Melissa Chapman opens the door with a flourish. She’s an attractive woman. The resemblance between her and Dean is striking. Same hazel eyes. Same dirty-blond hair, hers styled in a shoulder-length bob. Dressed in relaxed jeans and a cream linen top, she could easily be mistaken for his older sister.

“Solange, come in, come in.”

“Sorry to bother you, Ms. Ch—”

“Please. Call me Melissa.”

“Right,” I say, stepping inside. “Sorry to bother you, Melissa. I just need to grab something I left the other day. I’ll be out of your hair in no time.”

“It’s no bother. Do what you need to do.”

I keep my head down, stride to Dean’s room, and find my floral birth control case next to his toothbrush holder. The bathroom’s spotless. No surprise there. I take a moment to scan Dean’s bedroom. The bed’s made, the window shades are drawn on each side at precisely the halfway mark, and Dean’s house slippers are lined up together in the only empty corner. A small stack of files rests on the nightstand; on top, a bowl of peppermints serves as a paperweight. The devil on my shoulder is whispering in my ear, encouraging me to leave his pristine sanctuary in disarray, but I mentally flick the suggestion away. This place is so quintessentially Dean, I don’t want to mess with it. Enough of this. It’s time to bounce.

When I return to the living room, Melissa grabs the remote and turns off the TV.

“Well, I’m all good to go.” I jingle the keys in my hand. “I’m just going to drop these on the counter.” I don’t know why, but I keep my hands visible and creep to the kitchen—as if one false move will set off a chain of events I’m not prepared for—then I place the keys near Dean’s coffeemaker.

Melissa watches me, her lips curved into a half smile. “Solange, please don’t leave yet. It’s been a while since I’ve had the opportunity to meet any of Dean’s friends.” She points at the armchair facing the sofa. “Sit with me a bit?”

Dammit. Here we go. I slowly lower myself onto the chair, then look at her and wait.

“How is he?” she asks. “Really, I mean. He says he’s fine, but just a month ago, he was going to marry Ella. I’m hoping you know more.”

“He seems”—I shrug—“okay?”

What else can I say? Dean and I didn’t talk about Ella that much. We just talked about everything else. And laughed a lot. And gave each other toe-curling orgasms. And blurred the line between fiction and reality even though we both claimed we never would.

She studies me curiously. “How’d you two meet, by the way?”