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He nods slowly.

“And,” I add, because if I’m ever going to say it, now is the time. “If you’re feeling extra generous, an alibi would be nice.”

Rhys barks out a laugh. “Jesus Christ.” He studies me for a moment, then nods. “Done.”

That should feel like a win, but it doesn’t.

It doesn’t change the fact that I kept her safe and lost her anyway.

Rhys waits until Micky hands me a mug of tea before he mentions Casper. Which is both strategic and fucking annoying, because now I have to decide whether to throw scalding liquid at my brother or merely glare at him over the rim of my cup. Dick.

“Have you considered just talking to him?” he asks, as Micky nestles beside me, tucking her feet under her.

It’s been a week since I last spoke to Casper. My last words were Don’t follow me. He said he wouldn’t, and he’s kept true to that. I sink into the corner of their sofa, wrapped in a nest of blankets, inhaling the steam, and allowing the aroma of peppermint, cedar, linden, and rose hip to comfort me.

I can’t let a breakup with Casper take the rest of my life down with it or become an excuse to lose myself too. It hurts—worse than anything I’ve ever survived sober—but at least I’ve learned over the years how vital it is to have structure, meetings, my sponsor, and someone to force me to eat and step outside once a day—even when I don’t want to. Which is why I still haven’t returned to my apartment since that night.

Rhys hunches forward on the other wing of the sofa, elbows on his knees. He glances up at me with a tight jaw and a soft gaze. His lips are parted as if there’s so much he wants to say but is holding back, likely on my account.

I roll my eyes and lower the mug. “Why do you keep bringing him up?”

He doesn’t react, simply analyzes me with the same pained expression. I’m sure he thinks he’s being subtle, but his protective-brother instincts couldn’t be more obvious. The only thing I don’t understand is why he seems to be protecting Casper, too.

“I’m serious, Anna.”

“Rhys,” Micky says like a warning.

“What?” he snaps defensively. “Look, I’m just playing devil’s advocate.”

I place the mug of tea on the coffee table before I hurl it at his head, then wrap the blanket around me tighter. “Jesus, he must be paying you a lot since you won’t seem to drop it. How about you try advocating for me? Is this because you don’t want to lose him as a tattoo artist, or what?”

He scoffs. “You think I’m more loyal to a tattoo artist than my own sister?”

“I don’t know, are you? I don’t understand why you keep taking his side.”

Micky rubs my back. They exchange a knowing glance that seems to contain an entire conversation. I hate when they do this telepathy shit.

“I’m not on his side.” Rhys clocks her expression before looking back at me. “I’m on the side of your happiness.”

That almost gets me. Because if he’d said anything remotely self-righteous, I’d have snapped. Instead his words mollify me . . . while also pissing me off. It’s not his fault, my emotions have been fucked since Casper and I stopped talking. I’ve attended three NA groups in the last week, skipping dance. I haven’t had the energy to jog, however, I need an outlet for my frustration. Maybe it’s time to start.

“My happiness?” I say, irritation growing enough for me to push right past it. “He invaded my privacy, Rhys.”

“I get it,” he says.

“No, I don’t think you do.”

His jaw tightens. Micky’s gaze bounces between us, like she’s trying to figure out which side of the couch the explosion will come from first.

“He cut a hole in the wall,” I bark. “A hole. In my fucking wall. So forgive me if I’m not jumping up and down to listen to whatever psychotic explanation he’s got for that.”

“But have you at least listened to his side?”

Now I really do want to throw something. What the fuck kind of question is that?

“Dude!” I shout at him, then glance toward Micky. “Am I speaking in riddles? Can you understand me?”

Micky nods and pats my knee before scowling at her husband. “Rhys, you’re only proving her point here. What’s going on?”