“I guess it’s possible . . .” Perhaps Lucy speculated just to make conversation, and hit too close to the truth. As Hollywood royalty, her word might be deemed trustworthy enough by the tabloids. I felt awkward in the ensuing silence, as I found myself staring at her mouth again. “Okay, well, good night?”

“You don’t wanna sleep here?” she said, and her voice was clear and bright after her first pull of soda.

“I didn’t think . . .”

She leaned back against the headboard, avoiding my eyes, and set the can on her nightstand. “Don’t tell anyone,” she said slowly, “but I don’t sleep very well. But when you were in Copenhagen with me, I . . . I felt . . .”—she groped for the word—“I feel okay with you.” She glanced at me, assessing my reaction. I continued to stare at her, riveted, as she flicked her two-toned eyes away again and studied her hands. “And yeah, sometimes I just need to feel okay. And you make me feel that.”

“Oh.” I wasn’t sure what to say. A small quiver in my rib cage. I didn’t know how to tell her that her words made complete sense. “Sure. I can stay.”

I took my last Vicodin in the bottle to soothe my throbbing arm, which always seemed to hurt more when I was trying to fall asleep, and laid next to Rose with a wide berth between us. We woke up in the center of the bed, having gravitated toward each other in the night, our hair tangled together on the same pillow.

WE DROVE THROUGH the night and reached Hartford a little before sunrise. The bus slowed and bumped over speed humps in the hotel parking lot.

Ian stood at the front of the bus and barked, “All right. We have two radio promos before you get your free afternoon. Merry, you wanted off-site today, right? That’s fine, as long as it’s after radio. Then tomorrow: phone interviews with Variety and Vanity Fair, and then the show.”

Emily, who was on a separate bus, joined us outside the hotel with Penny. Once in the room, I called my parents in Houston to let them know we’d arrived in Connecticut safely, then turned off all phone ringers so I could contemplate in silence. My mind, now that my Vicodin bottle had emptied, was sharp again, and the thoughts I’d been keeping at bay were now floating to the surface.

Was this just a one-sided crush? Or was it worth trying to find out if Rose felt the same way? Did she feel okay about me, the way that I felt okay about her?

I tried to nap in my own room but then admitted defeat and shuffled, hesitantly, to her door and tapped on it lightly. I just had to know.

She wasn’t asleep, either. Her curtains were drawn save one stripe down the middle where they met, and she looked disheveled and unfocused.

“Can I hang out in here for a while?” I asked, suddenly nervous. I’d felt nervous around Rose before, but this was a different kind.

She shrugged, back to being her cold self, and retreated to the mini fridge for a Diet Coke.

I closed the door and crept toward her slowly, marveling at the soft halo backlighting her messy hair.

“Rose,” I said softly, “why do you tell me that I make you feel okay and then ignore me later?” She went still. “I mean. You talk to me, sometimes, I guess. But when we’re in the whole group . . . you always want to move on to work.”

She shook her head and popped the tab; a crescent of bubbles decorated the heart of her left palm.

I reached out and clasped her wet hand.

I heard her breath catch as I drew her hand to my lips, dipping my head to kiss the foam from her wrist.

“Cassidy . . . ,” she whispered. She didn’t remove her fingers from mine.

I murmured into her palm. “I’ve been thinking . . .”

“What have you been thinking?” Her voice was uncharacteristically low, a voice I’d never heard her use.

“That . . . that I think I have feelings. For you.”

She set the can down on the desk. She stepped closer to me now, bringing her free hand up to caress the side of my face. Her fingertips were cold, the condensation streaking along my jawline. The air stirred lightly, bringing with it the scent of her—her spiced neck, her vanilla lip gloss, Diet Coke, her conditioner.

“You have feelings for me?”

“Yes.”

“I have feelings for you too,” she said softly. “But this can’t happen.”

But when I opened my eyes she was so close, so close.

“Why not?” I breathed.

“It’s already complicated . . .”

“I don’t mind complicated.”

Our foreheads were nearer now. She was shorter than me so I had to slouch a little, but the fact that she was stretching to reach me brought me a thrill. I played with her hair, touching just the ends, rubbing the glossy strands with my fingers. She sighed and came just a little bit closer, and her chest was against mine, and my hand was already there, releasing that little piece of hair and grazing lightly against the side of one breast.

When our lips met, her mouth was so full, so sweet. I was fully aware of her breasts, her narrow shoulders, her small hands with dainty fingers, which were suddenly sweeping up and down my waist like she too wanted to feel the curves and hollows of the body pressed against hers. We deepened the kiss, exploring the soft, warm wet with each other’s tongues; I tasted her gloss, which was flavored like cake frosting. Then she grasped at my arm where it was still healing and I sucked in my breath harshly, which made us break away.

She stepped back, slurring a surprised “Shit.” Then she regrouped. “But this needs to stop right now. I’m serious. We work together.”

“But we’re also friends, right?”

“What, even after all the mean stuff I’ve said to you?”

“Even after that.” I came forward to try to kiss her again, but she twisted her face to the side.

She was quiet for a long moment. She held both of my hands, our fingers intertwined, and swung my good arm back and forth between us as she thought. Her half-smile reappeared. “You’ve made me feel happier,” she admitted. “But . . .”

Those words were enough to move me into action again. I reached for her and she let me. Her mouth breathed into mine. I felt her hesitation melt and she captured my lips with hers. The gloss was gone, nibbled away; I moved my kisses from her mouth to her jawline and found myself taking deep huffs of her shampoo smell from the delta in between her neck and earlobe.

She tugged me to the bed, a gentle hint. I lay above her, relishing anywhere our skin made contact.

We took our time, a soft exploration—nothing urgent, nothing frantic. I tasted the flavor of her skin, drank in the perfume of her hair. The space between her breasts and the slip down to her navel were warmed, like she’d been baking in the sun. Her hands brushed my hair away from my face, trickled down my cheeks, hooked on my ears, scratched at my scalp.

Her bedside phone rang. Rose distractedly picked up the receiver and replaced it on its hook immediately. A few minutes later, a knock came at the door. We both scrambled up, adjusting our clothes, even though the door was locked. “Go hide in the bathroom,” she whispered, and as she hopped off the bed she called out, “Yeah?”

“Something’s wrong with your phone,” came Yumi’s muffled voice. “We have our first radio meeting in forty-five minutes and it’ll take twenty to get there.”