I’m strong, and so is Tasha, but it is a holy miracle that we manage to schlep my ridiculous brother down the stairs of her walk-up and into the van. He’s a groaning rag doll as I buckle him into the back seat. My muscles are burning, my toes are stubbed, I’m sweaty and frustrated, and tears start pricking at the back of my eyes.

“Tash, I’m so sor—”

“Don’t apologize,” she cuts me off, a hand on my shoulder. “If you apologize for his behavior, that means that you’re taking some responsibility for it. And the only person who should be taking responsibility for it is this dumbass. When he sobers up, tell him he owes me an apology.”

“I will.”

She gives me a quick, tight hug and watches from the curb while we drive away. Tasha is good people.

It’s after I’ve driven three blocks back toward Pops’s apartment that I remember I can’t, under any circumstances, bring Jack there. He burned that bridge to the ground. He can never go back there. Which means that I have no other choice but to bring him back to his place. Which means I’m gonna have to see . . .

“Dammit, Jack! You absolute asshole!” I pound once on the steering wheel and glare at him passed out in the backseat.

I make it to Jack’s half an hour later and park up on the curb in front of his basement apartment in Queens. I pound on the door of his apartment, wanting nothing more than to get this over with as quickly as possible.

Trent, Jack’s roommate, opens the door with no shirt on. Because apparently he’s still allergic to shirts.

His eyes widen and then go sly when he sees it’s me. “Hey, girl.”

He thinks I’m here for him. I’d rather be scuba-diving through puke. I should probably mention that Trent is an ex-boyfriend. A recurring one. But the last time we broke up three years ago, I swore it was the last time, and it’s stuck. I know he’s just waiting for the day I come tap-dancing back to him, but see the aforementioned puke reference. It’s never going to happen.

“Your roommate is passed out in my van. Come get him.”

I turn on my heel and walk back to the van, yanking the sliding door open and unbuckling Jack. Trent appears at my side, stomping the back of his heels into some boots and tugging a tank top down. Tattoos cover almost every inch of his chest and arms, even more than when we were dating. At a glance, I can see two different girls’ names that didn’t used to be there. I don’t check to see if he’s still got my name on the opposite shoulder. I honestly couldn’t care less.