“You’re not tired,” she says. “You’re marinating in your own misery. Get off that couch and come out with me.”

“Where—?”

“Brusque.” She’s not accusing me of being short with her; that’s the name of a new bar in Davis Square that she’s been trying to convince me to try with her for almost a week. Apparently, a new young singles pickup scene is coalescing there.

Nothing in the phrase “young singles pickup scene” appeals to me in the slightest, but there’s no arguing with Louisa, so I drag myself off the couch and head to my room to try to find something decent to wear.

I stand in front of my closet and stare at the possibilities.

Or lack of possibilities, maybe.

That’s where she finds me, fifteen minutes later. I haven’t moved.

“Rachel,” she says quietly. “I’m really, really worried about you.”

“Don’t worry,” I say, reflexively. Then I hear myself and sigh. “I’m really not miserable. This is a great setup for me.” I indicate the room. “It’s a great room. This is a great house. I have a great job. Objectively speaking, everything’s perfect.”

Louisa crosses her arms. She looks extra scary. “Rachel. Do you hear yourself?”

“Wha—?” I start to ask, but all of a sudden, I do.

Perfect.

Perfect job, perfect apartment, perfect setup, perfect situation.

It’s all exactly right, except it’s really, truly, all just wrong.

36

Brody

Two weeks after the summer festival, Connor finds me washing the boat outside Gabe’s and Wilder. I don’t set down the sponge or look at him, but I can feel him standing just off my shoulder, breathing.

He should be uneasy, because even if he was right, he was a dick about it.

“Hey,” he says. “I, um, thought you might want to know. Rachel went back to Boston.”

“Thanks.”

I still don’t look at him.

“Hey,” he says again. “I heard you got kicked out of Oscar’s last night.”

I close my eyes. Fucking small towns. “I didn’t get kicked out. I just got cut off.”

And the night before that, too, but who’s counting.

“Jill said you seem pretty miserable.”

I don’t bother to answer that. If your own best friend has to hear from someone else that you’re miserable, you shouldn’t have to explain it to him.

“I’m, um, really…” He takes a deep breath. Connor’s not exactly a big talker, either, so I know this isn’t easy for him, but there is no fucking way in hell I’m letting him off the hook. Let him stew in his own juices. “I’m really sorry.”

Now I turn around. In almost thirty years of friendship, I have never heard Connor apologize for anything.

“For fucking things up between you guys.”

“Isn’t that what you were trying to do?” I ask him.