When I stand, I find Perry holding the bottle of champagne I bought at the store. It must have slipped out of my bag and rolled away when I fainted. He looks pointedly between me and the booze, a look of understanding spreading across his features before I snatch the bottle from him.
Heat sears my cheeks. “I’m not drunk,” I snap.
“Uh-huh.”
“You don’t understand.”
“I think I do.” He folds his arms across his chest. “You came in here and pretended to flirt with me so you could creep on my younger brother. Admit it.”
My cheeks warm. “I wasn’t flirting with you. And even if I was, do you think I would have fainted?”
“Honestly? I have no idea.” He scrubs a hand through his hair so vigorously it stands on end like he stuck his finger in a socket. “This is weird. You’re weird. And my brother has dealt with too much shit over the past year to handle whatever this”—he motions toward all of me—“is.”
My mouth turns dry and it takes me three tries to successfully swallow.
Drawing himself up, he folds his arms across his chest. “Look, if you don’t want an ambulance and you don’t want me to call anyone for you, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
My chest tightens. “Fine. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you the truth anyway. I barely believe it myself,” I mumble under my breath. I’ll just have to figure out another way to find Devin. At the door, I toss one last look at the flowers on the counter. My gut twitches with regret at the gorgeous blooms that were supposed to be symbolic of today’s fresh start at life. Perry is watching me, expression clouded. “Sorry for the trouble,” I say quickly. Turning, I yank open the door and march down the steps. My gait is shaky and I have to pause to steady myself against the wrought iron fence along the sidewalk.
Devin is real.
Except Devin’s brother thinks I’m a basket case, so clearly he doesn’t know me and has never met me before in his life. But if Devin and I were actually together, his brother should know who I am… right? So what does it all mean? Does Devin know me or not? Were the memories churned up during my coma real—or not?
My blood pounds as I walk home, anticipation burning off the haziness from my fall. When I round the corner to my street, I kick off my heels, stuff them under my arm, and jog the last block to the duplex barefoot. Taking the front stairs two at a time, I bust through the unlocked front door like the Kool-Aid Man. The door slams against the wall and bounces back, nearly smacking me in the face.
“What the—！” Brie yelps from where she’s sitting cross-legged on the couch in the living room, upsetting the bowl of tortilla chips nestled in her lap. A few chips spill out, and Xerxes flaps over from where he was nibbling fruit slices on the coffee table and begins pecking. I drop my shoes onto the floor.
“Oh, Cass, it’s you,” she says, then stops when she catches sight of my face. The next instant, she’s off the couch and striding over to where I’m standing in the foyer. “What’s going on? What happened?” Grasping my shoulders, she studies me, concern seeping from every pore.
I grab her forearms and squeeze. “He’s real, Brie.”
“Who?”
“Devin.”
She pales. “What?”
“I saw him.”
“Cass.” The one word is loaded with so much pain, worry, and resignation my heart plummets to my toes. She curls an arm around my shoulders and steers me to the couch. “Come on, sit down. Start from the beginning.”
I tell her everything. When I’m finished, she swivels to face me more fully. “I know you think you saw him. There are a lot of guys out there who probably look like how you picture Devin looks. But, sweetie, we all know he’s not real,” she says quietly.
“But he is. I saw him. I met his brother.”
Blowing out a long breath, she rubs my back in slow, long circles. “This has been a big change for you. And the argument with your mom yesterday and starting a new job at the firm today… you’re facing a lot of pressure. Have you been taking your meds?”
“Of course.”
She grimaces. “Pi?”
“Yes!” I shove off the couch, and she jolts. “Brie. I’m not making this up and I’m not having some kind of anxiety-induced breakdown. He’s real. Look, I’ll show you.”
I run upstairs and retrieve my sketchbook from the closet. Standing opposite from where she’s curled on the couch, I place the sketchbook gingerly on the coffee table between us. “Now, don’t be mad…”