But I guess it was naïve to expect nothing to change after what happened at the bar last night. And out of all the guys who could have texted Fielding about what went down, Jake knew the most about the context of the situation.

As the blender dies down, I realize it doesn’t matter who told Fielding first. He shouldn’t have had to hear it from anyone but me.

“Look,” I start as he reaches for a glass. “I’m sorry you had to find out about Maddie and me like this. And I’m sorry that I kept her a secret. It wasn’t supposed to be anything with her. I never expected—”

“Dumpy.” He levels me with a look that forces me to stop what I’m doing. “I meant what I said to you the night she saved my ass. Whatever happens between you and her… I’m good.”

“You shouldn’t have to be, though. Out of all the girls in this damn town for me to—”

“Bro. Seriously. Stop.” He pours the smoothie into a glass and gets out a tray, then reaches past me to pop bread into the toaster. I move the eggs off the burner and turn back to face him.

“None of what I feel for Tori makes sense. I know that. I’m still reeling from what happened… but I also realize how messed up it was. I made a lot of shitty choices. And even if I hadn’t, I doubt it would have gone my way. I don’t hate her. Or Rhett, for that matter.”

He crosses his arms and leans back against the kitchen island, seemingly lost in thought. When he speaks again, his voice is softer, with a tremble to its tenor. “I saw your face when you ran into the room this morning. You called her your fucking girlfriend, bro. And the fact that she can actually tell us apart… fuck.”

He shakes his head and smiles.

“If you want Little Wheeler, have her. Have her and hold on to her for as long as you can. Just stop using me as an excuse. You do it with everything—but you don’t need to do it with her.”

I don’t bother replying—some of what he says makes sense. But it still feels like a betrayal to let myself be happy when he’s so fucking miserable.

“I’m serious, Dumpy. You know I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.”

That’s true.

He reaches past me again, retrieving the toast that just popped up and plating it along with the eggs. Then he adds silverware and a glass of water to the tray and plucks an iris out of the arrangement on the island as a finishing touch.

It doesn’t feel right to be happy without him. But being miserable right alongside him hasn’t seemed to make a difference, either.