Mirabelle enters without invitation, peering first around the door—looking for Alayna, I assume—before shutting it behind her.

I rise from the bench I was sitting on and scratch the back of my neck. “She left. I’m sorry.” I’m pretty sure Alayna was done with her part of the show, though, so I don’t really feel that bad.

Mirabelle walks up to me, places her small hands on my chest and shoves. “What the hell, Hudson? You weren’t supposed to be here.” She shoves me again for good measure.

I wrap my hands around her wrists. “And you’re supposed to be watching your blood pressure. Stop shoving.”

She wriggles out of my grasp and puts her fists on her hips. “If my blood pressure’s spiking, it’s not because of the shoving. It’s the man who’s being shoved that’s causing me anxiety.” She moves again to push me, but this time I catch her first.

“There’s no reason for me to be causing you anything. Everything’s good. Sit down.” I direct her to the bench where she sits without any pushing. “Do you need me to get you some water?”

“No,” she snaps. “I’m perfectly hydrated, thank you very much.”

Something about her demeanor sparks a similar confrontation. Her rehearsal dinner. I’d pulled her away from her party then too. God, I’m such a fucker of a brother.

For old time’s sake, I ask, “Don’t you need to be with your guests?”

“I’m on a potty break. It’s fine.” Her narrowed eyes show a hint of humor, and I know she caught my reference. Then she’s animated again. “And what do you mean everything’s good? Did you talk to Alayna?”

I lean a shoulder against the door. “I did.”

“And?” She’s almost as eager as I am to have us back together. It’s nice to have someone in my corner.

“And I proposed.”

“Um…what?”

“You’d be proud of her. She said no.” It hadn’t been one of my finer moments. I’d been desperate and bold and brazen. I hadn’t had a ring. It had been the solution I’d concocted on my ride back into town. I thought that proving the lengths I’d go for her was the answer to our problems. As if lack of dramatic gestures had been our issue.

“Which is understandable.”

Alayna already explained it in hard-to-hear words—she loves me, but she can’t stand to look at me. She can’t ever trust me again. I’m an idiot to think that she’d want to spend her life with me.

But I’m feeling masochistic and think maybe I should hear it again. “Is it?”

Mirabelle’s nicer about her response. “You broke her heart, Hudson. You don’t fix that with a proposal.”

I want to ask, then how do you fix it?

But I don’t voice the question. I’m afraid the answer is you don’t.

So instead, I slump on the seat next to her and assume an air of confidence. “It’s good, though. I’m going to win her back. I’m not giving up until I do.” They were the words I’d shouted after Alayna when she’d walked away from me earlier. She didn’t look back. I pretend that doesn’t mean anything.

Mirabelle lifts her head to study my face, surprise etching her expression. “When the hell did you turn into a romantic?”

I shake my head. “I didn’t. I just remembered that I’m a man who gets what he wants.” And I want Alayna. Need, actually. I need her like I need air to breathe.

“Yeah, don’t use that line with her. That’s not romantic at all.” She makes a face to further prove her distaste.

I hadn’t meant to use the line, but now that Mirabelle’s scoffed so openly at it, I have to know. “Why not? It’s worked before.”

“Maybe to get laid.” She pauses for a second. “And now that I think about that…ew.” She shudders. “Anyway, cocky and dominating is not what’s going to win back trust and affection.”

“How the fuck do you earn back trust?” I don’t mean to be so crass, but I’m frustrated.

And, also, I get it. There’s nothing—nothing—that Celia could ever do to earn back my trust. Is that how Alayna feels about me? She probably should. As she said, there’s no forgiving that kind of betrayal. Now I know.

But she also told me that she still loved me. Even if she hadn’t said it, I saw it in her eyes, on her face. I felt it in the way she had to fight to keep from running into my arms. If she’d said she hated me, maybe then I could let her go on with her life. Without me. But because she still has love, well, I can’t give up on that.

Huh, maybe I did turn romantic after all.

“Time,” Mirabelle says. I hadn’t expected her to answer. “Give her space. Let her know you’re still fighting for her. But don’t do anything that will get you a restraining order.”

Time and space. Every second away from her kills me. Every inch between us feels like miles. But I can try. If that’s what she needs, I can do my best to give her that.

Mirabelle rubs a hand in small circles over her belly. “Do you have anything specific planned to show her you’re still thinking about her?”

In truth, that’s why I’m still sitting in Alayna’s dressing room—I was paralyzed, trying to figure out my next move. So far I’d come up with nothing.

Except as I’m caught in the hypnotic rhythm of my sister’s hand motion, I suddenly remember something from long ago. “Someone once told me,” I say, “that the way to win a girl’s heart is to do things that prove you’ve noticed who she really is.”

I’d used that wisdom to win me girls in the past. Always as part of a scheme, and that made it hard to consider it as a tactic now. Yet it had been good advice.

Mirabelle eyes me. “You’re seriously going to develop your game plan based on something I told you as an inexperienced teenager?”

I frown at her word choice. “Not a game, but yes, my plan is based on your suggestion.”

She raises a brow, and I assume she’s unhappy with my idea.

“Do you have anything better?” I hope my exasperation isn’t too apparent.

“No. The idea’s great. Simple. Romantic. It’s really the best you got.”

“Then what was that look for?”

She breaks into a grin. “You. Asking my opinion about your love life. I told you that you would one day.”

Her smile is contagious. “Don’t get cocky. It’s not good for the baby.” I poke at her ribs where I know she’s ticklish.

She bats at my hand and squeals. “Stop it. You’re making me laugh, and my bladder can’t take it.”

“Go take your potty break.” I stand and help her to her feet. Then I open the door and stand back to let her pass.

In the hallway, before she goes toward the bathroom and I toward the back door, she asks, “Are you going to be okay?”

I pause. “Yes. I think I am.” Because Alayna seemed like she was going to be okay. And that’s what matters most to my happiness. Still, until she asks me not to, I’m going to keep trying for another chance.

By the time I’m in my car, I’ve already bargained with myself regarding giving Alayna space. I can’t stay completely away, and though that’s perhaps the last thing she needs, I know she can understand being all-consumed. I decide that I can physically keep my distance, but only if I’m with her in other ways. A list of gifts is already forming in my head.

Most anything I’ll need can be ordered online, but there is one purchase I need to make in person. I head directly to Tiffany’s. Alayna said no to my first proposal, but I still have every intention of one day making her my bride. When I have the chance to ask again, I’ll be prepared. I purchase a three-carat brilliant cut diamond flanked by two baguette stones in a platinum setting. As soon as I see it, I know it’s hers. It’s beautiful and precious, just like she is.

That night, I start my gift giving. I have the Kindle delivered to her at work. She may hate it. She may give it away. She may throw it to the ground like she did her phone.

Or maybe she’ll accept it. Maybe she’ll even love it. I don’t know. I’ve never so easily second-guessed myself. Like everything new Alayna has taught me, this is another new concept—how to grovel.

When a text comes through a short while later, it’s her cell number. I close my eyes and say a silent wordless prayer before opening up the message.

Man, ur quite the talker. This is Liesl, btw.

I’m disappointed and confused for a moment. What did she mean by talker? Then I realize she’s referring to all the texts I’ve sent. Has she read any of them? I ask.

No. But I read a few. :)

I don’t care that she did. I’ll shout my words from the top of the Empire State Building if there’s a chance Alayna will hear what I have to say.

While I have Liesl’s attention, I take the opportunity to ask more about Alayna. I saw her today, but I want to know really. How is she?

Good. Considering. She won’t use the vibrator I offered.

I chuckle. And then I’m thinking about sex with Alayna. Missing it. I’ve tried not to let those thoughts enter my mind. We spoke to each other through our bodies, and remembering her beneath me, her mouth on me, her tongue sliding against my own—it adds a deeper level to the constant pain I feel for her. I’m hard at the memories, but I won’t touch myself. I’ll suffer because I know that beating off will only increase the loneliness.

Ignoring the ache, I concentrate on my texts. Is she eating? Sleeping?

She eats. She drinks. A lot. But that’s getting better. She’s sleeping on my couch. It’s a futon.

So we’ve both been sleeping on the couch. Somehow that gives me comfort. Are you home? Can you take a picture?

A few minutes pass, and then an image of a thin, worn mattress shows up on my phone screen. A message follows. You better not want this for something kinky.