I push open the door of Celia’s apartment building and step out into the pouring rain. I should try to get a cab but… fuck it. This weather suits my mood. I’m going to walk for a bit.

What the fuck was I thinking, I berate myself. I must be seventeen kinds of moronic. I’m suffering from a mental illness — I must be. That’s the only explanation I can think of for how I managed to let this get so out of control.

There I was, having a great time with Celia. I’d had my eye on her for a couple of years now, ever since she’d been coming into the bar, and suddenly she wasn’t with that prissy asshole boyfriend anymore and she was actually propositioning me. I mean, I get hit on at the bar all the time, but not by women like her. I thought I’d won the fucking lottery when she asked me what time my shift was finished.

And I’d blown it. Not just blown it — fucking torched the thing. Because that’s what I do, apparently.

On top of that, I’d lied to my brother. A stupid, pointless lie, one I told just to soothe my own damaged ego.

Because the truth is, I don’t have a fiancee. I don’t even have a girlfriend. I’ve got plenty of women happy to share my bed for a night, but that’s all I ever give them. Other than that, I’ve got me and I’ve got my cat Steve and that’s it. One-night-stands are as deep as my emotional entanglements go, and I like it that way.

So why had I said that to Trent? I like my life the way it is, but somehow, talking to my older brother makes me feel like I’m still the fuck-up I was ten years ago.

My brothers, Trent and Luke, are incredibly successful and run their own international home furnishings company back in Chicago, where we grew up. We barely speak since I moved out here, and up until I got the wedding invitation a few weeks ago, I didn’t even know Trent was engaged.

I guess when he called I just felt stupid. That there was so much space between us, that there was so much of his life that I didn’t know anymore. I guess I wanted him to feel like there were things about me that he didn’t know either.

Except there really weren’t. And I wasn’t exactly going to start bragging to him about the fact that I work at a dive bar. Even if I did practically run the thing at this point, even if it was true that the place had tripled its profits since I took over.

No, the thing to come out of my mouth had to be that I was engaged.

What a fucking idiot I am.

I trudge home along the Manhattan sidewalks, almost enjoying the way the rain pelts down on my face and the puddles splash up around my Blundstones. Let it fucking rain.

Celia doesn’t actually live that far away from me — though judging based on aesthetics alone, her place might as well have been light years away. She has a polite doorman and I have a front door that barely even latches anymore. She has marble tile in her bathroom and I have a toilet that you need to jiggle the handle on every time you flush. I could afford something nicer, but I just don’t see the point, not when I spend all my time at the bar.

So maybe it was just as well that things with Celia weren’t going anywhere. There’s no way a girl like that would ever set foot in an apartment like mine — in fact, there’s no way a girl like that would ever be happy settling for anything about me or my life. I was cold pizza and drinking beer on fire escapes, and she was … well, I didn’t know what she was. Cab francs and expensive face creams and weekly manicures, probably.

I finally get to my apartment building and yank the door open, shaking my head at the fact that they still haven’t fixed the damn door. I really need to fucking move.

I climb the stairs to the tiny apartment and unlock my door. Steve is there to greet me right away, brushing up against my pant leg.

“Hey buddy,” I say, leaning down to scratch his ears. “How’s life?”

He meows crankily so I dump some more food in his green plastic bowl. He digs in right away, and I grin a little, thinking how easy it must be to be him. Not a care in the world, besides where his next meal is going to come from. And since he has me, that’s not even a real concern.

Me on the other hand … well, I had concerns enough for the both of us. Like what I was going to do about Trent, now that I’d told him this stupid lie. And what I was going to tell Celia, next time she came into the bar.

I realize with a start that she might not ever come in again. After what I did to her — or at least what she thinks I did to her — well, I wouldn’t blame her if she never wanted to see me again.

The thought fills me with a sense of sadness that’s way deeper than it should be. Who cares if I don’t see her again? She’s a pretty girl, but those are a dime a dozen in New York City.

So why does this bother me so much? And why am I hoping against hope that she’ll show up at the bar tomorrow, looking for an explanation?

* * *

The next day my shift passes agonizingly slowly. Every time the front door of the bar creaks open, I find myself looking over, hoping it’ll be Celia.

It never is.

I tell myself maybe she’s working late, that she’ll be in after she gets off work, but the evening gets later and later and there’s no sign of her raven hair, her creamy skin, those perfectly pouty red lips.

And why should there be? If I’m being honest, Celia isn’t the type to come in demanding an explanation. That’s crazy chick territory, and Celia’s way too dignified for that. That girl is all class. Which means she’s probably doing what women like her do, which is getting drunk with her girlfriends and talking about what a dog I am.

For once, I find myself wishing a girl was just a little crazier.

Everything at the bar goes the way it usually does — we’re kept busy with random college kids and a few Wall Street types and a handful of women who try flirting with me. Normally I’m happy to flirt back — that’s half the fun of the job — but tonight I just take their drink orders and skip the chitchat. I have too much on my mind to conjure up any witty repartee, and definitely too much on my mind to give them what they’re really hoping for, which is a dirty fuck.

I still haven’t decided what to do about Trent and my stupid lie. I guess I have to tell him the truth, but God, that’s going to suck. It’s going to be just like when I was twenty, when I used to work at his company, and he thought I was the world’s biggest fuck-up.

I’m relieved when two o’clock in the morning finally rolls around and we can close up the bar. I pour myself a beer as soon as the last patron strolls lazily out, and I drink it down quickly while I clean up and reconcile the cash.

The alcohol gives me just enough courage and decisiveness to know what I need to do. I need to call Trent. First thing in the morning. I’ll tell him I was just kidding around, that I wanted to see if he’d buy it. He’ll still think I’m an idiot, but I don’t know what other choice I have.

Despite my decision, I sleep terribly that night. All I can think about is Celia — about her wild tumble of raven black curls, about her sharp green eyes, about the sinful curves that her dour business suits do so little to contain.

And all I can see is her face in my mind, the horror in her expression when she thought she’d been complicit in helping me cheat … on my imaginary fiancee.

* * *

In the morning, my phone wakes me up. I grope blindly on the nightstand for it and hit the answer button before I even check to see who it is.

“Hello?” My voice is groggy and gruff with the sleep that eventually overtook me.

“Jace! Hey, man, it’s Luke. Don’t tell me you were still sleeping, you lazy fuck.”

Shit. I sit up and scrub my hands over my face. Luke is my other brother.

“I work at a bar, man. I don’t keep your fucking farmer hours.”

Luke laughs. “Right. Still living that frat boy lifestyle, I see.”

Fuck. I shake my head but there’s no point in trying to get Luke to see that I take my job seriously. To him, I’m once a fuck up, always a fuck-up.

I don’t have time to say anything else, though, before he’s already launching into the real reason he called.

“Listen, Trent told me you’re engaged. I just wanted to say congratulations. That’s great news.”

Double fuck. I should have known Trent would say something to Luke.

“Thanks,” I mutter. I don’t know what else to say.

“Yeah, man, the whole family is so excited. Mom is over the moon. We can’t wait to meet her.”

“Yeah,” I say. I’m sitting up now and I stare down at my feet on the aged hardwood. “Great.”

“What’s her name? Trent didn’t say.”

“Celia,” I blurt, then blink furiously. What the ever loving fuck is wrong with me?

“Celia. Great. She sounds smart,” he teases.

“She is,” I say defensively, unable to help myself now. “She’s a lawyer.”

Great job, Jace. Why not just dig yourself an even deeper hole?

But Luke lets out a low whistle. “Good for you, man. Sounds like you’ve really cleaned up your act. Like I said, we all can’t wait to meet her. And to see you. It’s going to be so great to have everyone back together again.”

“Yeah, sure. Listen, I gotta go, okay?”

“Sure, man. I just wanted to … reach out, you know?”

“Yeah.” The stupid thing is, I actually feel kind of touched. I’m happy that he’s happy for me, even if the reason is a complete and total fabrication.

I get off the phone with Luke and wander out into the kitchen. Steve is sitting on the kitchen island and I glance down at his bright green eyes.

“This is … not good,” I tell him. Steve stares at me with a steady unblinking expression.

I open up the cupboard and get a glass, then fill it up with tap water and drink half of it in one gulp. I set it back down on the island and scratch Steve’s fuzzy grey ears.

“What do you think, buddy? Got any bright ideas for your old man?”

Steve blinks his green eyes up at me innocently and then, without breaking my gaze, reaches his paw out and knocks my water glass off the island.

It crashes onto the floor, sending water and broken glass shooting everywhere.

“What the fuck, man?” I glare at him but I’m kind of laughing too because it’s so typical. Classic Steve. He just stares at me unblinking. I could swear I even detect a hint of smug pride in his expression.

I shake my head and then bend over to start picking up the pieces of glass around my bare feet.

As soon as I do, I’m struck with the memory of helping Celia clean up the spilled red wine and broken shards of her wine glass at the bar the other day. Right before she’d hoarsely asked me what time my shift ended.

I stand back up and consider Steve.

“Are you trying to tell me something?”

His ears go back a bit and his whiskers twitch, just once.

“You devil,” I mutter, as I bend over again. “You’re a fucking evil genius in disguise, aren’t you?”

Steve just swishes his tail and strolls off, leaving me to clean up his mess.

But already I’m starting to hatch a plan.