After one last look around, we hug, and I promise to see her on Sunday. I glance over a shoulder as I walk to the car, letting my heart squeeze one last time before I get in and drive away. The memories . . . the comfort . . . the past . . . all become a distant picture in the rearview mirror as I head to my brother’s house. I’m running through a mental checklist of things I have to do, when a ringing phone cuts into my thoughts.

“Hey, how’d it go?” Mia asks in greeting.

“It was okay. A little sad, but not terrible.”

“Sorry I couldn’t be there. Did Felicia come to pick up some of his things? How is she doing these days?”

“Good. She looks good.”

“Are we still going out tomorrow night?” Mia asks slowly, treading water.

“As long as we stick to one bar, I’ll go. I’m not in the mood for bar hopping and doing the college girl thing you like to do.”

Mia never shed her wild side persona when we graduated and started living our “grown-up lives.” As much as I love hanging out with her, replenishing my liver with an insane amount of water after drowning it in alcohol the night before isn’t something I can do every week, like she does.

“Okay, no bar hopping. I have a brunch date on Saturday morning anyway and can’t afford to look like crap, so we’ll take it easy.”

“A date?” I ask with a frown, as I pull into my brother’s driveway.

“Blind date. His name is Todd. He’s a curator at The Pelican. Maria seems to think we’d be perrrfect together,” she says, rolling her R’s exaggeratedly to imitate her Italian author friend.

“Hmm . . . I don’t think I’ve heard of a Todd,” I say.

Mia and I have known each other for as long as I can remember. Our mothers were best friends growing up and later, married men who were also best friends. Much to our mothers’ dismay, we realized early on that history wouldn’t repeat itself when Mia kept going for the bad boys, while I stuck to the quiet types.

“Damn. I was hoping you had. Don’t you know everybody in the art world? Todd Stern?” she says, a hopeful note on her voice.

I laugh because it’s not far from the truth. Wyatt and I opened up Paint it Back—a gallery-slash-art studio—a couple of years ago, and between our artist and gallery owner friends, and Mia’s connections in the photography world, we pretty much did know everybody. Well, obviously not everybody.

“Nope. Rob doesn’t know him?”

“I’m not going to ask him! You know my brother has a big mouth. He’ll go and tell my mom, and they’ll start planning a wedding over a guy I haven’t even seen yet.”

I laugh, knowing she’s right. “Well, I’ve never heard of the guy.”

“Maria said he just moved here from San Fran, so I figured you would know him. New guy in town and all that jazz.”

“This isn’t really like high school, Mia.”

“Actually, it’s exactly like high school, which leads me to believe that if we haven’t heard anything about him thus far, he’s probably ugly.”

“You’re probably right,” I agree with a laugh.

“Shit. Stefano is here for his shoot. Let me know if you need me to come by Vic’s later. Love you!”

She hangs up in the midst of my goodbye, so I put my phone away and switch of the ignition. I do a quick face check in the rearview mirror to make sure my mascara is still intact and run a couple fingers through my wavy brown hair, picking it up into a quick ponytail. The only sound, as I walk up to the house with the last of my clothes in the bag in my hand, is that of the gravel crunching below my flats, and the waves from the beach just steps away.

Anticipation buzzes through me as I crouch down and flip the welcome mat to get the spare key out and open the door. I call out my brother’s name as I walk through the door and past the living room, assuming that his car is parked in the garage. I get no response. I head upstairs toward the spare rooms. His master bedroom is downstairs, which is convenient for a twenty-eight year old single male, since the kitchen and living room (complete with a ginormous television) are only a few feet away from his door. When I step into the room, I’m taken aback by what I see. Not only did he make my bed with the new sheets I bought and left here the other day, but he also painted my room a soft shade of gray that I love.

I leave my bag on the bed and head to the balcony right outside the room. The balconies are one of my favorite features of this house, and what I went crazy over when he was thinking of buying it. There’s one in each upstairs bedroom, and they both face the beach behind the house. As I’m stepping out onto the balcony, the phone chimes with a text message from Vic, telling me he’ll be here in a couple of minutes. As I’m responding, I walk into the back of an easel that wasn’t there when I last visited. Walking around it, I read the huge letters in Vic’s handwriting that say: Welcome Home, Chicken and below, a drawing of a chicken that only a five-year-old would be proud of. I erupt in laughter and snap a picture of it, sending it to Mia and my mom, since they’re the only ones who would get it. My brother started calling me that when I was five and afraid of the dark—like most five-year-olds are—and for some reason, the name stuck. Probably because every time he called me that growing up, it was in the form of a challenge he knew I wouldn’t back down from.

I turn the page of the large sketchbook and leave it on a blank page before turning my attention to the ocean. My eyes take in the different shades of blues that twinkle in the sunlight—the cerulean, aqua, and midnight blue. It’s a view that can’t be ignored. It’s one that reminds me of how small I am in the grand scheme of things. How small we all are. I’m not sure how long I stand there, just staring. Just breathing. Just enjoying the taste of salt on my tongue that I seem to get from the smell alone. A hand lands on my shoulder and I jump, snapping me out of my meditation.

“Holy crap, Victor!” I say, pressing both hands to my heart.

“You like your present?” he asks with a laugh as he pulls me into a hug.

“Yeah, you asshole,” I say, smiling as I slap his chest playfully.

“Asshole? I get you the best present ever, and you call me an asshole? It was the terrible drawing of the chicken, wasn’t it?”

“You know I hate that nickname.” I groan and step into the house, trailing behind him as he walks downstairs. “Where’s the food? I’m starving.”

“It should be here soon. Let me go change,” he says. “I have to go back to work soon.”

“You’re going back?”

“The case I’m working on is a fucking mess. The guy’s wife is trying to take everything he has in the divorce. I don’t know when these athletes will learn that they need a goddamn pre-nup.”

“Oh,” I cringe slightly. It’s something Wyatt and I discussed when we got engaged—and had huge disagreements over—every time it was brought up. You would never think an artist would care about that, but Wyatt was successful and wealthy. By the time he turned thirty-three, he’d been selling to a very wealthy group of people for years. That same group of people talked him into thinking that marriage without a pre-nup was grounds for a messy separation.