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“You didn’t cheat on Rob. You have no agreement with Rob. You can do anything you want. Just like he is.”

“It doesn’t mean I’m hooking up with his best friend! We kissed. That’s it. We just got carried away. We were a little drunk, and we weren’t thinking, and it was just this…blip. Matthew walked out, and that’s where it ended.”

“Do you like him?” she asks.

“Does it matter?” I reply. “This is Brendan we’re talking about. I could have been anyone and he’d have gone for it.”

Her arm flies out to hit my shoulder. “Give me a break, Erin. You’ve never been just anyone to him.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter either way. I’m probably getting back together with Rob, and Brendan has clearly stated he doesn’t want a relationship with anyone, ever.”

“So which is it?” she asks. “Is it that you might be getting back with Rob, or is it that Brendan doesn’t want a relationship?”

“The first, obviously. I’m just saying it wouldn’t matter in any case because Brendan and I don’t want the same things.”

She sighs, disappointed. “Fine. Will, at least, will be relieved.”

“I’m his children’s godmother,” I say, a little hurt. “He’d really have that big a problem with me dating his brother?”

“It isn’t about you. It’s about Brendan. He thinks Brendan runs through women, and he’d end up hurting you.”

And that, I admit, is exactly what I think too.

39

Brendan

Three Years Earlier

In June, the number of tours picks up dramatically, and for the first time in my seven months here, downtime becomes a rarity. Gabi makes the most of it, however. Italy is the ultimate adventure to her and she squeezes every second out of the experience. And the girl is indefatigable—I’ve never met anyone who wants to have sex as often as she does. It’s like she doesn’t even need sleep.

Gabi asks Seb to put us on the same schedule, which is fine with me. We spend every free moment together anyway. Sometimes I feel a little suffocated and begin to worry that I’m not cut out for a relationship—but then something reminds me of Erin and I resolve to try harder.

* * *

We’re on the third day of the Vineyards of Tuscany tour, sitting in the shade while our clients do a wine tasting. Gabi texts her mom, and I check email, feeling a twinge of dread when I see Rob’s name. I’m always waiting for the next round of bad news, waiting to hear some new way he’s nailed down this thing with Erin.

Rob has many good qualities. He’s had my back in every stupid fight I’ve ever gotten into. When I was on the verge of getting expelled in high school, it was Rob—student government president, head of the National Honor Society—who stuck out his neck for me. But he has some annoying qualities as well, and ever since he started dating Erin his emails have begun to irritate the fuck out of me. Today he mentions that he had to replace his Range Rover because it wasn’t under warranty anymore. He sends pictures of the new house, the one Erin moved into. It’s massive, of course. He says he wants to put in a basketball court, but he wonders if they’d use a tennis court more. He suggests that Gabi and I come visit. You can stay in the pool house, he says.

None of this surprises me. It’s been Rob’s M.O. since we were kids—asking about my grades before revealing he got straight As; patting me on the back for my college acceptances, and then casually mentioning he can’t choose between Harvard and MIT. You’ve never seen anyone as irritated to discover his SAT scores were lower than yours. Seven years later he’s still fucking bringing it up, mentioning he had a cold that day.

And I just don’t get it—I’ve never tried to compete with the guy. I don’t want a big-ass house. I didn’t care about getting straight As or going to an Ivy. It’s all Rob. Something in him seems continually dissatisfied with the fact that I just don’t fucking care. That I don’t want any of his shit, and I don’t want to be him.

Maybe that’s why he can’t stop throwing Erin in my face. Because subconsciously, he knows he’s finally got something I want.

40

Erin

Present

I’ve never been so relieved to finish a run as I am when Olivia and I arrive at the next checkpoint. She still seems fresh as a daisy, of course, while I’m barely able to stay upright. Brendan stands waiting, his arms crossed in front of him, as we come in.

“Your legs are shaking,” he says.

I shrug. “It’ll stop. I’m fine.”

He ignores me, kicking one of the crew members out of a chair and making me sit.