I lean over to shoulder-butt her, then raise my brows as I look at my brother. “Of course, she’d drop Siobhan in a heartbeat if Kirstie Ellen Todd was available and willing.”

Cass tosses her hand up to her forehead like a Victorian-era woman with the vapors. “Alas, she’s off the market again. She and Graham Elliott made up. Pregnant,” she adds in a stage whisper.

Ethan looks at me, a little hesitant at first, but then his grin widens with Cass’s antics.

“She has a little crush,” I say.

“Hell, who can blame her? Todd is hot.”

“Exactly,” Cass says. “Of course, Siobhan is hotter. Be still my heart.”

Ethan tosses an olive from his drink at her, and I ask Ethan about his love life.

“Happily non-monogamous,” he says. “Or did you miss the part where I pointed out that Laguna Beach is like a buffet of hot women?”

“Neanderthal.”

“And proud of it.”

We move from insults to his house hunt. “All I really need is two bedrooms in a complex with an exercise room. I’m not picky, you know? Mostly I just want to get out of Mom and Dad’s house.”

“I don’t blame you,” I say dryly, and beside me Cass grabs my hand under the table. She’s known part of my story for years, but it’s only been recently that I told her about my dad’s role in what happened to me as a teen. Ethan doesn’t know any of that, and I will go to my grave protecting that secret.

“Dad said he’s been calling you,” Ethan says. “I really think—” He cuts himself off. “You know what? Never mind.”

I should just drop it, but I don’t. “You really think what?”

“I just think—you know. You should see what he has to say.” He doesn’t look at me when he answers, and the tuna sits uncomfortably in my stomach. Because I have no interest in hearing what my dad has to say. And Ethan knows that.

Beside me, Cass winces, and I realize that I’ve been squeezing her hand so hard it’s a wonder the bones are still solid. I shoot her a silent apology and release her hand. As for Ethan, I just shake my head. “We don’t have anything to talk about.”

“He pissed you off at dinner,” he says, referring to the dinner he, Jackson, and I shared with my parents the night Ethan got home from London. The night that Jackson—damn him—told my dad what Reed did to me.

“I get that,” Ethan continues. “But don’t you think—”

“No.” I really was pissed as hell at Jackson, and we worked past it. But that doesn’t mean I want to get all warm and fuzzy with my father. That, in fact, is the last thing I want.

“Silly . . .” He trails off, leaving my nickname hanging in the air.

I pull out my phone and check the time. “Listen, I have to go,” I lie. “I told Jackson I’d meet him after drinks.”

“Shit, now you’re mad.”

“I’m not,” I say. “Really. Just don’t push me on this, okay?”

He hesitates, then nods. “Don’t,” he adds, when I start to put cash on the table. “I’ve got it.”

“Thanks. I’ll see you later, all right?” I lean over and give Cass a hug. She squeezes tight, whispering, “Are you okay?” I nod in reply, then give her another squeeze.

Ethan stands as I leave, and I hug him close. “I love you. But I can’t deal with—”

“Yeah,” he says, then shoves his hands in his pockets and looks at the floor. “I know.”

I’m still not sure what’s up with my brother. I mean, I get that he wishes we could be one big, happy family. I wish that, too. Or I used to, a long time ago. But I’ve made peace with the fact that my parents are not and never will be part of my inner circle. Or, frankly, my outer circle. And I wish that Ethan could make peace with that, too. Because if he’s going to keep pushing on the parental reunion thing every time we get together, that’s going to get ugly.

I want my brother, but I really, really don’t want the baggage.

I’m in the car and firing up the engine when I see Ethan sprinting toward me. I’d parked next to my parents’ silver Camry, but I don’t think Ethan is racing for his car. No, he’s making a beeline to me.

I roll down my window. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I know. I get that. I’m sorry,” he says. “Listen, can I get in for just a sec?”

“I—okay.” I adore my brother too much to deny him—or to stay mad at him. “Get in.”