Pathetic, I know. And even more so because it’s been exactly a year since we went our separate ways and I still think about him just as much as I did before after Benton James Kessler. But it’s not so easy to rid my thoughts of someone who had such an impact on my life.

I don’t wish ill on him. I never have. Especially after seeing how torn he was with his decision when we parted ways last year. I’m sure if I cried and begged him to choose me, he would have. But I would never want to be with anyone because I had to beg. I don’t even want to be with anyone if there’s even a remote possibility that there’s a third party at play. Love should be between two people, and if it isn’t, I’d rather bow out than take part in the race.

I’m not one to believe things happen for a reason, so I refuse to believe it was our fate not to end up together. If I believed that, then I’d have to believe it was fate for Kyle to die at such a young age. I’d much rather believe shit just happens.

Injured in a fire? Shit happens.

Lost your career? Shit happens.

Lost the love of your life to a widow with an infant? Shit happens.

The last thing I want to believe is that my fate has already been mapped out for me and I get no say in where or who I end up with. But if that’s the case and my life will turn out the same in the end¸ no matter what choices I make, then why does it matter if I leave my apartment tonight?

It doesn’t. But Amber seems to think it’s a big deal.

“You can’t stay here and mope,” she says, plopping down on the couch next to me.

“I’m not moping.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Am not.”

“Then why won’t you come out with us?”

“I don’t want to be a third wheel.”

“Then call Teddy.”

“Theodore,” I correct.

“You know I can’t call him Theodore with a straight face. That name should be reserved for members of the royal family.”

I wish she would get past his name. I’ve been out with him several times now and she still brings it up every time. She can see the irritation on my face, so she continues to defend herself.

“He wears pants with tiny, embroidered whales on them, Fallon. And the two times I’ve gone out with you guys, all he does is tell stories about being raised in Nantucket. But no one in Nantucket talks like a surfer, I can promise you that.”

She’s right. He talks about Nantucket like everyone should be jealous he’s from there. But besides that small quirk and his pretentious choice in pants, he’s one of the only guys I’ve been around that can take my mind off Ben for more than an hour.

“If you hate him as much as you seem to, why are you insisting I invite him out with us tonight?”

“I don’t hate him,” Amber says. “I just don’t like him. And I’d rather you come tonight with him than sit here and mope about how it’s November 9th and you aren’t spending it with Ben.”

“That’s not why I’m moping,” I lie.

“Maybe not, but at least we can both agree that you are moping.” She picks up my phone. “I’m texting Teddy to tell him to meet us at the club.”

“That’s going to be awkward for you and Glenn, considering I won’t even be there.”

“Hogwash. Get dressed. Wear something cute.”

• • •

She always wins. I’m here . . . at the club. Not at home, moping on my couch where I wish I could be.

And why did Theodore have to wear the pants with whales on them again? That just makes Amber the winner and right.

“Theodore,” Amber says, fingering the rim of her almost-empty drink. “Do you have a nickname or does everyone just call you Theodore?”

“Just Theodore,” he says. “My father is referred to as Teddy, so the nickname gets confusing if we both use it. Especially when we’re back in Nantucket around family.”

“Riveting,” she says, dragging her eyes over to me. “Want to walk to the bar with me?”

I nod and scoot out of the booth. As we make our way to the bar, Amber threads her fingers through mine and squeezes. “Please tell me you haven’t had sex with him.”

“We’ve only been out four times,” I tell her. “I’m not that easy.”

“You had sex with Ben on the third date,” she says in retort.

I hate that she brought up Ben, but I guess when you’re discussing your sex life, the only guy you’ve ever slept with is surely going to be part of the conversation.

“Maybe so, but that was different. We knew each other a lot longer than that.”

“You knew each other for three days,” she says. “You can’t count entire years when you only interacted once a year.”

We reach the bar. “Change of subject,” I say. “What do you want to drink?”

“Depends,” she says. “Are we drinking because we want to remember this night forever? Or because we want to forget the past?”

“Definitely forget.”

Amber turns to the bartender and orders four shots. When he puts them in front of us, we hold up the first shot and clink our glasses together.

“To waking up on November 10th and having no memory of the 9th,” she says.

“Cheers to that.”

We down the shots and then immediately follow those up with the next two. I don’t usually drink a lot, but I’ll do whatever it takes to speed up the night just so I can get it over with.