A few hours later, there’s boxes of pizza, soda, streamers, and balloons. Stanton, Sofia, and Brent come, Janet comes, the neighbors come, as well as a bunch of the kids’ friends, and their parents. I kind of hang in the background, leaning up against the wall, watching.

Distancing myself. From all of it. Drinking a cup of soda and really wishing I could mix it with that bottle of Southern Comfort that’s back to being buried in the freezer.

It’s dark by the time I step outside, onto the back patio. Bright purple and white hyacinths bloom all around, their heavy perfume making me feel like I’m gonna puke hard. The noises from inside echo out—shrill, delighted childish screeches, music, Stanton’s deep rumbling laugh, the steady drone of adult conversation.

Even though the weather is on the cool side, I start to sweat.

I remember the scripture from yesterday, when I went to church with Chelsea. It was about Jesus, in the Garden of Gethsemane, praying for a pardon that would never come.

Let this cup pass from me . . .

Seems pretty ironic right about now.

“You’re gonna dump her, aren’t you?”

My head jerks toward the corner of the garden, hidden in shadow from the lights streaming out of the house, where Riley is standing.

And she sounds pissed.

“I see what you’re doing—the way you lean away from her. The way you’ve been avoiding her all night. You’re acting like one of the boys in my school, right before he dumps his girlfriend in front of the entire cafeteria.” Her anger gives way to confusion and hurt. “How can you do that? Aunt Chelsea is the best person ever. And she loves you.”

“Riley—”

“She does! It’s obvious. She’s so happy with you. Why would you take that away from her?”

I rub the back of my neck. I’ve argued in front of judges with a lifetime of accomplishments behind them. Truly great judiciaries—some of them I studied in goddamn law school. And I was cool as ice.

I can’t say the same as I try to explain myself to a fourteen-year-old.

“Riley . . . it’s . . . complicated. I’m trying . . . you can’t . . .” And I go with the old reliable. The ultimate cop-out. “When you’re older, you’ll understand.”

Fucking pathetic.

She makes a disgusted sound, then slices me to pieces. “That’s the first time you’ve ever talked to me like I’m some dumb kid. And the truth is, you’re the stupid one!”

Riley shakes her head at my silence. “You don’t deserve her. You don’t deserve any of us.” She stomps past me, a swirl of furious brown hair. “You’re an asshole!”

She wrenches open the door and disappears inside.

And I whisper to no one, “Yeah. I know.”

Before the door slams shut behind Riley, Chelsea steps out onto the patio.

“There you are. Riley doesn’t look happy.” She wraps her arms around my neck and leans against me. “Teenage drama already?” Her perfect lips drift closer. “I thought we’d get a few days’ reprieve.”

I lean back and grip her forearms, slowly sliding them off. My voice is a feeble whisper. “Chelsea . . . we can’t do this.”

At first she’s confused, still smiling. But then the smile fades, and she understands. Her arms fold around her. “I thought we already were. I thought we were doing really well.”

We were. But it’s too fucking much. Too fast, too intense, too . . . distracting. I meant what I said to her yesterday—I can’t think of a single thing I wouldn’t do for her. For them.

“I care about you, Chelsea.” I gesture toward the house. “I care about you all very much. But a family—that kind of responsibility was never part of the plan for me. My role models were a drunk whose favorite pastime was punching his wife, and a cranky womanizing workaholic who was married to his bench. I don’t know how to do this.”

I’ve taken plenty of risks in my career. The bigger the risk, the bigger the reward. But I can’t risk . . . them. They’re too important, too precious. The risk that I could screw up, harm them because I don’t know what the hell I’m doing—even the possibility terrifies me.

I lick my lips, not looking at her. “And now that I know the kids are safe, that you’re okay—I need to back this way up.”

It was always going to end. Today, or a month, or six months from now—and it was never going to end well for her. I should’ve pulled away a long time ago.

But she was so . . . her.

And I was a selfish fucking idiot.

She inhales a breath, then lets it out slowly, the way she does when she’s trying to calm her heart. I hate that I fucking know that. I hate that I can already imagine what she’s thinking, what she’ll say.

“Jake, I know it’s scary. I’m scared too. But some things are worth being scared for. And together, we could be . . .”

Do it right . . . or don’t bother.

So I force myself to look into those heartbreaking blue eyes. And lie through my teeth.

“I don’t want this, Chelsea.”

She gasps, like the wind’s been knocked out of her.

“I don’t want this life. I can be a friend to you—to them—but this thing between us, whatever it is . . . needs to end now.” I scrape a hand through my hair, tugging hard, the pain giving me focus. Resolve. “You’re the kind of woman who’s gonna want to get married someday. You should be out there looking for that guy. But I’m not him. Any time we spend together will just . . . be a waste.”