The night air rushes around me. Damn, that cold has bite. Southern California afternoons are sunny and warm. It's easy to forget the temperature plummets on winter nights.

Goosebumps spread across my arms. I shiver and hug my chest. A cocktail dress isn't the warmest attire.

Miles slides his leather jacket off and slings it around my shoulders. He pulls me closer. "I guess that means your buzz is wearing off."

I don't laugh. I don't know what that's supposed to mean.

Or what the hell this trip is supposed to mean.

My high heels poke tiny holes in the grass. I try my best to lean forward, weight on my toes, but one of the heels gets stuck. I trip.

Miles catches me. He saves me from scraping my knee on one of the grey tombstones.

Yes, we're at the cemetery, the one in Ladera Heights. It's too dark to see most of the place, but I still make out a large stone crucifix and a statue of the Virgin Mary.

It's funny. There's a mall four blocks away. To my left is the somber remembrance of death. To my right, there's a Target and a Forever 21 and a parking lot with bright white lights.

Miles kneels down next to me and gingerly unhooks my shoes, one at a time. He pulls them off my feet, his fingertips lingering on my ankle.

It should be criminal for anything to feel this good. Especially in a place where everything usually feels so bad.

"You okay?" he asks.

"Not really dressed for mourning."

"I disagree." He takes my shoes with one hand and holds me close with the other. "You're celebrating life. Death is just another part of that cycle." His eyes find mine. "You know that tattoo on my chest."

"I'd love to be reminded."

He pulls his t-shirt down, exposing his gorgeous, perfect pectoral muscles. There it is—be brave, live—in thick black letters.

"I always that it was a little new age for you," I say.

"It's a recovery thing. A reminder to experience life instead of trying to numb myself to anything that might hurt."

It's a nice sentiment, but I don't see how it's relevant to the discussion at hand. If there's even a discussion. This is more like show and tell. Miles shows, and Miles tells, and I can take it or leave it.

He studies my reaction. Runs his fingers over my cheek to my chin, tilting me so we're eye to eye. Those blue eyes of his are so damn earnest.

"I know you hate when people are cryptic," he says.

"Accurate."

"But give me a minute." He brings his hand to my lower back and leads me down another row.

We walk for a few more moments and Miles stops in front of a plain gray tombstone. Damon Webb. Father, Uncle, Friend. He died last year, just like Miles said.

"He adopted me legally after my mom died. I took his name instead of my dad's," Miles explains. He sets my shoes on the ground, turns to face me, and takes my hands. "The quote. It's cheesy. But it was something my uncle always said when I started causing trouble. He saw right through my bullshit. When I got suspended for getting into a fight, he'd sit me down on that leather couch and toss a bag of frozen peas in my hands. Then he'd kneel next to me, stare into my eyes, and he'd tell me that if I wanted to run, I'd be running forever."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, he was a smart guy. Self-made fortune, knew all the business stuff that bored me to tears. He knew how I felt losing my mom, especially to suicide. It hurt him, too. He was angry, too. But I got into fights every week. I got suspended fifteen times. I broke all my guitars."

I suck in a deep breath. I want to trust Miles but I'm not sure I'm ready to let my guard down again. Not yet.

Still, we were friends, or something close to that. I want to be there for him right now. Maybe not tomorrow, or next week, but right now.

He squeezes my hands. "After my twentieth fight, we made a deal. He'd buy me one more guitar if I agreed to be brave and confront how much it hurt to lose my mom. I could wail on that guitar all day. I could scream my lungs out, write a song that was nothing but 'Fuck Simon.' That was my father's name. But if I got in trouble, even one more time, that was it. I was going to boarding school."

"And?"

"And that was it. I wrote a song about it. I felt a little better. Every time I wanted to hit someone, I wrote a song instead."

I hug my chest. "How did you start doing drugs?"

"It wasn't a problem at first. Or at least I didn't think it was. I liked the way it relaxed me. Made me calm. Made me feel like I didn't have to take on the world. But it became a habit. Tom confronted me. I slowed down enough that I could hide it. But when Damon got cancer… I freaked. Ran from it. I couldn't go five minutes sober. Couldn't deal with those thoughts." He rubs my shoulders. "That's how I know you're strong, Meg. You confront your pain headfirst. You never come close to buckling."

"I can't say that anyone has ever complimented me for not doing drugs before." I laugh.

"I really do love your laugh."

"I love yours too." I really do.

He shifts back to the serious tone. "I only stopped because Tom threatened to kick me out of the band, and I didn't want my uncle to die thinking I was that same stupid kid who kept running away."

My heart pounds against my chest. Miles went through so much.

Be brave, live.

This isn't the kind of pain that goes away with a few hugs and kisses. I can't take away his. He can't take away mine. We're both stuck until we find our way out.

He lowers his voice to a whisper. "I was in rehab when he died. That was the part that hurt the most, that he was alone because I was kept stewing in self-pity."

"But you weren't stewing anymore. You were confronting it head on."

"Yeah. Maybe." He slides a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you about my recovery. At first, I didn't think this would be serious enough it would matter. By the time I realized how much you hurt, how much you've been through, I wasn't afraid I'd lose you if I told you."

I hug myself a little tighter. "Okay."

"It's not a good excuse. I was wrong. And I really am sorry."

"Thank you." I stare into Miles's eyes, at all the pain I can't take away. I want to forgive him, I do. But my heart isn't there yet.

"I like you, Meg. I really do. And I'm pretty sure you like me, too."

"I do, but—"

"No but." He takes my hands and pulls my body into his. "That's all we need to know."

He's warm, and it feels damn good being pressed against him. But that tension is still in my chest.

I take a step backwards. "I'm sorry. I understand why you lied, but I'm not sure I'm ready to trust you yet. I want to. But it's not there right now. I don't feel it."

"Could you?"

"I don't know. But Miles, I want to be with someone who loves me, who wants to share his feelings with me because he loves me and trusts me, and not because it's the only way he can win me over."

He considers my words like they're poetry. "I can do that."

"Maybe. But it doesn't feel like it to me." I pull the jacket tight around my chest. The neighboring street is wide and clean and completely empty. "Can you take me home?"

"Yeah." He presses his palm into the small of my back. "I really am sorry."

"Me too."

In more ways than one.

* * *

Miles still has my suitcase in his trunk. He brings it all the way to my apartment door.

"I'd like to come in," he says.

I shake my head. "I'm not up for that… any of that right now." I fiddle with my key. "Finals start Monday. I've got to turn everything off so I can study."

He nods. "When are you done?"

"The twelfth."

"I'll see you on the twelfth."

He slides his hands around my waist, pulls my body into his, and kisses me. Heat floods my body. It's sweet and hot and delicate all at once.

I slide his leather jacket off my arms and try to hand it over.

He waves it away. "I want you to keep it."

I nod.

"Bye, Meg."

"Bye."

I don't breathe properly until I hear the elevator doors shut behind him.