I kissed Scott. I'm kissing someone significantly hotter right now, but the thought won't go away. I kissed Scott. I mean, this guy isn't that much hotter. I guess I just don't think about Scott that way often, but he keeps growing into himself and getting more and more attractive. Since when do I only care about appearance, though? Since I gave up on getting anything better, I guess. Okay, but I kissed Scott. It scarcely even counts under the circumstances, but still, I kissed Scott. It wasn't as awkward as I always thought it would be. Always thought? Like I always knew it would happen? I guess people's assumptions wore off on me. I was sure it would be awkward, though, and it wasn't. Everything else about it was wrong, but hey, it wasn't awkward. Because I was acting. He wasn't acting, though, was he? Was I even acting? Acting is too gentle a way of putting it. I was lying. It would still have been awkward, though, if he weren't into it. Wow, yeah, I don't even want to think about how badly that could have gone.

I didn't even pause to consider beforehand. At the time, I knew, like it was written in plain English, that he wanted me. I guess it was the first time I admitted it to myself. There's no doubt anymore, not after the way he kissed me, that I was right. And there's no doubt anymore, after what I did to him, that it's finally over. Maybe I can actually move on now, after all this time. On one hand, I've moved to a new job, a new country, new friends, and new boys, like the wolf whose tongue I'm inviting hospitably into my mouth. On the other, I still haven't even really processed the fact that I kissed Scott.

Why would I do that?

He wouldn't leave my apartment. That's a sorry excuse for crushing his heart, though. It was more. It wasn't just because I was mad at him for not leaving. It wasn't just because I was angry that his presence depended on Alex's absence. It wasn't just because I needed it. I didn't need it. Of course I didn't. It was because of everything. It was because he pushed me away, he kept things from me, he hurt Alex, he gave up the man I would give anything to get back, he didn't trust me, he didn't listen, he didn't even try to believe me, he never accepted my calls, he even blocked me on Twitter, he shouted at me when all I wanted was to see him again, to hear him sing, even if all he was singing about was how angry I made him. He didn't value my friendship while I was with Alex. He made me choose. They both wanted me to choose, and I refused, and now I don't have either of them.

It's not like that, though. Alex didn't leave me because I wouldn't pick one of them. He was the better man. He respected my right to associate with anyone, not just because he was supposed to, but because he understood that it really mattered to me. Scott, on the other hand... can I really say he made me decide? He never asked me to, but he came back when Alex left. Well, he left as soon as tour started and came back the moment it was over. He fulfilled his obligation to his fans, but the timing, considering—"

"Svegliarsi."

Right. I'm supposed to be making out with this guy. Focus, Mitch. He's really hot, almost as built as Alex. Hmmm, maybe I need to stop comparing people to Alex. He's an impossible standard. He's not just made of muscle; he's tall, his nose crinkles when he smiles, his laugh lines are perfect, his eyes are every color at once, his hands are strong and compassionate, he's always thoughtful, always comforting, always loving... he wants me to be happy. What I'm doing right now isn't making me happy.

It's as close as I'm going to get, though. I deepen the kiss, and he pushes me against the wall. He's good at this. We both are. There's a sense of pacing, of balanced restraint and urgency, that almost makes me feel like there's a meaning behind it. It's an illusion. I tapped him on the shoulder, and now our mouths are attached. He grabs my elbow. Time to leave the bar? He pulls his face back to ask, "Quanto prende?" Huh? "Quanto prende all'ora?" He takes his wallet out of his back pocket and points at it, and at me. "Quanto costa?"

Oh. "That's not—I'm not... Gratis. No charge." I guess I look pretty desperate. I am desperate, just not for money. I don't even know his name yet. What am I doing? What's the point of distracting myself from my thoughts if they'll still be there waiting when I exhaust myself? What am I looking for? A replacement? I'm not going to find one, not like this. I could take home the sweetest, most perfect person alive and still have no idea who he was. Maybe I already have. Or maybe they're all monsters, but I haven't spoken to them enough to know.

My phone vibrates in my back pocket. If Scott had called an hour ago, I wouldn't have answered. Right now, though, I'm actually a twinge grateful for the excuse to get out from between the wall and my good-looking bad decision. My acting skills are about to come in handy.

"What's the matter?" I ask Scott as soon as I pick up.

"What?"

"That's terrible." This guy doesn't speak much, if any, English, so I'm projecting a mix of Distress N°4 and Class D Concern (Parental), with hints of resignation and dejection, plus an undercurrent of sardonic bemusement, just to make it interesting.

"Mitch? Are you okay?"

"I'm so sorry. I'll get there as soon as I can."

"You'll what?"

"What's the hospital room number?"

"Oh. I see."

"Got it. I'll be right there." I run out of the bar, waving apologetically behind me without really looking back.

"Sorry," I tell Scott. "Coast is clear now. Listen, I don't know why you're calling, but you were right to stay away from me."

"I know."

"So..."

"Baz called. He wants me to sing in part of the movie. He's not as subtle as he thinks he is, though. That's not really why he called."

"He's worried about me?" He's still laboring under the impression that Scott and I are still BFFs like we thought we were when we met him.

"He is."

"Did you agree?" It's a good opportunity for Scott, but he's famous enough already that it isn't really monumental. Normally, he might be inclined to take it, but knowing I'm here, he could turn it down pretty easily, or he could arrange to do it from L.A. without seeing me.

"Yeah. I'm worried about you too."

"You what?" That doesn't make sense.

"I'm worried about you. Where are you?"

"Venice."

"Where in Venice?"

"By the canal..."

"That really doesn't narrow it down."

"Exactly. Why do you need to know?"

"So I can pick you up and take you to dinner."