Dean sighs. “I don’t think you have a crush on him. I just think he has a crush on you. He might be your brother, but you’re not his sister.” He takes a sip of wine. “I mean, I can’t blame the guy. Look at you.”

I reach up to smooth my hair behind my ears, feeling self-conscious. I still don’t really understand what makes Dean say things like that, why he’s asked me out at all. I can’t figure out if we’re on a date, or if this is just a part of the game—a big, expensive, complicated version of foreplay. I can’t get my friends’ advice out of my head. A guy like James Dean doesn’t want to date anyone. They would knock any romantic notions out of my head so fast it would spin. We’re probably only here because Dean still hasn’t managed to sleep with me.

But I want them to be wrong. Maybe the Keely who drinks whiskey is a little bit real after all, and that’s the girl who Dean is drawn to. I like that he brings her out of me. I just hope the little bit of her he sees is enough.

The waitress sets menus in front of us. Dean hands them back to her without even looking. “Actually, we’re all set. We’ll get a large pizza. Pepperoni and mushroom. And can I get a side of barbecue sauce?”

“Sure,” she says, taking the unopened menus from him. “Should be out soon.” She smiles and then walks away before I have a chance to say anything. I’m annoyed Dean didn’t ask me what I liked, didn’t even let me look at the menu. He doesn’t know I hate mushrooms—their squishy texture always reminds me of slugs.

“You’re okay with the pizza, right?” he asks, too late to matter. I don’t want to be difficult, so I smile and nod. I can always pick the mushrooms off. Dating is about compromise, right?

“It must be tough on Lover Boy to see you with me,” Dean says, steering the conversation back to Andrew.

“I really don’t think he likes me,” I say, trying to explain it to him. “He has like ten different girlfriends a week.”

Dean chuckles and leans forward in the booth. “Yeah, I know.”

“What do you mean—you know?” I ask.

“He’s with one of them right now.” He nods, eyes focused on something behind me.

“What?” I whip around in my seat. Sure enough, Andrew is standing by the front door, speaking quietly to the hostess. And there’s a girl with him—her hand draped lightly over his arm. I can see her black nail polish from here.

It’s Danielle.