“I am being serious. Everyone does it, Mia. It’s time for you to join the rest of the world.”

“I’ll pass. Thank you.”

“Like hell you will.” She places the laptop down in front of me. “Let’s create your profile.”

I shake my head at her and take a big gulp of my coffee.

“Okay, what are you looking for?”

“Peace of mind, freedom from assholes.”

“No,” she says, typing. “You’re looking for guys between the age of 26 to 34, friendship, short-term dating, and casual sex.”

“Wait, what?” I nearly choke “Autumn! I’m not looking for casual sex.”

“Yes, you are. Some great sex might be just the thing you need.”

“I’m not screwing a guy I meet online.”

“No, you talk to him online, you meet in person. and then you screw. See, it’s not the same thing.”

Jesus... I sigh.

“Let’s start with your name. You need a flirty and fake one just to be safe. How about Candy?”

I give her a blank stare.

“Okay, okay. Let’s do Audrey.”

“Let’s go all out. How about Audrey Hepburn?”

“Good choice on that last name, it’s unique,” she says. “How would you describe yourself?”

“Depressed.”

“Twenty-eight.” She keeps typing. “Single, sexy, curvy. Oh, and it asks for your bra size. What’s your bra size?”

“I’m not giving you my bra size.”

“You’re so difficult.” She leans over and literally grabs the tag of my bra from under my shirt, reading the size. “34C.” She returns to typing. “Long, brown hair. Brown eyes. Porn star lips. I think that’s good enough for now. Let’s upload a profile picture.”

She opens my photo gallery and shakes her head at all of my demure and “boring” photos.

“Finally!” She stops on a picture of me from last year. “Here. This one is perfect.”

“Autumn, you’re not using a picture of me in a bikini for my profile picture.”

“Okay, I’m using this one then, your boobs look huge, trust me.” She uploads the picture of me in a tight tank top and hits the button to make my profile public.

“So what now?” I ask.

“Now we check out your options.”

For hours we browse through the available single guys, but I’m only halfway paying attention. I know damn well I’m not open to even thinking about dating someone else.

She knows this too, but I love the hell out of her for trying to pretend otherwise.

***

Sometime around midnight, I feel my phone buzzing against my sleeping bag. I figure that it’s Eric, checking on me for the umpteenth time since I moved out. I’m still in awe that he paid the rent on my apartment for the next two years.

I pull out my phone, ready to tell him that I’m still okay, but then I see that it’s not his name on my screen at all. Its Dean’s. I let the call go all the way through to voicemail.

He calls again.

Same thing.

He calls one more time and my heart begs me to answer it, but my mind overrules.

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Fool me thrice, that’s not happening asshole.

Chapter 38

MIA

“So, let me get this straight,” Eric says, putting his fork down over lunch the next day. “You and Dean fucked in my kitchen?”

“After everything I just told you, that’s what you choose to harp on first?”

“Mia, that’s my goddamn kitchen. I eat in there!”

“Could you please act like my older brother right now? My older should-be-concerned-with-my-emotional-well-being type of brother?”

“I am acting like your brother. When you drop a bombshell like that, how do you expect me to react? Where exactly in my kitchen did the two of you have sex?”

“Eric!”

“Don’t even worry about it. I’m going to get it cleaned from top to bottom within the next twenty four hours.” He shakes his head. “How did I not know about you and Dean in high school after all this time?”

“I mean, how would you have known? You weren’t there. It happened long after you ran away.”

“But we kept in touch.”

“Yeah, but we didn’t talk about each other’s love lives. Besides, would you really have wanted to hear about a teenage romance?”

“Mia, every older brother looks forward to beating the ass of the guy that hurts his little sister.”

“Well, do you mind beating him up for me now? How can we make that happen?”

“We can’t.” He rolls his eyes. “It’s too late. He’s my best friend now—although I’m starting to wonder why he never told me about you before.”

“Probably because it didn’t matter.”

“Or because I would have beat his ass and never let him move in with me.” He laughs, but then he gets serious. “Then again, Dean never talks about his family. And actually, when I think back, the two of us never went in depth about any family members. I know he hates his dad. You know I hate our mom, so that doesn’t really leave much conversation about anything further. He really might not have had any idea about you, that we were related.”

“Possibly...”

“I just wish I would have known the two of you had such a past. I would have never suggested that you come and live with me. I would’ve gotten you your own apartment much sooner. You know?”

“I don’t regret coming here at all,” I say, completely honest. “Living here with you these last few months has been one of the best decisions I’ve ever made.”

He gives me a blank stare.

“I’m being serious!” I toss a napkin at him. “Are you mad about any of what I’ve just told you?”

“Why would I be?”

“Your best friend and your little sister? That we kept it from you?”

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m not thrilled with any of the revelations I’ve heard today, but I can get why you hid it.”

So, is there any other furniture that the two of you fucked on? Anything else I need to disinfect or just get rid of? I’m definitely getting new countertops, but do I need to search for a replacement couch? A flimsier coffee table maybe?”

“You’re being serious?”

“Yes, I’ve being very fucking serious.”

***

Later that day, I stare at my sketch pad, wondering how I’ve managed to sit at my favorite café for almost two hours without completing any work. I only have another few weeks to complete a new requested piece for the gallery, but all I can think about are break-ups.

“You know what, today is going to be a good day.” I tell myself. I take a sip from my latte and turn to a new page in my sketch pad.

Skimming through some of the images in my phone’s photo gallery, I select the cathedral building as my next source of inspiration and start drawing. The piece I’m supposed to submit is supposed to be something bright, bold and rich with color. It’s supposed to incorporate the scenery in Portland’s neighborhoods, the one aspect of architecture for one of their buildings. Once I finally get a good momentum going, I get lost in my work, not stopping for hours.

When I do eventually pause to take a break, my fingers are smudged in black charcoal and I’ve completely filled the pages of my current sketchpad.

I walk over to the register and order another latte. When I return to my table, I look out the window and see the last two people I need to see right now, Dean and the same woman he was with that night at the bar.

I sit and watch as they slowly approach the line of white food trucks at the corner.

I can literally feel my heart starting to ache all over again. When I imagined how Dean was feeling since our breakup, I never pictured him smiling, laughing, or looking completely happy.

I’ve barely had a moment when I’m not sad or not thinking about him. But I guess I really shouldn’t be surprised, I’ve always been the one left feeling like a fool in the end.

After Dean and the woman get their food, they turn around and walk across the street, heading straight toward the café. He suddenly glances in my direction, and his eyes lock on mine.