She hands me a tumbler filled with straight Jose Cuervo. I take a sip to be polite, cough, and place it on the counter behind me. She drinks and I watch her throat work. She seems to notice me watching and smirks, hugging the glass to her chest. She also appears to have left her bra with her pants in the Place Where Pretty Girls Leave Optional Clothing.

“That’s with National Geographic?” she asks.

I nod, impressed. “Yeah. How’d you know?”

She gestures around and then seems to remember where she is. “Fuck. Well, at my old place, I’ve got a collection of your articles. I know you do docs mostly, but I like the pictures best. I’ve gotten them framed and everything. I have a whole hall dedicated to your work.” Her smile wanes. “Back at home.” She shakes her head. “I mean … back at Ly—his place.”

She motions at a small beige couch in the center of a stark white living room. I follow her to sit, perching awkwardly on the edge of a cushion while she folds her legs underneath her, taking an entire corner. I wipe my hands down my thighs, feeling fifteen and out of my league after only minutes in her presence. “You know, I could get you real copies of those, if you want. I’ll replace the others.”

“I would love that,” she says. Her eyes seem to lose focus and I notice her glass is half empty. Yikes. I’d bet my new Nikon Shelby is seventy percent tequila right now.

“Tell me. What happened, Shelb? I came as soon as you texted.”

She tries to straighten, but it comes out lopsided and her shirt, my shirt, slips farther up her thighs, exposing the edges of her …

Focus, Riggs. Why am I here?

“Why am I here?” I try again. “Not that I mind. But it’s been five years, Shelb. I was in Alaska.” I’m pleased to report, I manage to sound irritated rather than flustered, and she might be drunk enough to buy it.

Instantly, her big blue eyes pool with tears and she gives a wet sniff. The sound strikes me right in the solar plexus—where I collect all my inconvenient feelings: Shelby, my dad, my brother, that one kid’s dog I accidentally struck with my SUV in Sri Lanka …

“I’m a mess, Cam.”

I grimace. “I’m sure things with Lyle—”

She shakes her head. The Cuervo makes it look almost like a wave. “No. Nope. That’s done. He’s sleeping with Marcella. I introduced them and now he’s in love with her.”

“Well—”

“And he wrote a song about it. A duet. They wrote a fucking duet about fucking behind my back. Except it’s all sappy and makes them out to be these, like, star-crossed lovers, and I’m this horrible self-centered brat keeping them apart.”

I sink back in the couch. “Wow.”