She nodded, staring at the pasta. But then, finally, she looked up at me. “Yeah,” she agreed. “I’d like that.”

I saw my opening and I took it. Wrapping my arms around her waist, I tilted my head down so I could nuzzle her hair.

“Ana, I’m sorry they all came up here. We all own the cabin together so it’s their place, too.”

She nodded again, still somewhat stiff in my arms, but she didn’t pull away. I kissed her cheek, her jaw, her throat and she actually started to lean into me.

“We can take off early tomorrow,” I murmured. “We can head to S.F. I don’t even feel like I’ve shown you my place yet.”

“No,” she agreed. “Connor was there the last time.” And then she pulled away.

Shit, somehow I’d managed to say the wrong thing. I’d reminded her of that afternoon when Connor had made a pass at her in my hallway. Damn it, the two of them were like oil and water. I’d have to figure that out. Some way the two of them needed to co-exist. But right now I had to admit, I felt exactly like Ana. I wanted to get away from it all, Connor included.

I drifted between rooms, lamely failing in different ways at each and every interaction. Ana sat down and ate some pasta, her fork making angry scraping noises against the plate. No one else said they were hungry and she ended up dumping the remaining gooey lot of it into the trash bin.

At eight thirty, Ana declared she was going to bed.

“No shit?” Connor looked at her, wide-eyed, like he’d never heard of such a thing. “What time is it?”

“We’re going to head out early tomorrow.” I shrugged, trying to take the spotlight off of Ana.

As I went in to check on her a few minutes later and steal a goodnight kiss, I heard Connor’s teasing at my back. “She got you on a curfew, Ashie? What happens if you’re a bad boy? Do you get an overdue fine?”

I laughed it off, but my fists were clenched by my side.

“You all right?” I asked Ana as she lay in bed, looking anything but.

“I’m fine.”

I sighed. This wasn’t going well, but I didn’t see any way to make it right until we could leave the next day. We weren’t all going to party hard all night together like one, big happy family. And they weren’t leaving. So, bedtime it was. Honestly, I wanted to join her.

Out in the other room came a deafeningly loud crash. I winced. “Better go see what that was all about.”

She nodded, looking tense.

“I’m sorry.” I looked down at her lamely, my apology like a thin, flimsy blanket that didn’t quite cover the extremities. I didn’t know when everything had gotten so complicated. It was like I’d been on autopilot for years and now I found myself at the wheel, unable to figure out how to drive the goddamned bus.

She nodded again and closed her eyes. Out in the other room there was another crash and a great boom of laughter.

I padded out in my bare feet and sure enough, Connor was trying to swing on the giant antler chandelier. Was I the only one who saw that ending in an emergency room? I suddenly felt like the parent walking into a party filled with crazy teenagers. And I kept right on feeling like a freaking chaperone, sitting with them all but wondering who might O.D. and who might not be 18 years old yet. Partying was a lot different when you weren’t drunk or having sex or both.

After a few more drinks, I found myself relaxing. How did the saying go? If you couldn’t beat them, join them? I wasn’t exactly joining. I wasn’t having a go at the chandelier, for example. But I felt a hell of a lot less stressed out as things got a bit more blurry. The more fuzz, the more I got to asking myself what was the big deal? So my band mates were up here having a good time with some good-time girls. What was the harm in that? It wasn’t like they were out stealing purses from grannies or abusing puppies. They were good guys, once you got to know them.

And Connor was a fucking riot. Once he got to doing impressions of some of the more stuck-up celebrity twits we knew and did not love, he had us all rolling. Too bad he wasn’t a transvestite. He could do a mean impression of a pissed off, bitchy lady demanding better service in a restaurant. Which was something we’d seen an Oscar-winning actress do back at a restaurant in L.A. a couple of months ago.

“What did she send the eggs back, three times?” I laughed, remembering how furious she’d looked, how outraged at the insult and injury from an improperly cooked meal.

“Seriously, mate. Four times.” The room broke out in laughter.

“No.” I didn’t think it had been four times. Connor liked to exaggerate. But maybe he was right? I couldn’t really remember the details, all I knew was he was nailing it in his impression.

“Do you call this an egg?” Connor drew himself up to his full height, not more than 5’6” but he worked it. Pursing his lips and waggling his index finger, he had her down.

Later, much later, I stumbled my way into the kitchen. Some water would probably be a good idea. Somewhere in the deep recesses of my mind I thought I recalled something about leaving early the next day. As in the day it now was. So probably in a few hours. That might not happen.

Stooping over the faucet, I let the water run as I stared at it. Interesting thing, water. At least when you were drunk.

Bumping up against a counter, Conner lurched in after me. He looked like an extra from a zombie movie, his shirt torn at the bottom, his hair wild and his skin deathly pale with a faint tint of green.

“You look like shit,” I informed him.

“I’m fresh as a fucking daisy!” he insisted in an exaggerated Irish brogue, then attempted to dance himself a wee leprechaun jig. It didn’t go so well. Tripping on his own feet, he crashed into the fridge and then landed down on his ass with a loud thud. We both started laughing so hard we could barely stop.

“You OK, man?” I managed once I could.

Sprawled out on the kitchen floor, he shook his head. “Not at all.” But somehow that devilish smile coupled with the accent made ever

ything sound like he was taking the piss out of me. He looked like he had one foot in the grave, but you could never really tell with Connor. Just when you’d think he was down for the count, he’d jump up and catch you with a mean right hook.

I gave him my hand and helped him up. “Thanks, mate.” He clapped me on the back, then joined me in filling up a glass of water at the sink. “So, where you been, Ash?”

From the serious turn his voice took, I figured he wasn’t just talking about the last couple of days. But I decided to go for the easiest answer, anyway.

“We got snowed in up here.” I gestured out the window, though with no lights on outside you couldn’t see a thing.

“Yeah, I figured. But where’ve you been the past month. It’s like you”—he clapped his hands together, then brought them up like a magician after a trick—“disappeared.”

I winced and scratched the back of my head, uncomfortable. I didn’t feel all that drunk anymore. At least not drunk enough for this conversation.

“I’ve had a lot going on,” I tried. “I’ve been dealing with this Mandy Monroe shit.”

“Seems like more than that.” Connor suddenly seemed sober as a nun. Where was a bottle of Jamison when you needed one? I fidgeted like I was in the principal’s office instead of talking with my best friend. That made me feel even worse.

“I miss you, mate.” He looked up at me, all rumbled and sad.

“Yeah, me too.” And I did. I missed how it used to be, how much fun we used to have. Back when we were just starting out, it had felt like we’d gone from outcasts to the most popular kids in school overnight. Or like we’d gotten away with a multi-million-dollar heist, walking away scott-free with the profits. Together, we’d been unstoppable. When had that changed?

“It’s been a rough couple of weeks.” He looked down at the floor. I realized I had no idea what had been going on with him, none at all.

“What’s up?”

“Tandy’s in rehab again.”

“Aw, fuck.” His sister had been in and out for the past few years. I knew it was hard on him. They’d relied on each other for so much growing up.

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