“No.”

Griffin took the orange juice out, turned around, and leaned back against the counter. “What’s wrong?”

I decided there was no point in lying. My brother wasn’t an idiot. “Cole and I broke up.”

His eyebrows peaked. “Seriously?”

“Yes. On Christmas Eve.”

“Damn.” He took a drink right from the carton. “What happened?”

“Griffin!” Blair took a glass from the cupboard and handed it to him. “What have I told you about that? It grosses me out.”

“Why? You don’t even drink O.J.”

“Because we are not Neanderthals without proper drinkware. Use the glass, please.”

Griffin rolled his eyes but poured juice from the carton into the glass. “So what happened with Cole? I thought everything was good.”

“It was . . . but it also wasn’t, and he never told me.”

“Huh?”

I took a deep breath. “I think Cole is scared of being happy with me because of what happened to him before. He doesn’t believe happiness can last.”

Griffin took a drink and nodded thoughtfully. “I could see that about him.”

“And I think after he asked me to move in with him, it hit him really hard. But even before that—as soon as he realized how happy Mariah was about the whole situation—he was kind of freaking out internally, but wouldn’t admit it. I could tell something was off with him, but he just kept saying he was fine.”

“Sounds like Cole.”

It struck me that Griffin was Cole’s best friend. He knew him better than anyone. “Has Cole ever mentioned anything to you about, like, panic attacks?”

“No. But I do know that he had pretty bad nightmares as a kid.”

Blair and I exchanged a look. “He’s having them again,” I said. “Only he refused to admit it. And then in a weird twist, he tried to tell me Mariah was having nightmares.” I told him about my conversations with my mother and Mariah, and then my argument with Cole.

Griffin’s mouth was set in a grim line. “Jesus. You gotta feel bad for him.”

“I do,” I said helplessly, my eyes tearing up again. “But I can’t help him if he won’t even talk to me.”

“Has Cole ever seen a therapist?” Blair asked Griffin. “Like maybe after Trisha died?”

“I don’t remember,” he said. “I just remember him being really focused on Mariah. From that point on, all he cared about was her. I think he swept a lot of shit under the rug.”

I nodded. “I think so too. But it was always there, and now that it’s uncovered, he needs to deal with it. Except he won’t.”

“He won’t talk to a therapist?” Griffin asked.

“Nope. He said therapy is for women and kids.”

Blair made a disgusted noise and rolled her eyes. “Why do men think they have to be so tough all the time? It’s okay to show your emotions.”

“He did show them,” I said, grabbing another tissue. “And he talked about them. He told me he loved me. Was he lying?”

“No,” Griffin said firmly. “That I know for sure. I’ve never seen him so crazy about someone. And he doesn’t bullshit people like that. He never has. If he told you he loved you, he meant it.”

“Really?” I asked, hope rising in my heart.

He nodded. “Yeah. Like at Thanksgiving, and at the wedding, and at dinner here that night . . . it was obvious the guy was messed up.”

“To be clear, that’s supposed to be a compliment,” Blair said, rolling her eyes.

“I asked him about you on Thanksgiving, and he tried to deny something was going on, but Cole is a really shitty liar.” Griffin shook his head. “His upper lip does, like, this weird, twitchy thing, and his eyes dart all over the place. And he sweats.”

“Yes!” I exclaimed. “I’ve seen it!”

“Sometimes his hands twitch too, so he folds his arms and sticks his hands in his armpits. It’s fucking ridiculous. He’s such a Boy Scout.”

“Oh my God, he totally did that during our argument.”

Blair laughed sympathetically. “Poor Cole.”

I looked at Griffin, needing to hear it again. “Do you really think he was happy with me?”

Griffin shrugged. “Yeah. I mean, dudes don’t go around saying shit like ‘I can’t believe how happy I am’”—he spoke in a high-pitched voice with an exaggerated version of Blair’s Tennessee lilt—“but if I had to be the judge, I’d say he was, and right now he’s probably miserable.”

“Could you maybe check on him?” I asked, clasping my hands together. “I can’t stop worrying about him.”

“Why don’t you reach out to him? Maybe he’s changed his mind.”

“I can’t, Griffin.” My eyes filled again. “It will hurt too much. Every time I see him or Mariah outside with the new dog, I melt down.”

My brother exhaled heavily. “Okay. I’ll give him a call later.”

“Thank you.”

Griffin put his glass in the sink and disappeared down the hall to their bedroom.

“Now how about eating a little something?” Blair pushed my plate closer to me.

Giving in, I took a bite of the muffin. “Thanks. It’s really good. Way better than a garden salad.”

She laughed. “No one wants raw vegetables during an emotional crisis.”

I shook my head. “Nope.”

“Finish your muffin, and then we’ll go do something fun. Get our nails done or something. Go shopping. Buy something cute for New Year’s Eve.”

“Ugh, don’t even talk about it. For once, I was going to get to kiss the man of my dreams at midnight. Instead I’ll be home with my mother, wearing sweatpants, watching the ball drop while eating raw cookie dough and drinking wine out of a box.”

“No way, sister. Griffin and I decided we’re going to have a few people over here, and you’ll be here in a sequin miniskirt with a glass of bubbly in your hand at midnight. Guys will be knocking each other over to be the one you kiss at midnight.”

“A sequin miniskirt?” I looked at her sideways. “You’re crazy.”

“I know.” She tipped her head onto my shoulder. “But at least I made you laugh.”

Thirty

Cole

At the closing, I got the keys to my new house, but I didn’t feel like celebrating.

I’d imagined the day so much differently—I’d pick up Mariah and Cheyenne and go straight to the house, and we’d walk through it together, knowing it was finally ours.

Instead, it was just like every other day had been since Cheyenne walked out—agony.

I couldn’t sleep. Had no appetite. Didn’t feel like working out. I was ignoring calls and texts from friends, evading my mother’s questions, and getting through work on autopilot.

Mariah was still so upset, she was hardly talking to me. I hadn’t told her much—just that it had been Cheyenne’s decision to end the relationship, and I asked her to please respect Cheyenne’s privacy and not go running over there to ask her questions or beg her to come back. I hadn’t wanted to ruin Mariah’s Christmas morning by telling her right away, but she was desperate to tell Cheyenne about all her new presents—and show her the photo of Buddy, a nine-year-old Terrier mix who’d been abandoned and was always passed over at the shelter because people wanted younger dogs. I’d felt for the animal, who must have thought all his best days were behind him. Mariah had taken one look at the photograph and burst into tears, grabbing onto me and refusing to let go, even though I was already going to be late for work.