I toss my phone on the desk, and it clatters to the edge. The way Solange and I interacted in that text exchange, as if we mean absolutely nothing to each other, was probably the least genuine moment in our entire relationship, even including the period when we were faking one. Solange and I only pretended to date, yet somehow I’m experiencing a damn breakup anyway. And fuck, there’s this ache in my chest whenever I think about her. Not good.

I stand abruptly and snatch up the phone.

My mother picks up within two rings. “Hello?”

“Hey, it’s me. Just wanted to give you a heads-up that Solange needs to pick up something from my place. She’ll be there soon.”

“Solange?” she asks, a tinge of humor in her voice.

She’s doing this on purpose, and I don’t have the patience for it. “The woman you met Saturday night.”

“Oh yes, the woman who crashed your wedding. Such a pretty lady.”

I can barely hold back the growl in my throat. “Just don’t harass her, okay? Let her get in and get out. No twenty questions.”

“Of course.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ll shoot for nineteen.” Then she hangs up.

My gut’s telling me this isn’t going to end well; the mile-high stack of files on my desk and a three o’clock team meeting are telling me I can’t do shit about it.

Solange

Well done, Solange. You powered through those texts like a champ.

As I begin the walk from my apartment to Dean’s, I applaud myself for holding it together. There’s no use denying it: Distancing myself from him isn’t going to be easy. Even now, I want to be near him. Talk to him. Kiss him. But Dean isn’t my person, nor does he want me to be his. I knew this from the outset. Yet I got sidetracked by our chemistry, his willingness to wear his vulnerability on his sleeve, the way we played the role of lovers so skillfully that it began to feel real.

Silly me. Dean was never anything more than a diversion. I likely served the same function for him. No harm, no foul, right?

Wrong, Solange. It doesn’t even sound convincing in your own head.

Here’s hoping my and Brandon’s trip to Vegas will yank me out of this funk.

I trudge up the short walkway to Dean’s building, then square my shoulders before pushing open the outer door. In the box-size vestibule, I pull his keys from my purse, unlock the wrought iron security gate, and head straight for the elevator.

When I arrive at Dean’s condo, I take a deep, steadying breath and ring the bell. With any luck, Dean’s mother won’t engage me in conversation, and I’ll be able to slip in and out with no fuss.