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  “I don’t know,” he finally mutters.

  “Can you think about it, at least?” I spit, sounding way too desperate for comfort.

  He looks at me, his face a mask, before finally nodding.

  I make a strangled noise of frustration, somewhere between yelling and crying. Instead of doing both like I want to, I leave the room, my chest tight with emotion. I manage to get upstairs to my room before screeching; muffling the sound into a pillow.

  How can I like someone so much but hate them at the same time? I’ve completely and utterly failed at my alleged ‘hiatus from men’, and now it’s biting me in the ass. Maybe I need to go to a monastery or something. I’m a damn mess.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Ash

  I discovered my love for running in basic training. It was a stressful time, and the only way I stayed sane was through the workouts we were put through. After getting used to running in combat boots and gear for years, my lightweight running shoes and shorts make me feel like I can take off like a rocket.

  I want to run as fast as I can to clear my head. I don’t want to admit that I’m running from my feelings, but yeah, I kind of am.

  It’s still dark when I walk out of the house, the streets finally quiet. I jog at a slow pace toward Prospect Park, shaking off the sleep in my limbs. Once I hit the main path that goes around the whole park, I speed up, pushing my body to loosen up.

  My muscles are unusually tight. Maybe it’s from my tossing and turning the past few nights, which got so bad that Sarge abandoned me for the dog bed he’s actually supposed to sleep in. I’ve been waking up with headaches from grinding my teeth, which I haven’t done in years.

  Ever since Briony kissed me a few days ago and I fucked it all up, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about what she said. Every time, it’s a punch in the gut because she’s completely right. But so am I.

  I like her a lot. More than I’ve ever liked any woman I’ve slept with before. I can’t even put her in that category since she’s in one of her own. She’s fun to be around, which I never thought of as a trait I’d need in a girlfriend — since even having one at all was a foreign concept. She’s smart, hardworking, and excited about things that people feign disinterest in to seem cool. And on top of all that, she’s hot and incredible in bed.

  So, she’s perfect.

  A lot of things seem perfect at first, at least from what I’ve seen with my dad. Here’s his cycle—or here’s what it used to be before he got sick: He’d meet a woman, sweep her off her feet, and they’d get married. Eventually, they’d start fighting, and Dad would get cold toward her. He’s pretty much never been a happy guy, but his shift from barely tolerable to outright miserable whenever a relationship hits the rocks is brutal. His exes either left out of the blue or let the relationship drag on until they lost their damn minds and divorced him.

  I know I’m not him, but sometimes I see flickers of resemblance. Besides our physical appearance and voices, I can be a real asshole if I get worked up enough, and I resent not having complete control over my own time. I figure that’s why I seemed to annoy him growing up. He wanted the accomplished son but didn’t want to be around to help with homework or practice whatever sport he’d signed me up for. It’s probably why both of us started our own businesses—after we both served in the Navy, we were sick and tired of not being the ones calling the shots.

  I let out a deep breath through my nose and push myself a tiny bit more. My body is warm, and the sun is finally starting to rise. A few people pass me coming the other way. I let my legs take over as I go down a big hill, finally feeling like my lungs are fully working.

  And what if I get tired of sleeping with her? I’ve had a lot of great sex with a lot of women over time, but I’ve always wanted to move on. I know Dad cheated on at least one of his wives.

  Motherfucker. Can he release his grip on my subconscious? I’m sick of it. I’m sick of him, and how the ways he fucked me up still seem to rule my everyday life. I’ve been through so fucking much in my life, from joining the military to becoming a Seal to starting my own company, but none of those experiences can pull me out of the pit my brain is in.

  I look at the big lake in the middle of this side of the park. Can I just throw myself in it? I bet the swans would probably put me out of my misery, the vicious assholes.

  I’ve already broken Briony’s heart once, back when we were both dumb kids. Why doesn’t she get that I don’t want to do it again as a grown man? I’m already hurting her. Sure, I’m thinking about it like she’d asked, but the damage is already done.

  I wish I could talk to Ben. But that’s another can of worms. He’s like an attack dog when it comes to his little sister, and even if I explain everything, he’ll probably never look at me the same way again. But there’s no way he wouldn’t find out eventually if we actually start dating.

  I speed up even more, hitting a six-and-a-half-minute-mile pace according to my fitness tracker. I’m probably pushing myself too hard, considering that my runs have been sporadic in the past month, but I can’t hold myself back. The burn feels good, and I fly around the rest of the path, my chest heaving when I get to the exit of the park. I rest my hands on my head to give my lungs space to expand and walk home.

  The neighborhood is awake now, with my favorite coffee place already getting its morning rush. Briony likes to make coffee, but she can’t make lattes. Maybe one can make things less awkward? I get two oat lattes and bring them home.

  “Briony? Are you up?” I ask. She usually gets up around this time.

  I don’t hear her respond, so I put her latte on the counter and go to shower. Once I’m cleaned up and dressed, I pop by her room. The door is open, but the bathroom door is closed. I hear vomiting, followed by a groan.

  “Are you okay?” I call through the door, tapping on it.

  “Uhng,” she grunts. “Yep—”

  And then she pukes again. That doesn’t sound good.

  “Just a second, I’ll be right back,” I say. I have ginger ale around somewhere. After doing some digging, I find a can in the back of the fridge and bring it up to her bedroom.

  When I get back, she’s brushing her teeth, looking pale and exhausted. She must have just gotten out of bed because she’s wearing a big t-shirt and no pants.

  “Ginger ale, if you want it,” I explain, setting the can on the counter for her. “You sick?”

  “I think so. I’ve been feeling really off lately.” She rinses her mouth and spits into the sink. “Maybe it’s stress.”

  “You’re so stressed that you’re puking?”

  “It’s not unheard of. Apartment hunting will take it out of you.” She smiles weakly.

  “If this has been going on for a while, you should go to the doctor. It might be serious.” I feel a flutter of nervousness in my stomach. I’m not a doctor, but that isn’t normal.

  “Ugh, I should.” She cracks open the ginger ale and takes a sip. “But they’ll probably just tell me to ride it out.”

  “So if they do, then they do. But if you’re actually sick, they can tell you. There’s a minute clinic not far from here. You should go.” I look her over. She doesn’t look like she’s lost a ton of weight or anything. Her energy seems fine.

  “Fine, whatever.” She finally remembers that we’re kind of fighting, because she shoos me toward the door. “I’ll go during lunch or something. I have to get ready for work.”

  “You’re not taking a day off?” I stop in the doorway.

  “No, I’m fine.” She suddenly looks even paler. “Pretty much.”

  “Get back in bed,” I order, walking back into the room. “Don’t go to work and get others sick. Go to the doctor. Don’t be that person who fucks up the train for everyone by thinking they can power through their commute when in reality they’re just going to puke.”

  She gives me a little smile. It makes my morning.

  “Fine. Now seriously, leave so I don’t get you sick.” She pushes m
e toward the door and shuts it behind her.

  “Ash! It’s been a minute,” my mentor and friend John says, clapping me on the shoulder. He’s a big man, so the gesture rocks me forward on my bar stool.

  “It’s been too long.” I get up and give him a handshake.

  We’re at a casual cocktail bar that just opened near my offices, having our semi-annual catch-up. He’s been in Europe for six months, helping to set up his company’s new headquarters. His career has the trajectory I dream of—he’s stayed private but grown throughout North America and now Europe. His company does a lot of service work, too, and has made a big difference in keeping vulnerable kids in school.

  He’s like the cool uncle I never had.

  “Have you been stressed? Look at all these grays, man,” John says, gesturing toward the hair on my temples. I’ve gotten a lot grayer in the past six months, but it’s probably genetics mixed with stress. Dad was fully gray by the time he was thirty-six, and I’m thirty-three. At least I still have a full head of hair. I don’t look older than I am in the face.

  “Yeah, but good stress.” I fill him in on everything that’s happened in the company, and he listens intently. That’s another great thing about John—he gives good advice, but he mostly listens.

  He fills me in on the nitty-gritty of his company, and we settle into talking about our lives. We met at some networking event seven years ago, but our friendship grew when we both realized that we get along well. He’s become my mentor in more than just business. He has his head on straight when it comes to life and what he wants out of it.

  “How’s Cherise?” I ask. His wife is a dietician and personal trainer. She’s so fit that she’ll probably outlive us all.

  “Mm.” He sips his old fashioned. “We’re getting divorced.”

  “Whoa, what?” I stop mid-sip. “Since when?”

  “Since about five months ago. It just wasn’t working anymore.”

  “Wow. I’m sorry to hear that.” I’m genuinely shocked. They seemed to be so happy together. He’s the stepfather to her child from a previous relationship, and they looked to be a picture-perfect family.

  “It’s fine. Really.” He smiles. “It wasn’t some big blowout that ended it. It just faded. It happens.”

  I nod, staring at my drink. When celebrity couples break up, some of my employees always cry that love is dead. I’ve never related to that feeling at all until now. If John, one of the nicest, most reasonable people I know, couldn’t keep a marriage alive, then there isn’t much hope for me.

  “It’s just… wow.” I shake my head. “Sorry, I’m just surprised.”

  “A lot of people were. Besides me and Cherise, of course.” He polishes off his drink. “We love each other, but neither of us were happy. Now we both are. I have the freedom I crave, and she’s free to find a partner who can spend more time with her on a day-to-day basis.”

  “So it was a mismatch in lifestyles?”

  “That’s probably the best way to describe it.”

  My mind immediately flies to Briony, of course. We’re both entrepreneurs, but that doesn’t mean much. I know I’ll eventually want the freedom that John now has. I haven’t gotten drunk to blackout levels since I was twenty-two, but I want to somehow forget about her for one fucking hour.

  “Have you been dating anyone? Or are you still living the bachelor life?” he asks, pivoting the conversation.

  “Single, mostly.”

  “Mostly?” He leans toward me. “If you’re close to having an honest-to-god girlfriend, I’ll eat this glass. I would be shocked.”

  “Christ, John, relax,” I say. “No, no girlfriend. But there’s someone.”

  “Mmhm.” He nods. “Go on.”

  I take a slow sip of my drink. If there’s anyone I could ask about this situation, it would be him. He could see the situation from the outside instead of the shit show it is on the inside, and he cares enough about me to not feed me a garbage answer.

  “It’s complicated. You know Ben, right? She’s his younger sister.”

  “Oof. That’s the number one rule of bromance—don’t sleep with your best friend’s sister.”

  “Trust me, I know. I already played with her feelings when we were young because I was an ass who strung her along.” I resist the urge to rest my head in my hands.

  “Ash…” He side-eyes me.

  “I know, I know.” I don’t even want to get into our complicated sex situation.

  “So you’re avoiding her because she’s your best friend’s sister?”

  “No, I’m avoiding her because I know I’m not the boyfriend type.” I lift my glass and gesture to him. “I don’t think our lifestyles would mesh in the long run, anyway. So I had a choice between hurting her now by rejecting her, and hurting her later when I end up dumping her. Seems like avoiding her now is the safer bet.”

  John frowns, his broad forehead wrinkling. “That explanation set off my bullshit meter so hard that it’s now out of order. You like her, but you just assume that you’ll dump her? People grow together, just like they grow apart. You never know what could happen to you two in the future.”

  “Does that mean you’re saying I should go after her and explain everything to Ben later? Ben would saw my balls off with a rusty butter knife if I hurt her.”

  “Sounds like you already have,” John points out.

  “Ah, fuck.” I give in to my impulse and rest my head on one hand. “How can I get out of this?”

  “I can’t tell you that.” He mirrors my posture, which I find weirdly comforting. “Relationships are complicated. On the one hand, you know yourself and what you’re about, but on the other hand, you don’t know how much you can change.”

  That’s not what I wanted to hear. “Thanks, Obi-Wan Kenobi. You were my only hope, and now I’m fucked.”

  “That’s not how the line went.”

  I shoot him a dirty look. “You know what I mean.”

  He sits back in his seat, sighing. “I can’t help you here. If there’s anything this divorce has taught me, it’s that you have to answer things on your own. No one else can answer them for you.”

  “That was actually helpful,” I admit, pressing my fingers to my temple to soothe the headache that I feel coming on. “That doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck to hear.”

  “Sometimes, the most life-changing advice is the hardest to follow.” He smiles broadly. “Is that Obi-Wan enough for you?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Briony

  For a guy who is into me but doesn’t want to be my boyfriend, Ash sure has a lot of opinions on what I should do. Once I finish puking my brains out, I pull myself together enough to go to the doctor. My primary care physician had a last-minute opening, which is good. I don’t have to do the whole insurance song and dance beforehand. I can hardly handle putting on pants, much less filling out forms.

  I sit in the waiting room with two other youngish people, a pregnant woman and a teenager who looks terrified. I wonder how I look to them. Sickly pale, puffy, and probably sweaty. I focus on them so I won’t have to think about whatever is happening in my body. What if it’s something terrible?

  Or maybe it really is just stress and a lack of sleep. And heartbreak. Actually, that’s a strong word. Heart-bruising is more like it. Clearly Ash has feelings for me, which is great, but the fact that reciprocating them seems to scare the shit out of him feels like a punch to the stomach.

  And with that thought, mine turns a little. I haven’t been able to keep any food down, so at least there isn’t a big chance that I’ll puke in public.

  “Briony?” a nurse calls.

  I get up slowly and follow her to the back. She isn’t overly chatty, which I appreciate. I’m too tired to be upbeat. She gets me settled into a room, where she makes me weigh myself and takes my blood pressure. I’ve gained seven pounds, somehow. Maybe it’s all the takeout. My vital signs are fine, which is a relief. I tell the nurse all of the symptoms I’ve been having—naus
ea, vomiting, bloating, and general exhaustion—and she goes to grab the doctor.

  After what feels like ages, my doctor, Dr. Bianchi, and the nurse come back in. She’s a teeny Italian woman who always wears a different pair of fashionable glasses whenever I see her. She’s no-nonsense, but still gentle when it gets down to it.

  “Hello Ms. Briony.” She shakes my hand and jiggles the mouse on her computer to look at my file. “You’re here because of some persistent fatigue, nausea, and vomiting, yes?”

  I nod. “Yeah. I think it’s just a stomach virus, but my friend told me to get checked out just in case.”

  “Mmhm,” she nods again, her eyes darting across the screen. “What was the first day of your last period?”

  “No idea. I’m on birth control, so it more or less just stopped.” Major bonus.

  “And you’re sexually active?” she asks after typing.

  “Um, not… really?”

  “Close enough.” She gets up and gives me an examination. All of my body seems to be fine, except my stomach. She gently prods me, hmm-ing to herself. “Let’s get a blood sample and a urine sample, just to cover our bases. We’ll test your vitamin levels and rule out pregnancy since you said some of your vomiting comes early in the day. Sound good?”

  No big deal. I’m not scared of blood, so getting it drawn is no problem. And the chances of being pregnant while on the pill are literally 1 percent or something, but at least I’ll know for sure.

  “Good. We’ll be in touch with your results. In the meantime, stay hydrated and stick to bland foods.”

  And with that, she leaves me in the room. Once the nurse takes my blood and I pee in the little cup, I make my way to a deli to get some crackers and ginger ale. If I’m going to be sick, I figure I can make the day as fun as I can. Ash’s massive flat-screen, something to soothe my stomach, and the cozy couch are just what I need.

  I still feel like shit in the days after my appointment, but I go back to work. It sucks a lot, but I manage, still sipping on ginger ale or seltzer all day. My appetite is a little better too, at least enough for me to eat soup. Ash and I still aren’t back to where we were in our friendship or —whatever it was— but he’s made sure I have everything I need.