"I'm sorry," Tuck offers. "I thought you were—"
"My sister? You wake up by groping my sister?"
"Auggie, he's my boyfriend," May groans.
"What? Why didn't you tell me you had a boyfriend? You've never mentioned his name?"
Tuck doesn't seem phased by the conversation. "Well, let's see here," she croaks. "We've been dating a month, and things became official three days before ... before, Keegan—"
"Killed himself," I finish her sentence. I'm not in denial.
"Yeah, I didn't think it was the right time to tell you I had a new boyfriend while you're suffering in pain."
"I'm not suffering," I argue. "I'm relieved. I'm free."
"I'm going to go ... use the bathroom," Tuck says.
"Sorry, baby," May tells him.
Baby. Wow, they're already in that stage.
Tuck clambers out of bed in his boxer shorts, sporting about six feet of tanned and toned body, messy dark bed hair, and rosy, stubbled-cheeks.
When the bathroom door closes, I flop back down and wrap my arm around May's neck. "He's hot."
"He is," she agrees. "He's also the sweetest man I've ever met. He's a nurse down at Urgent Care. We met when I thought I had strep throat a couple of months ago."
"You met while he made you gag? That's usually a turnoff to men."
May shoves me away from her. "Don't be gross."
"Sorry."
"Auggie, we need to have a serious talk."
"Nope. I can't."
"You're going to, or I'm involving Mom and Dad."
"May, come on, let me handle my life the way I need to at the moment. I appreciate you helping me out last night—speaking of which, how did you know where ..."
"Apparently, we both have a thing for smart men."
"Huh?" I question.
"Chance Miller, a friend of yours, wanted to make sure you got home safely when you passed out on the bench overlooking Lady Bird Lake."
"Oh my God," I groan. A memory flashes through my head. "May, I tried to kiss him when I was—I was—"
"Drunk out of your mind?"
"Maybe." I feel deflated and embarrassed. I never act this way. I don't believe in meeting men at a bar. I believe in running into someone by fate and finding love that way. Of course, I've never tested this theory out since I was with Keegan most of my life, but I like to believe in fate.
"He got my number from your phone," she continues with the explanation. "He got you into my car and made sure I had a way of getting you into my apartment."
Her words are ruminating around in the fog that's occupying most of my headspace, and I can't help but wonder why he'd care about my well-being.
"I'm sorry," I offer.
