Trent nodded. “Yeah. Maybe. Maybe I can’t talk, but I know all our other friends, and I never had the relationship with any of them where I could call at three in the morning to plot Operation Remove Forgotten-Name-Nice-Lady.” He bumped my arm with his fist and ducked his head to meet my gaze. “I’m kinda scared this is an aberration, so I mean it. You should come with me to camp. Keith—”

Boo. Hiss. Thunderbolts.

I hated Keith.

Keith, the boss.

“—said that whoever booked the island, they have it for almost three weeks. He asked me to come back a couple times for their stay. He’s only using old staff. He wants the ones he can trust, so whoever it is, they’re a big deal. You should come.”

“And work there? Be your assistant? Get you coffee? A fan on command?”

He rolled his eyes. “No. I mean, didn’t you say you were trying to write a book?”

Oh, fuck. Either my social skills were seriously lacking or my tolerance to tequila was in the trenches.

“I said that?” I felt my face getting hot. What else had I said?

Trying to write a book hadn’t been my idea. It’d been my therapist’s, and yes, after eleven months, Lucas and the therapist had both been my attempts at getting a life again. And that was an exaggeration about writing a book. She might’ve said journal, but here’s me. I either overly commit or I don’t commit at all, and I walked out of that session hearing I needed to write a book.

Yeah. I’d written nothing.

“What?” Trent asked.

“Huh?”

He shook his head. “You zoned out on me.”

“I told you I was going to write a book?”

He nodded. “Were you not supposed to?”

“No, but it’s embarrassing.”

“Why’s that embarrassing? I think it’s a good idea. You can write about your life, about what you went through with Damian. It’s like an intensive therapeutic technique.”

Holy shit. He’d been talking to my therapist. Or Newt.

“My life sucks. It’d be the most depressing book ever.”

He laughed. “You’d be surprised. But hey, getting back to my question—are you still working at that data place?”

I used to work with data sets, but it was something I quit on behalf of my dignity. The owner had asked if I stole her laptop. I said no, and I quit. Okay. I might not have quit per se, but I still left without pointing out that it was her cheating husband who stole it. For his mistress. And I knew that because the mistress had come in the day before with the same laptop. He hadn’t even taken off the sticker that said Boss Bitch. Instead, the mistress had crossed it out and written Mine Now.