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drink-till-you-don’t-give-a-fuck stage of development. So, of course, the first thing I did when I arrived at the club in Durham to watch Chris, Tristan, and Jake perform was get shit-faced drunk.
    Needless to say, my eyes were glued to Tristan all night as crazy thoughts of marriage and babies – and hot sex – raced through my socially inept and highly inebriated brain. Eventually, about halfway through the show, he finally cast his smoky gaze in my direction and smiled – a smile that I would later learn he and Chris refer to as their crowd smile . But, let me tell you, when he directed that smile my way … I’m not ashamed to say that I think I may have peed a little.
    I am definitely never going to text him again. Unless it’s to send him a pic of my awesome bunion, as I promised Claire.
    Never. Again.
     
    Tristan: Whatever you say.
     
    Great! Now I feel like an asshole.
    No. I will not allow him to do this to me. I will not text him again.
    I sigh as I lie back on my bed and close my eyes. I try to push the images from that day outside Yogurtland out of my head, but it’s no use. It’s all I’ve been able to think about for the past twelve days. It was so different from all the other times Tristan and I have come close to having sex. It was almost as if seeing me on the phone with someone else spurred some competitive streak inside of him and he needed to outdo Eddie. And, let’s be honest, as amazing as Eddie is in bed, he could never be Tristan.
    What the hell am I thinking? Stop it, Senia!
    Oh, great. Now I’m yelling at myself inside my head.
    It wasn’t just the sex. He wanted to know who I was talking to on the phone. That’s not just sex, right?
    No, it was sex combined with typical male territorial issues. It wasn’t just sex. It was a fucking pissing contest. I am not anyone’s property! Especially not anyone’s property to piss on.
    Okay, that settles it. I am not texting him back.
     
    Me: Are you okay?
    Tristan: No. I’m at the hospital.
    Me: What’s wrong?
    Tristan: Can I call you later?
     
    Shit! I’m so stupid. I stare at the text for a few minutes before I begin typing. The bedroom door flies open and Claire walks in. I quickly tuck the phone underneath me before I can finish typing my response.
    “What are you doing in here?” she asks, looking winded and flushed from singing.
    “Nothing. Just trying to digest the twenty pounds of food I’ve eaten. No better way to make sure it goes straight to my ass than lying down and doing absolutely nothing .”
    Claire raises an eyebrow. “Why are you acting like I just caught you masturbating?”
    I laugh as I sit up and discreetly push my phone underneath my pillow. “Please. You’ve caught me masturbating plenty of times.”
    “Oh God, please. I don’t want to talk about you touching yourself.”
    “Whatever. Let’s go downstairs. I think I’m ready for some more pumpkin pie.”
    I glance over my shoulder at the pillow and shake my head as I close my bedroom door.

Chapter Eight
    The emergency-room doors open and I race through, clutching the note Molly left on the refrigerator: Went with Grandma to hospital. She wasn’t breathing. Get here quick. Don’t call me. I dropped my phone in the toilet.
    The entrance to the emergency waiting room is right before me. I storm in and find Molly sitting in a chair in the far corner with Elaine two chairs away from her. Molly’s eyes are closed as she leans her head back against the wall. Her light-brown hair is pulled up into a messy bun at the top of her head – the way she always does it before she goes to bed. Elaine looks at me and I quickly look away as I head for Molly. I shake her knee and she jumps a little as she opens her eyes.
    “Shit!” she cries as she’s startled awake.
    I’ve told Molly that she needs to stop cursing so much, but that’s like trying to tell a fish to stop breathing water. She grew up with me as her role model. She’s always looked up to me and,