“Sort of,” she replies with a quick smile. “But let’s just say I gave up on that fantasy a couple of months after your dad bought the summer home you used to rent. I kept thinking that one day you’d show up at Frenchy’s or my front door. But you never did. You never even called.”

I wince. “I’m sorry.”

The words don’t feel like enough. She was once a good friend, and I shut her out the way I shut everyone out. I don’t know how to explain how lost I was—at this point, anything I say will merely sound like an excuse. And I don’t know how to explain what changed.

I don’t know how to tell someone, even a good friend like Kali, that something as simple as Olivia’s touch and smile melted away what so many psychiatrist appointments had failed to do.

“I’m sorry,” I say again.

Kali puts her hand on mine briefly. “It’s okay,” she says. “I’ll just say it’s good to see you, and leave it at that.”

I give her a smile of gratitude. Not just at her understanding, but at the way she’s brought both me and Olivia into her social circle. For the first time in years, I have friends. Just a handful of guys to grab a beer with, and we’re not like braiding each other’s hair or anything, but they knew me back before I was an ugly bastard and don’t seem to mind that I’m not as pretty anymore.

Olivia all but skips over to our table, thrilled because one dart made contact with the board. Barely.

“I think I’m getting better!” she chirps.

“No,” Kali says, taking a sip of her drink. “You’ve been in four times this week, and you’ve literally shown no improvement. It’s incredible, actually.”

Olivia wrinkles her nose at Kali and sips her wine. “Don’t make me take my patronage somewhere else where the staff is more supportive of my sports skills.”

Kali holds up a finger. “First, darts? Not a sport. Second, if you can find another bar open in the off season that serves wine as good as mine, have at it.”

“That’s true,” I say, tilting my head at Kali. “Frenchman Bay’s not exactly a mecca of nightlife during the winter.”

“We should all go to Portland,” Olivia says, leaning forward excitedly.

“Yes!” Kali says, at the same time I say, “No f**king way.”

Both girls turn to glare at me. “Why not?”

“First of all, have you ever been to Portland?” I ask Olivia. “It’s not exactly the Village.”

Kali rolls her eyes. “Quit making it sound like a one-horse town. I’m not suggesting there will be any celebrity sightings, but there are a couple of great wine bars, and restaurants that serve something other than onion rings.”

“No.” My voice is a little sharper than I intend, and I don’t miss the way the two girls exchange a what-the-fuck glance.

Do they not get it? Patronizing Frenchy’s is one thing. The people here know my story; they know what to expect. This place is like 99 percent regulars, which means they all got a good look at my face that first night. Except for the occasional drunk gawker, I don’t get a second look when I come in anymore.

But leaving Bar Harbor? I’d be all but begging for people to point and stare. I’d be openly inviting questions and pity and disgust.

Worse than that, people will wonder what the hell someone like Olivia is doing with someone like me. She’s gorgeous and dazzling. I’m disfigured at best, monstrous at worst. Just because I’m finally at peace with myself doesn’t mean that everyone else will be.

The last thing I need right now is Olivia getting a dose of what real life would be like with someone like me. Things are going too well right now.

I can’t risk it. I won’t.

And deep down, I know that once she figures out that the rest of the world won’t be quite so accepting of her pet Frankenstein’s monster, she’ll want more. She thinks she cares about me, and I know that she does. But eventually she’ll care about a normal life more. She’ll want spontaneous trips to Vegas, winter cruises, and anniversary dinners. I can’t give her any of that.

Olivia’s future is glamorous Hamptons parties and pretty boys in suits. Mine is solitude and hole-in-the-wall bars like Frenchy’s.

Kali distracts me from my ruminations with an annoyed yelp and goes dashing back to the bar, where her newbie bartender in training is sloppily mopping up beer that’s all over the place.

Olivia turns toward me, her smile easy and adoring, the way it’s been every day this week. She pulls me in for a playful kiss, and I let her. And then I deepen the kiss, a little bit out of want and a lot out of desperation. I know she’ll leave eventually, and I’ll do anything in my power to slow down that process.

Because once she’s gone I’ll be worse off than before.

I won’t just be damaged.

I’ll be hollow.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Olivia

You know that point in every relationship where things are going really, really well, and you start to have the dangerous thought that nothing could ever go wrong, which pretty much guarantees that something will go horribly wrong, very, very soon? Yeah. That.

Anyway . . .

I have shin splits. I didn’t even know that was a freaking thing, but let’s just say the light one-to-three-mile jogs I’ve been doing over the past few months are Paul’s idea of a warm-up. His leg’s not all the way better yet. It still bothers him when he lands wrong, and then we have to take a walk break (oh, damn!), but for the most part the dude is a freaking running machine. We’ve run together almost every day since that first morning when I learned that he could run, and while I love every second of it, no longer am I matching my stride to his injured one. It’s a whole new ballgame, one in which the newbie runner struggles to keep up with the star quarterback and boot-camp legend Paul Langdon, who calls five miles a “quick run.” To say that he’s got his mojo back is an understatement.