“That’s okay, Ms. Chambers—”

“Amy. Please.”

Carly smiles down at her feet. “Most kitchens don’t have a policy at all. I really appreciate you standing up for me.”

“Yeah, well, it was Sophie, mostly,” I mumble. Carly is entirely too wholesome. If Wesley were here, they’d be instant best friends. But my brother and I aren’t as similar as we seem. “Make sure you descale the espresso machine tonight,” I say.

I say good-night and take the back door to my car. By industry standards, eleven is early. I could get a drink at Luxe and meet a nice girl, have another one of those emotionless hookups my brother accuses me of having to avoid “intimacy” and “feelings.” Or see if Jeremy wants to take a breather from studying for once to hang out with someone who’s not dumbstruck in love, like Wes.

But I drive in the opposite direction of my apartment, away from my favorite gay bar, and Jeremy’s new place, and park my old red VW in front of a house with all the lights off except for the one over the front door. I pull the take-out plate and utensils from the paper bag. The weight of this entire day, every one of my problems, is enough to turn me off this beautiful meal but I make myself eat it, even if it’s ash in my mouth. I haven’t had anything since breakfast.

This is where I feel closest to Mom. Outside her old house that’s filled with a new family. Wes hasn’t been back since we sold it last year. He says he’s ready to move forward, which is hilarious considering I had to convince him to sell in the first place.

It’s fitting that I do this alone. Commune with my mother alone. Cry, into pasta with cream sauce, alone.

I do everything else alone. Why not this?

Chapter Two

Sophie

For a woman who’s covered in sweat all night for her job, I should really stop putting myself in these situations.

“Again,” my coach says.

My glutes and hamstrings burn. Stiffness builds in my erector muscles, fatigue setting in. A bead of sweat runs from my hairline, down my forehead, and along the bridge of my nose.

“Again.”

I stifle my whine and hinge at my hips. The drop of sweat falls to the rubber-mat floor with a wet splat. I’m going to need a mop and bucket by the end of this training session. My hands scream as I wrap them around the knurled surface of the barbell. I’m loath to admit it but my grip will go before my legs do.

“Flex more with your right glute.”

“I know,” I grit out. I can feel the weakness in that side. No matter how hard I push I can’t get the muscle to fire.

“Again,” Natalie says as the plates hit the ground after another shitty lift.

I can’t suppress the groan fast enough but I lead it right into my next exhale and lift again.