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people. I didn’t have any friends growing up. Not a damn one. I had my father, and thenI had Deacon, and then Aaron and Myra. Now that I think about it, it’s a wonder I’m not more screwed up.
    Eva closes her eyes, exhaling heavily. I turn back to the television, which is playing an hour-long commercial for moisturizer. There’s a buzz under my skin, and I find myself smiling when August comes back into the room, holding a blue bowl. He sits in the chair across from me and uses an oversize spoon to scoop a heap of macaroni into his mouth. When he finishes, he tilts his head inquisitively.
    “Are you dating anyone?” he asks. The minute the words are out of his mouth, his cheeks start to redden. “Sorry,” he says quickly. “I didn’t mean it to sound . . .” He laughs. “Honestly just curious. I mean, would you have to date another closer? Do other people understand what you do?”
    My insides scream as he opens a wound that I’ve tried to close, and the pleasant tingle on my skin turns to needle pricks. I don’t want to think about Deacon. I can’t let myself feel this.
    “Being a closer definitely doesn’t go over well at parties,” I tell August, trying to keep my tone upbeat, but ultimately I fail. Sadness creeps in along with thoughts of Deacon. “I’ve only had one relationship,” I add. “And he did happen to be a closer. It’s not easy, you know.” I lean back on the couch cushion, the weight of my head suddenly heavy after I take the final sip of my drink. “Even though another closer understands the difficulties of what we do, the fact is, he’s a liar,” I say. “We’re all liars. Our entire life is a system of pretending. And when you’re trained to be a skilled liar, it starts to come naturally.”
    August furrows his brow, and I realize I’ve said too much. Given away too much of my truth. I lift my head. “Sorry,” I say, flashing a smile. “I think I’ve had too much.” I wiggle the empty bottle and then lean forward to set it on the trunk with a clink. When I look to the side, I see that Eva has fallen asleep on the couch. August watches me, his uncertainty easy to read.
    “Do you want another?” he asks, motioning toward the beer. “It’s still early.”
    “No, I’m going to go to bed,” I say. August sits up straighter, like he doesn’t want me to go. “I’ve had a long day,” I add politely. “Thanks again for bringing me back here. Hope I worked out better than the dog.”
    “We rehomed him,” August says, his tone flat. “I really hope you find your forever home soon, Brooke.”
    “I hope so too,” I tell him.
    He smiles then, friendly, like he’s known me for years. “You could always leave the country, you know,” he says. “Go to Europe and start over. Fake mustache and all that.”
    My heart skips a beat. Deacon and I used to talk about going to Europe to escape my father—that exact joke, in fact. But coming from August, the idea is absurd. I stand quickly, uncomfortable with the mood in the room. I grab my jacket and bag and murmur my good night. I start down the hall to where Eva showed me the extra room. The minute I close the door, I lock it—just in case. After all, they are strangers.
    I grab the clean sheets out of the closet and smooth them onto the bare mattress. When I lie down, a coil pokes my back,but if I shift to the side, I don’t even notice. I lie there, light filtering in the window from the streetlamps, and stare at the closet door. I only had one drink, but I feel fuzzy. And it could be from the alcohol or just the general fucked-up-ness of my life, but my emotions have come to the surface, like I can’t hold them back. I’m submerged in a loneliness that is deep and dark and absolutely crushing.
    “My name is Quinlan McKee,” I whisper, trying to pull myself out of it. But I can’t even finish my mantra, the one that used to keep me grounded after an assignment. I’m not Quinlan McKee. I’m no one.
    I turn to