HARLOW LEAVES BRIGHT and early like she said she would. She wakes me with kisses and invites me to take a shower. I fuck her against the bathroom wall before we ever manage to get in.

San Diego smells like the ocean in the morning, like salt and wind and something sharp that wraps like an old blanket around everything. It smells so close to home some days, that if I close my eyes I can almost forget where I am, over a thousand miles and a lifetime away from where I’m supposed to be. It’s a little unnerving.

Even scarier? How much it’s starting to feel right, and how many times I’ve considered not leaving at all.

A call from Colton first thing out of the shower pops the Harlow bubble I’ve been floating in, and brings me crashing, face-first back into reality.

I’d texted him after the initial meeting with the Adventure Channel, with a brief “It was good, lots to talk about, I’ll fill you in later.” But I never did—not that night or the next morning—hoping I could put them off just long enough to decide what the fuck we should all do with the rest of our lives. I still have no idea. Of course when I call him back it goes straight to voicemail—because it’s eight in the morning and they’re actually working—and I promise to get back to him later that night, to explain everything.

Now I just have to decide what the hell I’m going to tell them.

On the one hand, I’m glad my brothers are clearly so busy they’ve barely had a moment to worry about the meeting, or even realize that I’ve been avoiding the discussion altogether. I’ve never been this irresponsible in my entire life.

Do we sign on for the show? Do we not? The terms they’re offering are great, the money a godsend. But it will change everything: How we live, how people see us. How we see ourselves. And what about Harlow—how would that even work? Before recently the impact this would have on a potential relationship was the furthest thing from my mind. But now, it fucking matters. Unless I leave the business and my family, I can’t see a time I’d ever be in California on a more permanent basis. And unless Harlow has an even bigger surprise up her sleeve, she won’t be moving to Vancouver Island anytime soon.

Harlow on the deck of our run-down boat... now that’s a sight I don’t think I’ll ever be prepared to see.

I’m positive I’d feel better if I talked to Ansel and Oliver, and am feeling more than a little guilty about not having told them what’s going on. The truth is that I haven’t seen as much as them as I’d like lately, which is why I find myself navigating the narrow streets of the Gaslamp Quarter, attempting to parallel park my giant truck to meet them both for breakfast.