I wake up to the sound of my cell phone alarm. According to the clock, it's eleven thirty. There's a key on the desk and a note under it.

Kara,

Feel free to stay as long as you want if you decide to bail on the flight. Lock up when you leave.

Call me if you need to talk. Anytime. I'll keep my phone on all night every night.

Love you,

Meg

My suitcase is sitting next to the door. I find a change of clothes in it. I shower, brush my teeth, get dressed.

I gather my stuff together and wait for Tom on the curb. There are fifteen minutes until noon. I occupy the time by making a playlist of breakup songs angry enough to fit my mood. "You Oughta Know," "These Boots Were Made for Walking," "I Hate Myself For Loving You." I'm up to thirty-five songs when a loud voice grabs my attention.

"You're gonna get mugged staring at your phone like that." Tom is leaning against the door of a red sports car convertible, sunglasses covering his black eye.

It's a nice car. A few years old. Flashy but well built. Very Tom.

He's holding two Starbucks cups. He offers one to me. "Earl Grey, right?"

I nod and take the drink. It's a little oversteeped but still better than anything else I've felt all day.

He pops the trunk of the car and tosses my suitcase inside. "I brought you a sandwich. In case you're not willing to sit down for lunch."

"What kind of sandwich?"

"Caprese."

"I'll take it."

He examines my expression. "All right. Get it." He opens the passenger door for me then slides into the driver's seat.

I buckle my seatbelt and focus my attention on my tea. I need the energy.

Tom turns on the car. "Shoulda started with 'I'm sorry about all this.'"

"Thanks." I find the paper bag-wrapped sandwich sitting in a cup holder. It smells good. "Can we put the top up?"

"Yeah.

He pushes a button. With a whir, the convertible roof slides over us, blocking out the rest of the world.

Now, I'm only one person's pity project. It's almost tolerable.

Tom slips his drink into the cup holder. "Drew asked me to make sure you got to San Francisco okay."

"You already bought me a ticket. You don’t have to act as my chaperone."

"Yeah, but what if you suddenly realize you're over him and you're desperate for rebound sex? I'd hate to miss that chance."

"Tom, are you flirting with me?"

"A little." He winks. "It could be our secret."

"Really?"

He shakes his head. "No. I respect you too much to rebound-fuck you."

"Is that a compliment or an insult?"

"A compliment."

I unwrap the sandwich and take a bite. It's good. Fresh, thick tomatoes, crisp basil, soft mozzarella. "I guess it's not good for the band if Drew is in jail."

"Fuck Drew." He shrugs. "You probably want to fuck Drew. He must be pretty good for you to put up with so much shit."

My cheeks flush. "He is. But that's not why I like him."

"Why do you like him? He's an asshole."

"Not as much as you are."

He pulls onto the freeway. "About as much."

"He makes me laugh. He's sweet. Pushy but sweet. I can be myself with him. Or I could... I thought I could trust him with anything. I thought a lot of things."

"Don't talk like that. He’s mad for you. Not that he deserves you. Or anyone with such great tits."

"Uh... thanks?"

"He's happy when he's around you."

"How is the black eye doing? The one Drew gave you because he was so happy around me."

"Good." He takes off the sunglasses and turns to me. "Makes me look tough."

It does. I turn my attention back to the sandwich. I haven't eaten any real food since last night.

"He's in love with you, Kara. It's obvious to everyone but him. And maybe you."

I examine Tom's expression. He can't believe that. If Drew was in love with me, he wouldn't run away.

Tom makes eye contact. "Drew's a fucking idiot. But that move we pulled, I pulled, that wasn't gonna help shit. Drew hates attention. And after everything with Vivian—"

"Was it really that bad?"

"Worse. You should have seen the shit Pete gave him after that. Fucker is such a romantic. Couldn't deal with Drew pinning the whole thing on relationships sucking ass. They got into these stupid fights. And everybody on that tour—not just me—everybody kept one eye on Drew. It drove him batshit."

"He drives himself batshit."

"I'm not making excuses for him. If you don't think he deserves a chance to apologize, then fuck him. I'll find you a nice boy toy to help you get over it."

"No thanks."

"But there's no doubt in my mind that he loves you."

"What the fuck do you know about love?"

"Everybody can see it. The way he looks at you. He's fucking crazy about you. And you love him too, right?"

I finish my sandwich.

"Okay. Not my business." Tom's voice softens. "I know you asked me to stop helping, but I lined up a show in San Francisco. It's Wednesday night. We have a stand-in for Miles—"

"Don't you have a manager to do this stuff for you?"

"Aidan? I tried to get him fired when he wouldn't stop offering Miles coke, but he's some VIP's nephew. I only let him do any actual managing if it's strictly necessary."

"You did that for Miles?"

"I did it 'cause I fucking hate Aidan."

"You did it for Miles."

Tom runs his hand through his hair like he's embarrassed.

"Drew was right. You care more than you let on."

"Drew said that?"

"Yeah."

Tom crushes his empty cup and shoves it into his seat-back pocket. "Come to the show. If he doesn't make this up to you, I'll buy you a trip anywhere you want. All expenses paid. Eat, drink, and fuck strange men until you're over it. You can leave the second the show ends. Go to Japan or Ireland or the Bahamas on my dime."

"Maybe."

"Just do me one favor."

"Yeah?"

"Make him earn it."