had. She was worried about Summer too, even as she pushed and pushed to share the big news.

Summer stares at her, dazed. “Whitney.” Her words are slow and deliberate. “Are you fucking with me right now? Because if you are—”

“I’m not. I’m absolutely not, Sunny. Not even a little bit.”

“Oh. My. God!” Summer shouts the last word and flings herself at Whitney, then to me, grabbing both our hands like we’ve won some Publishers’ Clearing House prize. “You guys! That is—that’s crazy! Wes, I—” She laughs out loud and Dayton comes over to clap me on the back. “I don’t know who I’m more pissed at. My brother or my best friend. You should have told me.”

“There are certain things in life that require ceremony and planning, and one of those things is telling your best friend that you are dating her older brother, which under any circumstance is fraught with—”

Summer slaps her playfully on the arm. “It’s crazy,” she says softly, and she keeps saying it again and again, the rest of the night. “It’s so crazy. I can’t believe it. It’s so crazy.”