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  I laugh. “Good point. But think of Rohan. Horses and battle, men being men. Rohan is a much better choice than the Shire.”

  She rolls her eyes before turning back to the movie. “Whatever. Maybe I’ll live in the woods with the elves.”

  “The elves, eh? You got a thing for Legolas?”

  She gives an exaggerated shudder. “That skinny, girly looking dude? Absolutely not. Aragorn or get the hell out. That’s a real man.”

  I tighten my arms around her. “You know, I’ve been told that I look a little like Aragorn.”

  She snorts. “Keep dreaming.”

  We talk about other movie characters that we find attractive. After listing Wolverine, Iron Man, and Superman I start to think that she does have a thing for burly guys with dark hair. I remember her comments on my biceps and grin over her head.

  After nearly two hours, her breathing finally becomes even and deep. I comment on the ring wraiths and when she doesn’t answer I’m sure she’s asleep. I reach for a throw pillow, adjusting it behind my head, and settle back, closing my eyes. The arm of the chair is digging into my shoulder and my left foot is falling asleep where it rests on the side of the couch. And Sam’s hair is tickling the side of my nose.

  I fall asleep almost immediately, more comfortable than I’ve ever been in my life.

  Chapter Six

  Sam

  I wake up, my entire body feeling stiff, and look around. I must have fallen asleep on the couch last night. I blink at the title screen on the TV, the familiar music of Lord of the Rings playing on an endless loop. Suddenly I remember the exact circumstances of putting that movie on. And that’s when I realize that I’m not alone on this couch.

  I bolt upright, slipping Cash’s arms from around my middle. His head is tilted back on a throw pillow, his mouth wide open, snoring. If I wasn’t so panicked I might think him adorable, sleeping like that. But the panic isn’t abating.

  I rush to the kitchen, wondering how I can get out of this. I let someone sleep over. The entire night. I never let anyone spend the night, not ever. It’s my number one rule. A distraction isn’t worth a whole lot if it leaves a mess to clear up in the morning. And this is a pretty damn big mess.

  Why didn’t he leave last night? When he fell asleep after round two I had actually tried to wake him, thinking he would be of a similar mind—one-night-stands should end before morning. But when I poked his chest and called his name he had merely grunted in his sleep and pulled me closer. I had laid there like that, getting more and more annoyed, the silence getter louder and louder, until I finally slipped out from under his arms to the sanctuary of late night television.

  And he had followed me. Even then I held out hope that he might gather his things and take off, but no. He had put on a four-hour-long movie and settled in for the night. And, like a fool, I had let him. And now he was still here.

  I could leave, I think. Write him a note that I have school and just slip away. He can let himself out when he gets up. Then I realize that it’s Sunday and my heart falls. No school on Sunday.

  I look around the room, desperately searching for some idea, some plan to get him out of here—without straight up kicking him out. He had been nice to me last night, much nicer than I expected from someone with his reputation. He didn’t deserve to be treated rudely, no matter how panicked I was at the very thought of him still being here.

  “Sam?”

  I spin on my heel, heart pounding, to see him standing there in the kitchen doorway. He looks ridiculously good in his boxers, chest bare, hair messed and sleep drunk look on his face. He gives me a lazy grin, his eyes flicking up and down my bare legs. “Morning, gorgeous.”

  “Morning,” I manage to squeak. He’s looking at me like he has every intention of going for round three and there’s no way I can let that happen. If we go back to bed now, who knows how long he’ll stay? Besides, the idea of sleeping with him in the clear light of day, with no liquor to bolster my spirits, scares the hell out of me.

  So I step around the table, as far away as I can get. “There’s juice in the fridge if you want some,” I say, careful to keep my voice steady. “I’m out of coffee, sorry.”

  That isn’t entirely true. But making coffee feels far too domestic—and would take far too long. I need him out. Now.

  He scratches his chest, yawning, looking far too comfortable in my kitchen. “Want some breakfast? I’m pretty good at French toast.”

  Damn it.

  “No thanks,” I say. “I actually don’t have a lot of time this morning. I have a ton of stuff to do.”

  His eyebrows shot up and he glances at the clock over the microwave. “Stuff to do? At 9 a.m. on a Sunday?”

  I’m fidgeting with the hem of my shirt and I force myself to stand up straight, get control. “Family stuff. Pretty important, actually. So, um…” I let my eyes flicker to the door, hoping he’ll get the point. He’s watching me carefully, as if trying to read something in my face.

  “No, I get it,” he finally says, his voice strange. Like he’s trying to cover something. Disappointment, maybe. “I’ll leave you to your plans. My brothers are probably starting to flip, anyhow.” He gives me a quick grin that doesn’t exactly reach his eyes. “I have a bit of a reputation for heading off on my own and getting into trouble.”

  Buddy, you have no idea how much trouble I am, I think, starting to feel sick. I knew from experience that the headache will start first, joined soon after by the nausea. Neither of which have anything to do with a hangover.

  He watches me for another moment before finally turning to leave the kitchen. I breathe a sigh of relief when I hear the bedroom door open, crossing my fingers that he’s getting his clothes.

  He returns a moment later, clad in those jeans that made his ass look so good, pulling his shirt over his head. I have a sudden flash of him pulling it off the night before and have to turn away so he won’t see the color in my cheeks.

  “What’s your number?” he asks, and I spin back in his direction, gaping at him.

  “What?”

  He’s holding a cell phone in his hand. “Your number. So I can call you.”

  “Why would you want to call me?” I squeak, my stomach dropping.

  He gives me a confused look. “I don’t know. To talk? To hang out again?”

  “That’s not a good idea,” I blurt out. “Really. I’m, um, very busy.”

  His eyebrows are practically in his hair. “Too busy to talk?”

  “Yes, actually.”

  The look on his face now is unmistakably hurt. I try not to think about it. I’m already feeling guilty enough, for reasons that have nothing to do with him, to feel bad for blowing him off. I mean, how many times has he done this to other women?

  Finally he pockets the phone. “I get it.”

  “I’m sorry, Cash,” I say, feeling bad in spite of my attempts not to. “I had a really good time with you last night. I just…my life is a little complicated right now. And you’ll be leaving soon. So…”

  “Yeah, I said I get it.”

  He turns on the spot and I stay there in the kitchen, frozen. A moment later he appears in the doorway again, this time in his shoes and jacket. “Thanks for the hospitality.”

  Is that bitterness in his voice? I swallow hard. “Sure. Thanks for, you know. Being there for me after that whole Jess and Jed thing.”

  He nods once and then turns to go. A second later I hear the front door click and I sigh in relief, collapsing into the nearest dining chair. He’s gone, out of my life, just the way I wanted it. The way I need it. I wasn’t lying about complicated. There’s nothing about my life that he would want to be a part of.

  Yet I can’t shake the empty feeling in my stomach, unrelated to the normal anxiety and guilt that are starting to course through me.

  The apartment is feeling very quiet again.

  ***

  “I told you that we shouldn’t have gone out,” Penny says, handing me a carton of ice crea
m and a spoon. “Why don’t you ever listen to me?”

  “Because you generally give terrible advice.”

  She makes a face at me. “If you would have listened to my advice last night, we wouldn’t be doing this.” I can hear the unspoken word hovering above us. Again. We wouldn’t be doing this again.

  “No one said you had to come over,” I mumble.

  She sighs. “Samantha, come on. Like I’m not going to come over when you’ve literally made yourself sick from being upset.”

  I pull the throw up to my chin, trying not to think about how it had felt when Cash wrapped us both up in it last night. That was before everything got so fucked up.

  “Why do I keep doing this?” I whisper, staring at a loose thread in the blanket. “Why can’t I just keep it together?”

  “Because you put too much pressure on yourself to be perfect,” she says matter of factly, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “So when things start to fall apart, when you stop being able to deal, you go off the rails.”

  “Thanks,” I say drily. “Nice assessment.”

  “Hey, look. It could have been worse, right?”

  I shudder, not wanting to think about how much worse it might have been. How much worse it had been, on many occasions.

  “You’re just in a pattern, cousin of mine. And you need to break that pattern.”

  “But how?” I cry, clenching my fists under the blanket. “How do I break it?”

  She watches me for a long time. “Remember what you said about me giving shitty advice?”

  I nod, fighting back the latest onslaught of tears that is threatening.

  “I might, sometimes, but it’s not for lack of trying. I do try, Sam. For you I try. But the truth is, I have no freaking clue how to help you.”

  My mouth drops open in surprise but Penny continues. “I don’t know how to get you out of this cycle. This constant quest to be perfect and never step out of line followed by these breakdowns. I don’t know.”

  “Penny—”

  “So I really think you should see someone that does.”

  I’m shaking my head before she’s even finished the sentence. “No.”

  “Sam—”

  “I said no. I don’t do shrinks.”

  She sighs loudly, leaning back into the cushions. “Not even if they can help?”

  “They can’t,” I snapped. “I have plenty of experience to draw on when I say this, Pen. Or don’t you remember what happened after Wyatt was born?”

  Her voice is so quiet I almost can’t hear her. “Of course I remember. I’m the one who had to sit there and watch, helpless as hell.”

  My eyes return to the loose thread, anything to get my mind off those terrible weeks in the hospital. “They can’t help me.”

  “Then I don’t know what to tell you, Sam. The way I see it you pretty much have two options.”

  “Which are?”

  “You figure out a way to help yourself or you don’t. You get better…or you don’t.”

  “Real helpful.”

  “Like I said, I’m not a shrink.”

  We sit in silence for a long moment. I finally take a bite of the ice cream that is slowly starting to melt in its carton. “What happens if I don’t? Get better, I mean.”

  She shifts on the couch so that she’s facing me. Reluctantly, I look over at her, meeting her gaze. “I’m afraid that if you don’t find a way out of this pattern, every spiral is going to get worse.”

  I swallow, not liking the serious tone in her voice.

  “Do you think it’s getting worse?”

  She shrugs. “I know that it used to be drinking. And that a few times there’ve been drugs involved. I know that a lot of times these things involve guys—and that might scare me the most. What if you pick the wrong guy someday, Sam? What if one day it’s not just some random at the bar but someone who’s actually dangerous? Someone who might want to hurt—”

  “Stop.” I set the ice cream on the table. “I get it.”

  “You don’t,” she cries, sounding more frustrated than I can remember hearing her. “You don’t, or else you would stop. Or get help. But you just keep doing the same thing, over and over again. Do you know that I dread you seeing Wyatt?”

  I sit up straight, narrowing my eyes at her, ready to punch her mouth if she says anything at all about—

  “Oh, don’t look at me like that. You know I love that kid. But that’s what sets you off, isn’t it? Him leaving?”

  I don’t answer and she sighs. “Of course it is. God, Sam, it could not be more obvious. You spend week after week being the perfect little angel. Going to school, acing your tests, staying in at night, avoiding anyone and anything that might make you look like you’re immature or incapable. And every week you see him, and every week he leaves, and you start to feel more and more hopeless that it will change until finally—”

  I jump up from the couch, dropping the blanket at my feet. “Shut. Up. Penny.”

  “Why?” she counters, remaining in her spot on the couch. “Have I said anything at all that isn’t true?”

  “You have no idea what this is like.”

  “No, I don’t. But you don’t know what it’s like to see your best friend completely break down every five or six weeks. Like clockwork. And you don’t know what it’s like to constantly wonder if this time is going to be it. The break down that she can’t come back from.”

  “What part of shut up didn’t you understand?” I’m yelling now but I don’t care. I don’t need this. I don’t need every one of my mistakes shoved in my face. Doesn’t she have any idea how guilty I already feel? How ashamed of my behavior? Every damn day.

  “I’ll shut up,” Penny says, raising her hands. “But I want you to think about how serious this is, Sam. And I want you to consider getting some help.”

  “And what do you think they’ll say to that?” I snarled, pointing vaguely at the door.

  Her brow furrows for a minute before her face clears. “The Warners?”

  I nod, fighting back tears.

  “I think they would support you, the same way they have forever. The way they did when your own mother didn’t, for all those years. The way they did long after their son died.”

  “I can’t tell them about this. They…” I take a deep, shaking breath, fighting back the tears. “They can’t know that I do this.”

  She nods, looking so sad I can barely look at her. “What happens when you can’t hide it anymore, Sam? What happens when, one of these weekends, you go too far?”

  I turn away and walk slowly to my bedroom, leaving my cousin sitting on my couch.

  Chapter Seven

  Cash

  I call Reed from the front step of Sam’s apartment building. It goes to voicemail and I dial again. Immediately. This time he answers on the third ring. “Cash?”

  “Hey, bro. Any chance you can come get me?”

  “I’m asleep you ass.”

  “You wouldn’t be talking to me if you were asleep.” He grumbles something with several four-letter words and I sigh. “I’m sorry, man. I wouldn’t call if I didn’t really need you.”

  “Where the hell are you?”

  I give him the cross streets to put into his phone’s GPS and he informs me that he’ll be here in fifteen minutes. “I owe you one.”

  “Damn right you do.”

  I pass the time before his arrival pacing up and down the street in front of her apartment and replaying every moment of our time together. The flirting in the bar, the weirdness with her friends, finding out about Doug. The way she had leaned into me later, flirting with me, challenging me to take her up on her offer.

  I think about what she had felt like in my arms. The way she had looked when she finally found her release.

  What the hell did I do wrong? When I found her in the kitchen this morning it couldn’t have been more clear that she wasn’t happy to see me. She had practically chased me out of the house. I wasn’t sure I had
ever been treated with such a display with any girl I’d been with. Hell, I hadn’t even acted like that, despite my reputation as a womanizer. If a girl wanted to stay over, I always made sure she was okay in the morning—that she had something to eat and a way home. Sam hadn’t even asked me how I planned to get back to the cabin.

  When Reed finally pulls up I climb into the Jeep, slamming the door behind me slightly louder than warranted. He looks over at me as he pulls into the barely existent Sunday morning traffic.

  “Let me guess,” he says, turning his attention back to the road. “Your one night fling turned into a crazed clinger.”

  I shake my head, staring out the window so that I don’t have to meet his gaze. “Not really.”

  “What, then? What in the hell else would have you willingly awake before ten a.m.?”

  “Can we please just go home, Reed? I don’t want to talk about it.”

  He’s quiet for the next few miles but before he leaves town to pull out onto the state freeway, he clears his throat. “I just need to know that nothing, um, happened. Nothing that could be misconstrued as…”

  “What?”

  “Something that might get you in trouble with the press. Were you drunk publicly? Did you drive? Does the girl have any claim of mistreatment?”

  “Jesus,” I mutter. “You make it sound like I’m some kind of date rapist, Reed.”

  “You know I didn’t mean it like that—”

  “Yes you did. You think I take advantage of women.”

  “Dude, are you seriously going to get sanctimonious on me?” He glances at me quickly before turning his attention back to the road. “Your reputation precedes you, little brother.”

  I don’t bother answering. Yes, my reputation is well known and well documented. But I’ve never once done anything with a girl who even seemed the slightest bit hesitant. I’ve never pressured and I’ve never manipulated. For one thing, I’ve never needed to—there’ve always been plenty of very eager, willing women ready to have a little fun. But, more than that, I’m not a total asshole. I might be a philanderer and I might have a serious aversion to commitment, but I would never, ever take advantage of a woman.