I found Wendy in our room, unresponsive. A handful of pills, a couple of drinks. An ambulance. Stomach pump. Her tears, her sorrow when she woke, as desperately real as her rage had been.

Wendy had two triggers—financial security and abandonment. And that knowledge should have been my clue. I should have known then that it was going to fall apart. But like a fool, I had faith.

And then I found her with him.

It was the stuff of nightmares. After all we’d been through, after everything I’d given, I came home to find her fucking him in my living room. Everyone has a line, a boundary that once crossed could never be retreated beyond again. And that was mine.

I believed her when she said she was sorry—not to get me back, but because despite it all, she didn’t want to hurt me. She moved back to Santa Monica with him. And when he dumped her like a broken armchair, she came back, begging. I was sick enough to consider taking her back.

But what I’d told her was as true then as it was in this very moment—I couldn’t forgive her just because she was sick. Not for what she’d done.

The most I could offer was to help her find jobs—which she would inevitably lose—or help her secure apartments—which she would live in until she either couldn’t pay rent anymore or found a new guy to shack up with. She bounced from man to man, always rich, always connected. And when they discarded her, as they always did, she would come to me. It would start as dinner and end up with us in each other’s arms. But there was always a surprise—she needed money, had been dumped. Or worse—she came to me for comfort when she had a boyfriend I didn’t know about. Which made me the other man.

Beyond the pale. That last time was the last time.

But still I knew deep down that I’d answer the call. Because if I didn’t help her, no one would.

When Marcus had summoned us home, I realized I’d only been staying for her. And coming back broke the shackles I hadn’t realized I’d been wearing.

Hearing that she’d followed had them hovering over my wrists all over again.

But this time, it was different. This time, I wouldn’t sacrifice. It was time I moved on, and for the first time in a long time, moving on felt possible.

I mean, aside from the fact that I was living in my childhood home with my siblings.

Our old room hadn’t changed much, though Kash had moved into Laney’s old room when she left for college—it was bigger and had a bay window. Of course, he’d relinquished it to Laney when she came home. And since Marcus’s room had been turned into a junkyard of homeless boxes and furniture, Kash and I had ended up back in our room together.

He’d called bottom bunk, and when we’d wrestled for it, he’d won, thanks to a well-placed punch to the nuts. Always was a cheater—it was the only way he could beat me. As such, every night, I climbed a tiny ladder and slept close enough to the ceiling that I couldn’t raise my arms without putting a fist through sheetrock. Lucky for Kash, I wasn’t claustrophobic.