“It’s . . . complicated,” he says, and there’s a beat of silence as I think about what he’s said. He turns his head slightly so he’s facing me and rests his hand on mine, giving it a comforting squeeze. I feel my breath catch in my throat, unexpectedly pleased with the feeling of his palm on my skin. It feels like it did last night, back when he pulled me closer to him on the bed, told me to forget the rules.

“I . . .” I begin, but trail off, unsure of what to say. I shake my head, trying to wake myself up from the daze. “You should tell her. You can’t just keep something like that bottled up. You’ll burst.”

“Okay,” he says, taking a quick breath. “You’re right.”

“Will you tell me first?” I ask. “I want to know who it is.” I pull my hand out from under his and tuck my hair behind my ears. Suddenly I remember what Dean told me earlier in the night: I think he has a crush on you. He might be your brother, but you’re not his sister. I have a quick flash of last night, of the fluttering feeling in my chest when his lips first touched mine, of how badly I ached to go through with everything, how much it hurt when he walked out. But I push it away. I feel like everything is mixed up inside of me, and I can’t get my thoughts in order. The thought that Andrew might have feelings for me is terrifying. Things weren’t supposed to go this way. He’s my best friend. We’re just friends. That’s it.

“Wait,” I say, the words tumbling out of me. “Is it me? It’s not me, is it?” I feel my face burning, immediately wanting to take back the words, but they’re already out.

Andrew shifts away from me. He lets out a humorless laugh. “Are you fucking with me?”

“What?” I ask, taken aback. “No. I’m just making sure, I mean I’m just checking . . . sometimes friends end up liking each other and—”

“It’s not you,” he says, the words like an insult. “Don’t worry.”

I feel punctured, like a balloon inside me is slowly deflating.

“Okay,” I say. “Okay.” I need to say it again. I feel oddly hurt and disappointed. Obviously it’s not me. He basically told me last night he couldn’t keep it up when we were together.

“Okay, so who is it?” I ask. His eyes narrow slightly, and then he clears his throat. His answer is so obvious I don’t know how it didn’t occur to me, even though she was with us only a few minutes earlier, her cleavage pressed against my shoulder as she leaned over me to kiss him.

“Come on, Collins,” he says. “I’m in love with Danielle.”

TWENTY-THREE