“When will you come back?” Zoey sniffed, and I handed her a box of tissues from the coffee table. She blew her nose hard, the delicate skin starting to turn as red as her eyes. I knew how she felt. When I didn’t answer right away, Zoey’s eyes narrowed. “You are coming back, right?”

I scanned the room for anything I’d missed, my eyes settling on a framed photo of me with my arms around Zoey. I was grinning, holding her up in the air while she waved a piece of paper over my head. That paper was a lease, and the building behind us, Zoey’s brewery. She called it ours, but I knew the truth. Without Zoey, the Wulver Craft Brewery wouldn’t exist. I lacked Zoey’s passion as well as her skills—there were many reasons she was one of the youngest in her field, while I was just backup, filling in wherever I was needed.

And without Sid, the financial and marketing genius of our trio, it wouldn’t have stayed afloat. I was the one most comfortable chatting with customers and talking up the beer. That had been easy—despite everything, I still felt a wash of pride over what Zoey and Sid had created. It hurt a little to know that everything would tick along just fine without me, but that was the truth. They loved me, but they didn’t need me.

“Your silence is starting to scare me, Dec.” Zoey crossed her arms and peered up at me.

“I don’t know, Zoey.” I caught her panicked look and pulled her into a hug. She fit easily—I’d always been the giant to her tiny dynamo. “It’s not like that. I’m not—we’re not—” Frustrated at the logjam of words in my throat, I rested my chin on the top of her head and closed my eyes, just holding her for a moment. Then I took a deep, steadying breath and held her out so I could look into her eyes. “It’s not a punishment, Zo. You’ll always be my sister. Nothing you could ever do would change that.”

She looked at her feet, swallowed, and looked up. “Even stealing your girlfriend?”

“You need to stop saying that.” I’d told her it wasn’t true. You can’t steal a person. A person chooses to go. Simple. Painful, but simple. “I’m not taking off in a huff. You and Sidney? I’m not mad, got it?”

Those bright blues bored into my own. “You’re not?” She didn’t sound convinced. I didn’t blame her. Some days, I was barely convinced.

“Look, I’m not going to throw a parade or anything. I’m not going to deny that I’m hurt.” Mostly because Zoey wouldn’t believe the lie. If I could have gotten away with it, I would have pretended to be happy. Zoey was doing a bang-up job guilting herself to death—I didn’t need to add. Because really, it was no one’s fault. Or maybe it was everyone’s. Whatever it was, we shared it equally, like we’d shared everything else.