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Mugsy rubbed her temples. “What makes you think this girl doesn’t know you’re beer royalty?”

“There’s no such thing, Mugsy. Beer is a fundamentally democratic beverage.”

She held up a hand. “Your name is on billboards and neon signs.”

“I’m just Charlie to her. And she’s Jean to me. That’s all we need.” He didn’t want to say more than that, because it was nobody else’s business.

“Did she ever have access to your phone?”

“No.” It was a reflexive denial, followed by a carousel of inconvenient memories.

Jean taking pictures of the painting on his back.

The time he’d come out of the bathroom to find her reaching for his phone to silence it.

Totally normal and reasonable moments that it was not cool of Mugsy to make him question.

“Do you know her last name?” Mugsy challenged.

“I know she’s from Wisconsin.” Though maybe mentioning her family wasn’t the best move, after what Jean had revealed about her history. Mugsy could be a little quick to judge. “And she’s a very talented artist.”

“It’s Harrington. Her last name.” Mugsy barely paused to let that settle. “How about her roommate? Do you know what she does?”

His hand almost shot up. This one he could answer. “She’s in the sciences.”

“Oh really? Then why does she have a byline on a travel story that lists her as a Johnson Media freelancer?”

Charlie frowned, trying to remember Jean’s exact words. “How do you know all this?”

“Because I spent five minutes on the internet, Charlie. And you know what I found? Two Jeans work at this resort, one of whom is a French guy. It was a couple of clicks. Everything I needed to know about this woman you were shacking up with. And then some.”

Not everything . He couldn’t bring himself to voice the protest with Mugsy looking at him like he’d just given a scammer his bank account number. “I must have misunderstood.”

“Or you were lied to.” Mugsy tossed a book into his suitcase.

“It doesn’t mean anything bad.”

“Then why was Hildy Johnson—also of Johnson Media—spotted checking into this resort half an hour ago, according to one of her many Instagram fans?”

“I don’t know.”

“Charlie.”

“What?”

She pressed her lips together, like she was debating how much to tell him. It was a look he knew well, the same will Charlie be able to handle this calculation she’d been making since he was a kid. “I’m sorry,” she said at last. “You deserve better.”

The worst part was that Mugsy sounded so sure, not a shadow of a doubt in her mind.

Compared to that kind of certainty, Charlie’s confidence had more holes than a colander.

All those years of taking Mugsy’s word for it, of trusting that she knew better, that his perceptions were never quite right, pressed down on him.

“Charlie—”

“I know we’re in a hurry.” There was no need to prolong a conversation that was painful for both of them.

Mugsy had never liked talking about emotional things, and right now he was nothing but feelings.

It was as if he’d been holding a winning lottery ticket that turned out to be Monopoly money.

He used the excuse of grabbing a handful of clothes to turn his back. “I need to change.”

Closing the bathroom door, he leaned his back against the wall, slowly sinking to the floor. He felt like a shriveled balloon, abandoned in a corner days after the party.

Why would someone like Jean want to be with him? She was the most vivid person he’d ever met, a scarlet macaw of a girl, when he was a plain house sparrow. Of course she was only interested in him as a story to tell her friend, who could sell it to the world.

One of the towels slipped off the rack, landing on Charlie’s head.

He pulled it lower, covering his face. Was it from the stack Jean had brought him, that first night?

Maybe Mugsy would let him take it home, as a memento.

He pictured himself trying to explain that he wanted to steal one of the resort’s towels, against all sense of personal honor or hotel guest ethics.

Why do you want to remember her? Mugsy would ask. (Even in his imagination, the words were in her voice.)

Because… this was the happiest he’d ever been in his life. Even if it wasn’t real.

Charlie sucked in a shaky breath, thinking he might catch a hint of Jean’s scent, but all he got was a mouthful of cotton. Choking, he pulled the towel away from his face, dabbing at his eyes before wiping his nose.

Oh great. Now he’d ruined the first thing she ever gave him with tears and snot. How typical of him, making a mess of everything.

A loud clunk sounded from the other side of the wall, followed by something heavy rolling across the floor. He needed to get out there before Mugsy tried to carry all his luggage herself. Not that she wasn’t strong and capable, but because it would be rude not to help.

The problem was that Charlie didn’t trust himself to hold it together, and he hated for anyone—even Mugsy—to watch him fall apart. It felt like that would confirm all the worst things people had ever thought about him.

Crawling on his knees across the tile floor, Charlie reached the walk-in shower. He turned on the spray full blast. A trick he’d learned years ago was that the noise of the water drowned out the sound of crying, washing away tears as fast as they could fall.

The showerhead was the fancy kind that released a gentle rain of droplets. Lowering his head, Charlie waited. Rivulets ran down his shoulder blades, but for some reason, the tears wouldn’t come. He was a block of ice, the warmth of the water unable to melt his frozen core.

I don’t want to cry in the bathroom alone .

It felt backwards and wrong, like putting on a pair of shoes he’d outgrown.

He’d truly believed sad and lonely Charlie was behind him.

New Charlie wanted to tell Jean what he was feeling, because she unlocked something that made it easier to talk instead of keeping everything inside.

But Jean wasn’t here. She would never be with him again.

Okay, that did it. The tears were flowing now.