I stare at my hands, a little uncomfortable but also a little grateful they’re not talking behind my back.

“All I want,” Rose tells him, “is for you to not close us all out. If you think you’re doing something wrong or you can’t handle it, don’t just ignore it. You have to tell someone, and it doesn’t have to be me. If you feel more comfortable talking to Ryke or Connor or even the therapist, whoever. I just don’t want Lily to suffer because you can’t reach out.”

I understand her fears. We’ve isolated ourselves for so long that closing everyone off would be a natural regression. I just never really thought about it outright.

“I promise.”

She looks a little taken aback by how easily he relented.

“We both want the same thing,” Lo reminds her.

For the first time Lo and Rose seem to agree on something, but it only puts an insane amount of pressure on me. They may think Lo will enable me. But I fear I’ll screw everything up all on my own.

Ryke and Connor leave after we establish a plan to track down the texter. Connor will call his private investigator and then the rest of us will start making a list of Lo’s enemies. I just hope I don’t see my face on the cover of People tomorrow.

Lo is already in bed when I shut the bathroom door. The lamp bathes him in a warm light, and he looks content as he scribbles in a journal. The nightstand seems so bare without his glass of whiskey. We’re both going through a monumental change, and we haven’t even discussed our futures or anything serious since he’s been back. The texts kind of sent us into an immediate tailspin.

His gaze rises from his journal, and he studies me as I stand in the middle of the room, unsure about what to do. Back at Penn, after we became an official couple, I slept in his bed almost every night. But we didn’t cuddle. He didn’t whisper sweet-nothings in my ear until I dozed off. We fucked until I passed out, and then he’d finish off his drink and follow suit.

I’ve lasted three months without sex, but I also didn’t have him here, in bed with me. The equivalent for Lo would be snuggling with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Cuddling with my own vice seems dangerous, but I can’t be abstinent forever. I have to figure how to do this the right way.

“What’s wrong?” he asks and closes his journal, the pen sticking from the pages.

“We’re not going to have sex tonight?” I ask for the third time today.

“No, love, not tonight.”

I try to let the words sink in again, but they hurt and my chest tightens in return. It feels like rejection even though it shouldn’t. “Maybe I should sleep on the couch,” I say softly. “Until I get used to you being back.” Until I can stop thinking about you inside of me.

“I can handle you, Lil. I won’t let you break your vows.”

My vows. The four personal rules I set for myself, unlike the blacklist that my therapist set for me.

No porn.

No masturbation.

Less compulsivity during sex.

And never, ever cheat on Loren Hale.

How can four simple tasks feel so out of my control? Especially the third one. I hear what he’s saying, I do. But somewhere between his lips and my ears, everything distorts and my insecurities win out.

“I can be very persuasive,” I mutter.

His lips rise. “I think I’ll survive.”

“You’re a guy,” I remind him—as if this changes everything.

He full-on grins. “That, I’m aware of.”

My anxiety peaks, unable to even relish in his sexy smile. “But if I’m on the couch, I won’t be tempted. And…and when I’m in bed with you, I know I’ll try to have sex with you, even when I know I shouldn’t.”

“Lily—”

“And I don’t want to be weak and begging, but it’s inevitable, right? You’re like my crack.”

“Lil—”

“That’s me: the pathetic, horny girl who jumps her boyfriend and keeps on doing it when he says no.” I gasp. “Oh my God. I’m like a rapist. I’ll try to rape you every night.”

 He touches my cheeks and I flinch back instantly.

“Whoa! When did you get over here?” My heart pounds so hard that it beats like a drum in my ears.

He doesn’t move away, his hands cup my face tenderly, his eyes full of raw concern.

“Did you get a superpower in rehab?” I ask in a small voice, already knowing the truth. I freaked out to a new degree, not even noticing him climb off the bed.

“Yeah,” he whispers, so close to me now. “Just not the one you think.” He brushes off an escaped tear with his thumb. “You’re sick.”

I inhale a strained breath. The words from his lips are soul-crushing, even though they’re true. I try and jerk away but his hand slides down the back of my neck. The other one on my shoulder keeps me rooted here.

“I’m sick too,” he says, “and there will be times where we’re weak. Where we beg for the things we can’t have. But you can’t be scared of that, Lil. You can’t live your life sleeping on a couch because of it. You just have to believe that you’ll be strong enough in the end. Even if the middle is all fucked up.”

No distortion of his words this time. I understand him. I close the distance between us and bury my head into his chest.

He holds onto me and kisses the top of my head. “And you’re not a rapist.” I can sense him smiling. “You’re my girlfriend who can’t control her compulsions.”

“I like that better,” I mumble. We stay still for a little while, and I let him rub the back of my head until my pulse eases to a temperate rhythm. Why does something so small, like sleeping in a bed, have to be such a challenge?

I detach from his warm body and climb into bed, slipping beneath the soft sheets.

He watches me as I build a pillow barricade between my side and his. I’m sure I’ll destroy it later. I look up when I finish. “Stop smiling,” I tell him.

“No cuddling?”

“Not tonight.”

“That’s my line.”

I sit halfway up as he stores his journal in the nightstand drawer. “You learned a lot in rehab, huh?” A part of me thinks I missed out on a secret to beating addiction. Lo seems to know more than me or at least his confidence level towers over mine. But I couldn’t go to rehab. Not without outing my secret to my family, and anyway, group therapy doesn’t sound like the right avenue for me.

Now that we’re home, Lo decided not to attend AA meetings. Even Ryke said he shouldn’t go to them. I don’t understand why that is. And Lo doesn’t share much about his recovery, but he did say that he’s still going to see his therapist regularly—one that lives in New York. Some days I have to pinch myself to believe that he went to rehab only an hour from Princeton. I’m glad I didn’t know. I probably would have found a way to see him when I wasn’t supposed to.

“I learned enough there,” he tells me, sliding his legs under the covers. “And I plan to teach you everything I know.”

I smile. That sounds nice. I lie back down as he leans over and yanks the cord to the lamp, blanketing the room in darkness.

There’s something invigorating about the dead of night. How, right before you go to sleep, your mind springs awake. My thoughts flood all at once. Between the threatening texts and my barely passing grades in Princeton, I’m overflowing with anxiety. Not to mention that with Lo back, his problems seem to become mine. He’s broke, jobless, and has quit college. His relationship with his father was already complicated, now I don’t even know if he’ll have one at all.

 I have more problems than I can solve in one night. I shut my eyes, willing on sleep. But it stays locked away. Great, I’ve conquered getting into bed but now I can’t even sleep.

I roll onto my side and pull down the top pillow in my pillow-barricade. It’s enough to see Lo’s face. He turns a fraction, and with my eyes adjusted to the dark, I can see him pretty clearly. “Did you learn a trick to fall asleep?” I whisper.