Chapter 1 1
I only have to stay for two hours, then I can leave.

Two hours.

No big deal.

It’s ironic that I find this thought reassuring, considering I drove nearly an hour to get here. There’s something about the cost-benefit analysis of driving an hour for a two-hour social interaction that doesn’t quite add up. Like paying five dollars for shipping on a ten-dollar item.

At least I’m late enough that I missed peak rush hour.

My phone vibrates with a call. When I see the name on the screen, I glance around the small Studio City wine shop in which I’ve taken refuge, tempted to hit Ignore. I know I’m running late, but in my defense, choosing a bottle of wine is hard.

“I’m five minutes away,” I say in lieu of a greeting to Ellie, tonight’s host. It’s not a lie. I am five minutes away. Five minutes, plus however long it takes me to choose a bottle.

“You’re coming,” he says, but it sounds like a question.

“I said I would.”

“Right. I know you did, but Cat pointed out how you always cancel, and she’s worried the table will be unbalanced if you don’t show.”

I fight back a laugh. I can’t imagine Ellie’s wife, Cat, cares if I come to her dinner party, but I do believe she cares about the table being balanced. Cat hates me, but who can blame her?

What wife wouldn’t hate a woman who’s in love with her husband?

“I can’t stay too late.” I recite the excuse I’ve spent all day silently rehearsing. “I didn’t have time to stop home and feed Ruthie, so I might have to leave early so she doesn’t starve.”

It’s only a half-lie, I tell myself. Ruthie does need to eat—and if my geriatric cat buys me an easy out from a situation I’m eager to exit, well, all the better.

There’s a beat of silence, and I wonder if Ellie will call me on my bullshit.

“I’m really excited to see you, Joey,” he says softly instead. His sincerity hurts.

I had been about to cancel on Tuesday when he texted to make sure I could make it.

“Me too.” This one is a lie. Or maybe it isn’t. Can dread and excitement coexist?

I say goodbye and return to the racks of wine. How much is appropriate to spend on a bottle brought to a dinner party? I asked Ellie on Tuesday what I should bring, and he said, “Just yourself.” Yeah, right. I can just imagine Cat’s judgment.

Arriving empty-handed is not an option.

I should be past caring. Usually, I am past it. On most days, I can divide my life into two periods: the person I was before I stopped agreeing to do things I didn’t want to do, and the person I became after.

The first person went to law school to appease her mother and then immediately settled down to work in corporate law.

That woman—that much younger, more naive woman—did shit like date men who convinced her to read Jonathan Franzen even though, if she were honest, she’d never really liked reading.

She went to college sports games because all her friends went, even though she hated sports. She drank beer and pretended it didn’t taste like piss. She stayed at parties later than she would have preferred, and she gave underwhelming men too many chances.

Then, in my late twenties—and only after years of therapy—I stopped.

I started saying no.

No, I won’t go to work drinks on a Thursday when my bed is calling me.

No, I actually hate hiking, but thank you for the invite.

No, I won’t go home with you or on a second date, and actually, let’s cut this one short.

And, most of the time:

No, I most certainly will not attend a dinner party hosted by the man I’ve been secretly in love with for years.

It’s not a perfect recipe for happiness—but it certainly doesn’t hurt.

Fifteen minutes after talking to Ellie, I drive through the picturesque suburban oasis that is his neighborhood. Lush green lawns, Christmas lights already up even though it’s early November, security system signs in easy-to-spot places.

I park by the curb, grateful to find a spot that doesn’t test my parallel-parking skills, and walk up the path to Ellie and Cat’s front door.

It’s a large, farmhouse-style home, white with black trim. The type of house that says We have money, but we don’t feel the need to get all modern and weird with it. I knock on the door and glance at the pricey bottle of pinot noir clutched in my left hand, embarrassed by the splurge, like I’m trying too hard to impress.

The door opens, and I have an answer to my question: Dread and excitement can coexist, and for me they’ve grown so intertwined as to become completely indistinguishable.

Standing just shy of six feet, Elijah Aarons—Ellie to his friends, and, trust me, he considers just about everyone a friend—has aged nicely from the nerdy boy who was once my closest confidant into this man with tanned skin and wavy brown hair just starting to gray at the temples. His face lights up, and a pang hits me straight in the chest.

I am in love with this man, but I would give anything not to be.

“You came.” He wraps me in a hug, and I melt into the warm, spicy scent of his cologne.

Is it just me, or does he hold me a touch too close, linger a little long on the embrace? I had always wondered if the chemistry between us was a figment of my imagination until one night a year before his wedding when he drunkenly admitted that he once harbored the tiniest of crushes on me, only briefly, and ha-ha, wasn’t that funny? I mean, can you imagine?

Could I imagine?

“I said I would.” My words might sound snarky, but he takes my attitude in stride.

Sometimes I think life would be so much easier if, just once, Ellie could be an asshole.

He guides me into the foyer, and I am immediately confronted by… myself. Well, a photo of myself plus eleven other members of Cat and Ellie’s wedding party, all of us gathered around the bride and groom, overenthusiastic smiles plastered on our faces like we just know that through this picture, we will serve as an eternal welcoming committee ushering guests into their home.

Seven years later, I still can’t believe Cat made me a bridesmaid. I know Ellie pushed for it, but… still.

That’s the genius of Cat—she’s fake, but she’s convincing.

I’ve always wished I were better at keeping up pretenses, but I’m too transparent. I’ve had not one but two one-night stands call me out on faking orgasms, but I stuck to my guns and denied it—that’s the kind of secret I’ll take to my grave.

My transparency is on full display in the photo. No smile could hide the misery in my eyes. It’s like I knew that for the rest of our lives, Ellie and Cat would have a picture on their mantel where I look like complete shit, olive skin washed out, every imperfection on my body highlighted by the lavender satin bridesmaid dress Cat chose.

“Alex will be relieved to have you here. The guys love to hound him for financial advice. I swear, if I have to hear him utter the words ‘Buy on the dip’ one more time…”

He shakes his head, amused. I manage a hollow laugh even as the life drains out of me.

Alex is here.

Alex Aquino is here.

I’m about to see Alex—and Ellie thinks this is good news.

I didn’t expect this. All my dread leading up to tonight, and I didn’t even think to expect this. Ellie and Alex were always closer to acquaintances than friends.

More to the point, last I knew, Alex kind of hated him.

“Alex is here?” For days, I’ve been angsting about tonight, and it turns out I was angsting for entirely the wrong reason. “Great. I haven’t seen him in—” I refuse to think about the last time I saw Alex. “That’s so great.”

Ellie must be distracted because my weirdness doesn’t seem to register.

“He always comes. Gives me hell for it, reminds me how much his time is worth—but he never misses.”

Wait—did Ellie just say that Alex never misses their dinner parties? Seriously? I was there when Ellie and Cat debated whether to invite Alex to their wedding. I had been pro-invite. To be fair, my logic had been Why not? He’ll buy you the nicest gift on your registry.

“Since when are you and Alex so close?”

Ellie frowns. “We’ve always been close.”

I level him with a flat look, and he amends, “He invited me to a Dodgers game last season. We go to games together now. I told you all this.”

“You didn’t.”

“Pretty sure I did.”

I’d remember if he’d mentioned Alex—but I can’t tell him why I’d remember, so I drop it. “And Ingrid?”

Ingrid Aquino, Alex’s wife.

“No-show. I think she has her book club?”

Small mercies.

“Right. Book club. I’ve been meaning to join one of those,” I say, a needless lie.

Ellie leads me to the immaculate living room, where I see a group of five men, four I don’t know and one I do. It’s been years since I saw Alex in person, and I hate to admit that age has somehow made him hotter. Well, age plus nearly a billion dollars.

Alex turns slightly, and we lock eyes across the room. For a second, I think he’ll have the decency to turn back, to ignore me, to let me stay in this moment with Ellie.

I should have known better.

“Josephina Vasquez. God, how long has it been? Ten years?”

He always insisted on using my full name, no matter how often I told him I hated it.

Once, I even thought I liked it.

I plaster on a smile and watch Alex approach. He’s even more impressive up close. Olive-brown skin, inky-black hair, plush lips, and whiskey eyes, Alex Aquino presents an appealing picture. Combine that with the fact that he’s a low-key genius and rich as Satan, and he’s pretty hard to resist. Until you actually get to know him—then it gets easier.

“You saw each other at my wedding.” Ellie frowns. We both freeze. Alex recovers first.

“You’re right, we did. So not ten years, then…” Alex trails off, eyeing me expectantly.

“It’s been seven years, Alex,” I say flatly.

“Seven years,” he repeats as if it’s news. As if he forgot. “You haven’t aged a day.”

Before I can respond, Catherine Aarons walks in, followed by four other women, forming a nearly identical pack of blond hair and perfectly golden spray-tanned skin.

I glance at Alex, wondering if he’s realized the same thing I have—that we’re the only two people in this room who aren’t white—but if he feels anything amiss, he doesn’t show it. Our shared Mexican heritage might have once united us, a point of bonding, but as things stand now, I hate that I feel a begrudging kinship with him.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” Cat says, then beelines straight toward me with a megawatt smile, engulfs me in her arms, and exclaims, “Joey, you finally made it. It’s so great to see you.”

“Thanks for inviting me,” I say, and shove the bottle of pinot into her hands. She doesn’t even glance at it as she takes it from me.

I really shouldn’t have splurged.

Cat herds everyone to the dining room, and I watch Ellie place a hand on the small of her back and rub in slow circles as he guides her away.

“Still pining, I see,” comes Alex’s mocking voice.

Now that we’re alone, no one to listen in, I demand, “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Excuse me?” Alex asks, his body language taken aback but his face delighted.

“You heard me.”

“I did—but I’m afraid you’ve stolen my line. This is the first of Ellie’s parties I’ve seen you at. So the real question is, what are you doing here?”

“You hate Ellie,” I say instead of answering the question.

Again, Alex is the picture of dissonance, his mouth frowning while his eyes sparkle.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Ellie is one of my closest friends. Didn’t you hear—I attend all his dinner parties.”

I blink at him once. Twice. Thrice.

“You’re deranged.” I turn on my heel, resolving to ignore him the rest of the night.

Unfortunately, that resolution proves impossible to keep. The conversation throughout dinner is dull, mostly because everyone seems content to hang on Alex’s every word.

It becomes really annoying, really fast.

I want to get home to Ruthie, who will meow at the top of her lungs, demanding dinner the moment I walk through the door. Ruthie is a fickle creature, constantly vacillating between hesitant affection and complete disregard for me, but she’s my best friend in the whole world.

I check the time: 8:23 p.m. Maybe I’ll stay until nine.

Nine p.m., then home to Ruthie.

I glance up from my phone, and my attention is caught by the woman next to Cat, offering to pour her some wine. Cat covers her empty wineglass and shakes her head.

Ellie reaches out and grabs Cat’s hand. Fingers interlocked, they share a loaded look, small smiles tugging at their mouths.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

I run my index finger along the scar on the inside of my right thumb, up and down, in an attempt to ground myself.

“Everyone’s been talking about this mass exodus to Texas for years. I’m just waiting for it to shave time off my commute,” Alex concludes to a chorus of overenthusiastic laughter.

“Speaking of exoduses—exodi?” Ellie says. “I miss Patrick and Madison, but seeing their yard, I can’t begrudge them leaving. I don’t think they make yards that big in LA.”

“How are they liking Dallas?” It takes me a moment to realize Cat’s question is directed at me. I’m too zeroed in on her empty wineglass.

“Sorry, what?”

Why put out a wineglass if you know you won’t use it?

“Has Madison mentioned if they like Dallas?” Cat clarifies.

“Oh. Yeah, I think they like it. I know she’s pregnant—”

“Again?” she screeches with excitement.

“No, just the once—” I catch my mistake too late.

Cat eyes me with pity, and I feel my fist clench around my fork as heat rushes to my face.

“She gave birth to Oliver two months ago,” she says gently, as if breaking bad news.

“Right. How could I forget?” I say lamely.

Honesty time: I haven’t spoken to my best friend in months. I’ve been busy working my ass off, trying to make partner. She’s been busy with, apparently, motherhood. I forgot to wish her a happy birthday… and she, I suppose, forgot to tell me she delivered a baby into the world.

Or maybe I’m the one who forgot to check.

A wave of guilt rushes through me, but I try not to let it show.

“I’m thinking Seattle, if I ever decide to move,” Alex interjects. I glance up to find him looking directly at me. He holds my gaze for just a moment, then turns to the rest of the table and continues, “I read an article that said it’ll probably fare pretty well in the face of climate change. The Midwest is supposed to fare better, but… I mean, who wants to live in the Midwest?”

Everyone laughs at his joke, and they all move on as if my blunder never happened.

I struggle to focus on the conversation even when Ellie passionately regales us with a beat-by-beat synopsis of the novel his agency just acquired. Listening to Ellie talk about books is the one time I’m actually interested in them, his passion infectious.

But I can’t stop thinking about Cat’s empty wineglass.

I spend the rest of dinner anticipating—bracing for—an announcement that never comes.

“Stay for a drink,” Ellie pleads when I try to say bye as everyone heads to the backyard for post-dinner cocktails.

“I have to get home.” I shake my head. “Ruthie—”

“Ruthie can wait,” he assures me. “Just one drink.”

“One drink.” Lord knows I’ll need it. Forgoing a cocktail, I step away from the group, search for the bottle I brought, uncork it, and pour myself a glass—my second in as many hours and where I’ll cut myself off both so I can drive home and to prevent a hangover. The joy of my thirties—more than two drinks, and the pain will linger for a full day.

“Not driving, I assume?”

I turn to find Alex standing not two feet away from me, vape in hand. He blows sugary-sweet watermelon-scented vapor out of his mouth, keeping his eyes on me the entire time.

“You know what they say about assuming.” I finish my pour and take a long sip. I don’t like the judgment in his eyes, so I nod toward his vape pen. “I thought you quit.”

His eyes narrow at the comment, which spins my mind back to the last time I spoke those words to him. I force myself not to react, as if I don’t know what I just dredged up. He lets it go.

“It’s CBD. No nicotine in sight, Scout’s honor,” he says, and holds up three fingers.

I roll my eyes—I know damn well he was never a Boy Scout. I take a sip of my wine, which quickly turns into a gulp. Desperate to get away from him, I turn to leave but stop at the sight of Ellie and Cat wrapped up in each other’s arms across the yard, laughing with another guest.

Hard to believe Alex could be the lesser of two evils, but here we are.

“Play your cards right, maybe they’ll name the baby after you,” Alex remarks.

My gaze snaps to his.

“What?” he asks. “Am I supposed to pretend not to know? She isn’t exactly subtle.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“You kind of like it.” His words are slow. Enunciated. Confident.

I decide that doesn’t warrant a response and take another gulp. Before I know it, my wine is finished.

What could one more hurt, really?

I reach for the bottle, but Alex grabs my wrist. I pull it away.

“Just looking out for you,” he murmurs, closer than he was a second ago.

Too close.

“Not your job,” I say and take a step back.

He lets out a resigned sigh. “I know you’ve never liked me—”

“I really don’t.”

“Jesus.” He laughs. “Tell me how you really feel.”

“Oh, you don’t want me to do that,” I drawl.

“Try me.”

“Let’s just say, if I were given the choice between sitting through another dinner with you or having water poured over my rag-covered face, I’d choose waterboarding every single time.”

I start to second-guess myself—did I take that too far?—when his eyes darken. “You always did know just what to say to get me going.”

With a scowl, I remind him, “Have you forgotten you’re married?”

“Would that I could.” He laughs, but there’s no humor to it. “Don’t worry about Ingrid, Josephina. She’s being more than taken care of at her ‘book club.’ ”

He says the words with such derision, leaving no question to the fact that Ingrid isn’t at a book club. I’m about to ask what he means by that when I remember who I’m talking to.

I shake my head, hating that Alex can pull me in so easily when I’ve spent years running from the memory of him.

It’s funny how one night can completely change your perception of who you are. One mistake, and you don’t even recognize yourself anymore.

I was never that type of woman—until I was.

Everyone has secrets, I sometimes tell myself to feel better. But that’s the nature of secrets—I have no clue how bad everyone else’s are, so I’ll never know how mine stack up.

I turn to leave, but he stops me. I pull my arm from his grasp a second time.

“Don’t touch me,” I mutter, low enough not to make a scene.

“Watching you hold a torch for Ellie is getting sad. Let it go already,” he says, and I feel my face heat—who the hell is he to judge me?

This time when I walk away, he doesn’t stop me. I let myself back into the house, walk through it, and go out the front door. I’m halfway across the lawn when Ellie catches up to me.

“Were you about to leave without saying goodbye?”

“I figured no one would notice.” I shrug, unable to meet his gaze.

“I noticed.” He wraps me in a hug and adds, “I’m really glad you came tonight. Promise you’ll come to the next one?”

I shouldn’t lie to him. He would never lie to me.

The thought comes unbidden: Cat will be showing by the next one. Maybe I’m a masochist, because the next words spill out of my mouth without thought.

“You’re going to be a really great dad, Ellie.”

The shock on his face is almost comical, but it quickly morphs into a smile. “I should’ve realized there’s no hiding anything from you.”

He asks me to keep it a secret. Tells me to get home safe. Hugs me one last time.

I allow myself to cry only after I’ve driven away and parked on a side street. In the silence of my car, I think that I’ve never felt so alone.

Once I pull myself together, I get on the 134, driving from Ellie’s home in Toluca Lake to my own in Eagle Rock. It’s sad to think that we’re separated by only a twenty-minute drive and yet I don’t see him more than a few times a year.

My phone rings over my car’s speakers, cutting into my misery and alerting me to the fact that my volume is turned up way too damn high. I jolt, then glance at the dash.

For an irrational second, my mind flashes to Alex, of all people, and I half expect to see his name on my screen. But of course, that’s not possible.

I still have his number blocked.

Incoming call: Mom

I hit Ignore. I’ll call her back in the morning.

Another sound from my cell phone, this one just a chime. Another glance at the dash.

One new voicemail

I reach over, turn my speaker volume down, and hit Play.

“Joey, honey, it’s Mom. Just calling to say good night, and I miss you. Call me back when you get the chance. It’s been two weeks—it would be nice to hear your voice.”

Has it been two weeks since we spoke? Really?

“I know you’re busy, but—you haven’t gotten back to us about Thanksgiving. Are you coming? Sierra booked her ticket, and I know it would mean a lot to her—”

I reach over to stop the voicemail, but red brake lights catch my attention through the windshield. I look up just in time to slam on my brakes before I ram straight into the truck in front of me.

I brace for impact.