I hurry back into the silent living room. I’m supposed to be napping. It’s a great idea, because I need rest for practice later, and I need to shut off the worry loop in my brain.

I slip off my shoes and take a seat on Neil’s weird sofa. I scoot back, leaning against the buttoned leather and it’s… awful. Somehow, I’m reclining on the least comfortable piece of furniture I’ve ever encountered.

Who had decided that putting so many buttons under your ass would be a good idea? The buttons dimple the leather upholstery into a surprisingly firm, pot-holed surface. Not only is it too hard, but it’s also bumpy.

I kick off my shoes and lie down on it anyway. A button digs into my cheek.

I close my eyes, but it’s hard to sleep. The couch is partly to blame, but blurry memories keep teasing my consciousness. Even though last night I’d been very, very drunk, when I close my eyes, it comes back to me in little flashes.

A glimpse of Neil laughing at the county clerk’s office.

The wedding chapel with its fake roses on every surface.

I’m pretty sure the wedding had been Neil’s idea. It was supposed to have been a game. My drunk self had known this. But I hadn’t spoken up, even when we’d been standing in front of the Rent-A-Reverend dressed like Elvis.

It’s painful to think about why.

But the truth is, I’d done it because he’d chosen me. Drunk off his ass, of course, but it still mattered that he’d looked at me and had said she’s the one. I hadn’t been able to resist a starring role in his drunken caper.

I don’t remember all the specifics, and Neil, with his unlucky metabolism, probably remembers even less. But I do remember how it had felt to be picked by the fancy guy all the women wanted. The sleek athlete who grew up in Westchester and Switzerland and Whistler and on Martha’s Vineyard. A guy who knew what kind of wine pairs well with fish.

He’d smiled at me. Sloppily, sure. But at me. Not Iris. Not anyone else. Just me—the rough kid nobody had ever wanted. So I’d helped him make a huge mistake that would complicate our lives, just because I hadn’t been able to turn down the compliment.

Nice one, Higgins. Way to go.

One of the sofa’s buttons is poking my jaw. When I roll over, they poke my ass. I dig my bulky phone out of my back pocket. The top-of-the-line Katt phone all the Bruisers and Bombshells carry is as big as a slice of bread.

Since I can’t sleep, I shoot off a text to my brother. DENNIS! I don’t ever want to come home again and find Robert. Take him and that TV and clear out of there by tomorrow morning.

God, he’d better do it, too. Then I’ll have a big decision to make. Do I change the locks and force a confrontation with the only family member I have who bothers with me?