My reaction is to clench my jaw hard. I don’t know what to say. I never do in these situations. This isn’t the first time someone’s told me I was their first crush, but it’s the first time a date has mentioned it.

Sarine notices my hard stare and drops her gaze to her plate. “I’m sorry. You must hear that all the time.”

“I do.”

I could have tried to make her feel better, but I’m honestly not in the mood to appease anyone. It’s not Sarine’s fault I get annoyed easily when someone mentions my ten-year stint on the family-oriented TV show. Nor is it her fault that talking about it inevitably brings Jamie to the forefront of my mind, and with that, the guilt.

“I want to know all about it. What was it like on the set?”

How about great until I lost my best friend?

Grinding my teeth, I draw our waiter’s attention. I’ll need something stronger than wine to make it through dinner.

“It was work. So, you only have one sister?”

“Oh come on, Alistair. You can elaborate more than that. Did everyone in the cast get along?”

“Yes.”

“Do you still keep in touch with them?”

“No.”

My monosyllabic answers don’t seem to clue her in that I don’t want to talk about my glory days.

“What happened to Jamie Lewis was so sad. I’ll never understand why he did it.”

Fuck me. She had to go there.

When the waiter finally approaches our table, instead of asking for another drink, I hand him my credit card.

Sarine’s jaw drops as a glint of surprise shines in her eyes.

“Is there something wrong, sir?” The waiter eyes my barely eaten dinner.

“No, nothing’s wrong with the food.”

I don’t elaborate further, letting the guy draw whatever conclusion he wants. Sarine’s glint of surprise vanishes. She’s now glaring at me.

“Are you going to bail on me? I thought dinner was going great.”

I drop my napkin on top of my sixty-dollar uneaten steak and stand up. “It was nice to meet you, Sarine. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

I head after the waiter because waiting for him to bring my card back while sitting at the table with Sarine is unnecessary torture. I catch her entering a cab when I walk out of the restaurant. If the story she told me about her sister setting up her account on the dating app is true, I’m sure she’s on the phone with her right now. In the back of my mind, I know what I did was a douche move, but I’m too fucking busy battling old demons to care.

I should drive straight home, but instead I go to the last place on earth I should be.

The Brandywine Hall building looms in front of me. Parked across the street from it, I make a mental list of all the reasons I shouldn’t be here. I ignore all of them as I get out of my car.

It’s my luck—or demise—that someone is walking out and I’m able to slip into the building. I have no idea what apartment number Chiara’s is, but that mystery is quickly solved by looking at the names on the mailboxes.

I forgo the elevator in favor of the stairs, taking them two at a time. There’s a reason for my urgency—if I take too long, my sanity will return, and right now, I don’t want to have common sense.

Once in front of her apartment, I ring the doorbell. When I don’t hear anything, I knock instead, hard.

“I’m coming!” she says from somewhere inside.

The door opens, and the sight of her robs me of air. Her hair is disheveled, and her cheeks are flushed. I wonder for a second if I interrupted her with someone. Jealousy surges through me, suddenly and violently.

“Alistair. What are you doing here?” Her voice comes out as a breathless whisper.

“I think we need to talk. May I come in?”

Her eyes widen slightly, but she does open the door all the way and allows me in. I just take a couple of steps before I turn around. Chiara is standing in front of the closed door, frozen like a statue, watching me with wary eyes. A myriad of emotions clashes inside my chest. Longing, regret, anger. But the feeling that stands out the most is something I never thought I would feel again. I can’t believe it took me this long to realize the truth.

“Why are you here, Alistair?”

“I went on a date tonight,” I blurt like a moron.

She winces. “And you just came here to rub it in?”

I pass a hand over my face. “No, I came here because I’m done pretending that our weekend in Italy was meaningless.”

Leaning against the door, she closes her eyes and presses a hand over her forehead. It’s then that I notice she doesn’t look well.

“Chiara, are you okay?”

“No. I feel… faint.”

No sooner does she say it than she stumbles forward.

“Chiara!” I reach her with a giant stride, catching her in my arms before she hits the floor.

With her head pressed against my chest, I can tell she’s burning up. I lift her in my arms, noticing how she feels like deadweight. She’s passed out.

I cup her cheek. “Goldi, wake up.”

Her eyelids flutter, but she only opens them halfway. “Alistair, I don’t feel good.”

“Of course you don’t, sweetheart. You have a fever. Do you have painkillers?”

She closes her eyes again and nods.

“Where are they, Goldi?”

“In the cabinet above the sink in my bathroom.”

I don’t need directions to find her bedroom and adjacent bathroom. I lay Chiara on her bed first and then go in search of the medicine.