I drop my hand from the glass and turn around. I make it to the foyer before the five of them converge on me. They seem to come out of nowhere, like brain-sucking zombies in an old-time horror film. Only a lot cuter.

“You’re just gonna leave?” Riley asks.

I watch them for a minute, soaking them in. Then I shake my head. “Tom’s here.”

“We want you,” Raymond quietly declares. Without question or doubt.

“Tom’s a nice guy, Raymond.”

“He’s not you,” Rory says. “We want you.”

They all nod.

Then Rosaleen brings me to my knees.

“Don’t you like us anymore, Jake?”

What do you say to that? I mean, really—what are the fucking words?

“C’mere,” I tell her. And she steps forward into my arms. I clear my throat to dislodge the lump that’s suddenly sprung up. “Of course I like you. Out of all the little shits in the world, the six of you are my favorite. But I’m trying to do the right thing here, guys.”

“By ditching us?” Rory frowns.

My voice turns sharp. “I’m not ditching you. Ever. Whatever happens . . . between me and your aunt, I’m always going to be your friend. For the rest of your lives—I’m not going anywhere.”

Voices come from the kitchen and I hear the sound of the back door closing. I stand up as Chelsea and Tom come into the foyer.

“Jake. I didn’t know you were here.”

There’s an adorable streak of dirt on her cheek that I want to brush away for her. Right before I kiss her.

“Yeah, I just got here. It’s a nice day—I thought I’d take the kids to the park. If that’s okay with you.”

She smiles tightly. “Of course it’s okay. I’ll just grab Regan’s jacket.”

• • •

Another week goes by. I don’t go on any more stupid double dates with Brent—I don’t go out on any dates at all. I even stop jerking off.

Well . . . maybe stop is too strong of a word. But there’s a drastic decrease.

I’m terrible fucking company—even to my own cock.

Everything just seems to rub me the wrong way. And even worse, the things I used to look forward to, that gave me actual joy—an acquittal, a motion granted, watching a goddamn basketball game—just seem pointless. Hollow.

Empty.

Milton gets arrested again. For vandalism, destruction of property. And I can barely bring myself to yell at him.

He asks me if my dog died.

Then, before he leaves my office, he tells me to keep my chin up. When Milton Bradley has pity for you, that’s some rock fucking bottom, right there.

But I don’t even care.

I can barely stand myself, and after the second week rolls around, apparently everyone else has had just about enough of me too. Because early one evening, Brent, Sofia, and Stanton charge into my office, and Stanton shuts the door behind them. Brent closes the laptop on my desk and takes it away, like I’m grounded or something.

“What the hell is this?”

“This is an intervention,” the bearded bastard says.

“I don’t need an intervention.”

“Well it’s either this or Stanton’s gonna take you out back and go Old Yeller on your ass.”

I sigh and look at each of them as they sit across from me. “I’m fine.”

“Nooo”—Sofia shakes her head—“you’re what the opposite of fine looks like.”

“You’re miserable,” Stanton says.

Thanks, buddy.

“Chelsea’s kind of miserable too,” Sofia adds, but it doesn’t make me feel any better.

“And you’re both making us miserable,” Brent says. “It’s like osmosis, it’s just spreading out from you. It’s messing with my mojo, and it needs to fucking stop.”

“Jake”—Stanton stands, his eyes more serious—“it’s obvious you want to be with Chelsea. Why the hell don’t you just put yourself out of your misery and be with her?”

Finally, a little fire sparks in my voice. “Because I don’t want her getting hurt.”

“She’s hurting now,” Sofia argues.

“But this way, I still get to keep her!” My gaze drifts to each of them, daring them to say I’m wrong. “I know how to fight, and how to be a lawyer, how to be a friend.” By now I’m breathing hard. “I don’t know how to be a family man.”

“We thought you might say that.” Stanton nods, then gestures to Sofia. “Ladies first.”

Sofia rises and paces like she’s cross-examining me. “How many ounces of formula does Ronan drink?”

“What does that have to do—”

“Just answer the damn question.”

“Six.” I sigh. “Except at bedtime—then you gotta top him off with an extra two.”

She nods. “And how many words does Regan know?”

“Three. Hi, no . . . and Jake.” I can’t stop a grin. “She’s brilliant.”

Sofia sits and Brent stands. “What is Rosaleen’s favorite color?” he asks.

“Rainbow. Whatever the hell that means.”

He nods. “What is Raymond afraid of?”

I don’t even have to think about it. “Space rocks. Meteors. Anything he can’t predict or control.”

Brent takes his seat. Stanton leans on the back of Sofia’s chair, looking me in the eyes. “What does Rory want to be when he grows up?”