And I have a whole new respect for Stanton. Sofia can be pretty goddamn intimidating when she puts her mind to it.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

“If you want an actual answer, you’ll have to be more specific.”

“You’re playing games with Chelsea. And it needs to stop.”

Obviously, Chelsea filled her in on our interaction in the garden. I wonder what she said, how she described it. And I don’t actually mind that Sofia is taking her side—Chelsea deserves to have someone in her corner.

“I didn’t mean to.” Weak. So fucking weak.

“You’re tearing her apart, Jake. She doesn’t know which end is up.”

I flinch.

“So either shit or get off the pot. Either you’re her friend, or you’re more than her friend—you can’t have it both ways.”

“I fucking know that!” I snap. “I’m her friend.”

Sofia straightens, folding her arms. “Then I suggest you start acting like it.”

• • •

Sofia’s verbal attack bugs the shit out of me the rest of the day. My focus is crap because of it—so I cut out early and drive straight to Chelsea’s house. To talk to her. To make sure we’re okay.

’Cause I really fucking need us to be okay.

There’s a strange car in the driveway when I pull up—a white Chevy Suburban. The front door is unlocked, so I walk in. The house is quiet, so I make my way into the kitchen and look out the glass of the back door. Chelsea’s wearing overalls and a tiny white T-shirt. Her hair is pulled into a shiny bun. Ronan is crawling around on a blanket beside her. She’s in the vegetable garden, smacking at the ground with a shovel, maybe a hoe.

And she’s not alone.

Beside her, talking easily, swinging his own tool, is Tom Caldwell.

And he . . . fits. Looks like he belongs here—in a house with a garden, a ruglike dog, and a three-car garage. The kind of guy who goes to PTA meetings and Boy Scout jamborees. They match—him and Chelsea—as fucking nauseous as it makes me to admit that. I think of Rachel and Robert McQuaid’s wedding portrait in their upstairs bedroom and can so easily imagine Chelsea and Tom’s faces in their place.

I drop my hand from the glass and turn around. I make it to the foyer before the five of them converge on me. They seem to come out of nowhere, like brain-sucking zombies in an old-time horror film. Only a lot cuter.

“You’re just gonna leave?” Riley asks.

I watch them for a minute, soaking them in. Then I shake my head. “Tom’s here.”

“We want you,” Raymond quietly declares. Without question or doubt.

“Tom’s a nice guy, Raymond.”

“He’s not you,” Rory says. “We want you.”

They all nod.

Then Rosaleen brings me to my knees.

“Don’t you like us anymore, Jake?”

What do you say to that? I mean, really—what are the fucking words?

“C’mere,” I tell her. And she steps forward into my arms. I clear my throat to dislodge the lump that’s suddenly sprung up. “Of course I like you. Out of all the little shits in the world, the six of you are my favorite. But I’m trying to do the right thing here, guys.”

“By ditching us?” Rory frowns.

My voice turns sharp. “I’m not ditching you. Ever. Whatever happens . . . between me and your aunt, I’m always going to be your friend. For the rest of your lives—I’m not going anywhere.”

Voices come from the kitchen and I hear the sound of the back door closing. I stand up as Chelsea and Tom come into the foyer.

“Jake. I didn’t know you were here.”

There’s an adorable streak of dirt on her cheek that I want to brush away for her. Right before I kiss her.

“Yeah, I just got here. It’s a nice day—I thought I’d take the kids to the park. If that’s okay with you.”

She smiles tightly. “Of course it’s okay. I’ll just grab Regan’s jacket.”

• • •

Another week goes by. I don’t go on any more stupid double dates with Brent—I don’t go out on any dates at all. I even stop jerking off.

Well . . . maybe stop is too strong of a word. But there’s a drastic decrease.

I’m terrible fucking company—even to my own cock.

Everything just seems to rub me the wrong way. And even worse, the things I used to look forward to, that gave me actual joy—an acquittal, a motion granted, watching a goddamn basketball game—just seem pointless. Hollow.

Empty.

Milton gets arrested again. For vandalism, destruction of property. And I can barely bring myself to yell at him.

He asks me if my dog died.

Then, before he leaves my office, he tells me to keep my chin up. When Milton Bradley has pity for you, that’s some rock fucking bottom, right there.

But I don’t even care.

I can barely stand myself, and after the second week rolls around, apparently everyone else has had just about enough of me too. Because early one evening, Brent, Sofia, and Stanton charge into my office, and Stanton shuts the door behind them. Brent closes the laptop on my desk and takes it away, like I’m grounded or something.

“What the hell is this?”

“This is an intervention,” the bearded bastard says.

“I don’t need an intervention.”

“Well it’s either this or Stanton’s gonna take you out back and go Old Yeller on your ass.”

I sigh and look at each of them as they sit across from me. “I’m fine.”