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The next morning, I’ve got a terrible hangover.

My head is throbbing like it used to when I had too much to drink in my early twenties. I haven’t had a hangover like this in years, and I used to drink a lot more back then. Since I’ve been with Krista, I have had no desire to go binge drinking with friends.

I hope she comes back soon.

I’m lying in bed when the doorbell rings. I grab the pillow next to me and put it over my face, hoping whoever is at the door will go away, or else maybe Whitney will answer it. But when the doorbell rings a second time, I realize that’s not going to happen. Plus, I’ve got to get to work. I’m already not Kenny’s favorite person.

I finally stumble out of bed, which only makes my headache worse. My mouth feels like it’s glued shut. I don’t know how I’m going to make it to work today. I might have to call in sick, which I hate doing. I used to be so proud of my work ethic.

As I leave my room, voices float up to the second floor from downstairs. Sounds like Whitney answered the door after all, and apparently, it’s somebody she knows. Now that I’m off the hook to answer the door, I hit the bathroom and piss for about five minutes straight.

This time, I put on a pair of sweatpants before I go downstairs. If Whitney has company, I would rather not be in my underwear. Although it’s weird, because she never has company. She’s gone out a few times, but she’s never invited anyone here. Not even once. I don’t think she has one friend—none that I’ve seen anyway. Isn’t that a sign of a sociopath?

When I get halfway down the stairs, I can see Whitney talking quietly to somebody in the living room. She touches their arm. It takes me a second to figure out who it is, and I have to blink a few times, because I’m not sure I’m seeing right.

It’s Malcolm.

He’s dressed in a suit and tie, presumably on his way to another busy day at Coble & Roy, doing the job that should have been mine. I sprint down the rest of the steps, ignoring my throbbing head. Why is he here? Is he here to talk to me about Krista? Or does it have to do with Coble & Roy? And why is he talking to Whitney like they’re old friends?

Before they see me, I hover in the staircase, straining to hear what they’re talking about. But I can’t make it out. I take one step closer, holding my breath as I attempt to be as quiet as possible.

“Blake!” Malcolm calls to me. “Hey hey hey!”

Busted.

“Hey.” I make it down the rest of the steps, unable to even plaster a fake smile on my face. “What’s going on?”

Malcolm and Whitney exchange looks, which I find very strange. Whitney shoves her hands into the pockets of her jacket, flashes Malcolm a smile, and heads toward the door. “I better get to work,” she says. “I’ll let you talk to Blake.”

What was that all about?

“How do you know Whitney?” I ask as casually as possible.

He hesitates for a split second. “She works at that diner, Cosmo’s. I love that place.”

I guess that makes sense. Except what were they talking about for all that time? I can’t exactly ask though. “So what’s this about?”

“Listen, Blake.” He shoves his hands into the pockets of the trench coat he has on over his suit. “I want to apologize for the way I acted when we got together at Cooper’s. I know you’ve been going through a lot, and I was a jerk.”

“Okay…” His apology seems sincere, but the timing is strange. “So that’s why you’re here? To apologize?”

Malcolm is fumbling around in his coat pocket. At first, I’m thinking he is trying to figure out what to say, but then I realize he’s looking for something. After a few seconds, he pulls out a blue velvet box, and my heart sinks.

“No,” I murmur. “No.”

“I’m so sorry, Blake,” he says.

“No.” I take a step back, like the velvet box is made of poison. “I’m not taking that from you. This is not how she ends our engagement.”

“It’s not over.” He tries to rest a hand on my shoulder, and I shrug him off. “She said she just needs space, and she wanted you to have this back. She said… She thought the money from selling it might help make ends meet.”

I hate that she’s right. The money I could get from selling that ring could tide me over for another month or two. But then what? I’ll still end up losing everything.

“Blake…” Malcolm’s face is full of pity. “She still has feelings for you. You just have to give her some time.”

I swallow hard. “You need to go.”

“Blake…”

“Just…go. Now .”

I have cried one time in the last ten years, and that’s when my mother died. But I’m coming damn close to doing it right now. And I don’t want it to happen in front of Malcolm.

He gently places the velvet box on the coffee table. He takes one last look in my direction, and then he slips out the front door.

The second the door clicks shut, I drop down onto the sofa and bury my face in my hands. No. No . It can’t end this way. I have to see her. I have to talk to her.

I grab my phone from my pocket. Before I can overthink it, I tap out a text to her:

I need to see you, Krista.

Those bubbles appear on the screen, and I hold my breath, hoping she’s going to answer me. I hope she tells me that I can see her.

I don’t think that’s a good idea.

Bullshit. If she thinks she can break up with me via Malcolm, she’s got another thing coming. I look down at my watch—there are still another three hours until the dry cleaner opens. She’s almost certainly still home. My hands are shaking as I type the next message:

I’m coming over to Becky’s house right now. I have to see you.

I stare at the screen, waiting for her to threaten to call the police on me. I don’t know what I’ll do if she says that. I don’t want to get arrested, especially since I’m already worried that the detective I talked to yesterday is suspicious of me. So I add:

Please.

I grip the phone, waiting for her reply, which comes a few seconds later:

OK. Come in an hour.

I have just enough time to shower.