The pain, God, the pain in my chest. This ache. I feel like I’m dying.

How could he say those things? How could he even think them?

Mason.

I sob, picturing his face, staring at that T.V. like a man possessed, ready to explode. Scream or cry, I couldn’t tell. Then, the disgust simmering in his eyes when he told me what he watched. The hurt. Tears welling up and threatening when he asked me if I ever really loved him, and the agony on his face when I lied.

I gasp and clutch at my chest.

God, someone rip this out of me. Take it away so I don’t feel anything anymore.

“Brooke, sweetie, are you okay?”

I hear Billy’s voice hours later, after the darkness rolls into my bedroom and blankets me. I open my swollen eyes, trying to see through the tears. Light from the outside room spills across the ceiling. I squint, focusing on Joey’s face as he sits beside me. Billy looks on, standing next to the bed.

“What’s going on?” Joey asks, studying me. His hand squeezing my shoulder. “And what the hell is that out there on the T.V.? Is that you?”

I cover my face and wail, sobbing into my hands.

How do I still have any tears left?

“Oh, no. What happened?” Joey rubs my arm. “Is it Mason? Did you two get into a fight?”

I sit up and draw my knees against my chest. I wipe the wetness from my cheeks even though it’s pointless. New tears fall.

“Yes, we got into a fight. A huge fucking fight. He found that disc in my room and he watched it. All of it. I didn’t know until it was too late. I forgot I even had it.”

Joey’s eyes go wide. “From like, six months ago? The Cuban guy?”

“Yes!” I shriek. Thank you! Both men startle. “Yes, from six months ago! Mason accused me of making that after him and I started hanging out. He said I only cared about fucking and since I wasn’t getting it from him, I probably went somewhere else.” My lip trembles. “He said so much,” I whisper, remembering everything and feeling that pain in the center of my chest swelling inside me. “He was so mad, and mean. God, he was mean. He made me feel like a,” I pause, biting my tongue and shaking my head.

No. No, I won’t say it. Don’t even think it.

Whore.

My eyes sting.

“You know he didn’t mean any of that,” Billy says, moving closer and tugging at the knot in his tie. “He was reacting, Brooke. How I’m sure a lot of us would react if we saw what he saw. He loves you.”

“It still doesn’t make it acceptable,” Joey snaps. He waves a hand in my direction. “Look at her. Look at how upset she is.”

“I’m sure he was just as upset, if not more.”

“He was upset,” I whisper, feeling two sets of eyes on me as I stare at the comforter. “Seeing that, it hurt him.”

“Good.”

I look up at Joey, then at Billy. Both of them reacting two different ways to this.

Staring at them is like physically being able to dig my heart out of my chest and look at it in my hands. There would be a line drawn down the middle. Two bleeding sides of me, reacting with equal passion and reason.

I hate Mason for what he said, but I get what pushed him to say it.

I love him. I love him, but I want him to feel what I’m feeling right now.

Sighing, feeling like every muscle in my body has been stretched and pummeled with a thousand fists, with my eyes burning and tears leaking and dripping down my face, I scoot down the bed and curl against my pillow again, clutching it to my chest.

A hand strokes my leg. “It’ll be okay, Brooke. It will. I promise,” Billy reassures me.

I wish I can take comfort in that. Maybe tomorrow he can tell me again and it’ll sink in.

Joey pushes my hair off my face and kisses my forehead. “Is there anything you want me to do? Issue a few death threats? Egg someone’s fancy new studio?”

I close my eyes. “Just get me out of bed tomorrow. I need to practice on that wedding cake.”

“You got it.”

I hear his footsteps trailing away.

“Oh, and Joey?” I lift my head.

He braces himself in the doorway, raising an expectant eyebrow.

“Get rid of that fucking disc.”

JOEY (OMG)

I drum my fingers on the counter as my last ounce of patience is stretched thin.

This bitch right here. If she doesn’t move her snippy ass along, I’m going to have to search for the number to those window repair men we used a few years back. I am not above violence today. Not after the weekend I’ve had. But only classy violence, of course. A nice hard shove in the right direction never hurt anyone. If she happens to go sailing through a window in the process, that’s on her. I am merely directing her toward the exit she can’t seem to locate on her own.

Firmly directing her.

Tapping her manicured finger on her chin, the woman in front of me, who has been debating on her selection for the past thirty-seven minutes, admires the left side of the case.

Again.

For the sixth time.

“These muffins right here.” She points at a tray while glaring at me from overtop of her glasses. “Are those raisins?”

“The ones labeled cranberry raisin muffins?” I arch my eyebrow. “Yes, those are indeed raisins. We try not to lie to customers here as much as we can. What with allergies and everybody wanting to sue everybody.”

“Mm.” She pinches her heavily lined lips together. “I’m not sure about raisins. They tend to make whatever dough they’re in a bit on the dry side.”

“Nothing in this bakery is dry, I assure you.”

Except for your vagina. When was the last time that thing saw any action? Prohibition?

I watch her walk along the counter. Back and forth. Back and forth. She leans in close, admires a treat or two while pinching the side of her glasses, then pulls back and resumes her leisurely as fuck perusal.

Breathe, Joey. Keep your fabulous shit together. No mauling the customers. They pay you. You love them.

Stopping directly across from me, the woman glances up. She looks bored out of her mind. “I don’t see any gluten free options available. That’s a shame. You know, Whipped over on Madison offers an alternative menu for people who have digestive troubles.”

I tilt my head. “Whipped also caters to rodents. They were busted two weeks ago by the health department for a rat infestation.”

Her eyes flicker a hair wider. “Oh, I . . . wasn’t aware of that.” She clears her throat, studying the case again.

Tension builds in my shoulders. I close my eyes and think of my happy place.

Billy on his knees, his finger probing my ass and his sweet mouth wrapped around my . . .

A loud clanging noise arises from the kitchen.

My head snaps in the direction of the doorway, then back at the woman who startles, a little too dramatically even for my taste, slapping a hand to her heaving chest as her eyes shift frantically around the room.

“What in the world was that?”

I grit my teeth.

Brooke. Poor thing is on the verge of a complete, epic meltdown back there. She has three modes I’ve seen her in the past three days—hysterically crying, angrier than my mother when she doesn’t get a drink by noon, and so utterly stressed she paces around the kitchen, shaking and talking to herself.

Christ, it’s only Monday. Between the Mason incident and this goddamn wedding, Brooke might need serious therapy by the end of the week.

I also might need some serious therapy by the end of the week.

Laughing off the disruption from the kitchen, I wave my hand in the air. “By the sound of it, I’m going to guess a sheet tray hitting the floor. I apologize for that. We’re just so busy back there making things that aren’t dry.”

The woman adjusts her glasses, cutting a look at me.