If there was a handbook on successfully adulting—and there should be, because I clearly need it—one of the top five rules would be, "Don't sleep with your brother's best friend." Then again, I probably wouldn't have listened. Now I'm counting down the days until I have to see Dean for the tasting dinner. Or get to see him? I'm not even sure which.

I scan the spread of appetizers on Peyton's glass coffee table, which contains enough food to feed a small army. Artichoke dip, pico de gallo, blue corn chips, chocolate chip cookies, peanut butter filled pretzels, spanakopita, potstickers and spring rolls. We got a little carried away stocking up at Trader Joe's earlier and I'm about to put myself into a carbohydrate-induced coma. After what seemed like one hundred burpees at 6 AM, the oatmeal I had for breakfast and harvest chicken salad for lunch didn't put a dent in my appetite.

"Should I text Tim? He hasn't texted me since he came over two nights ago. But maybe he's waiting for me to text him first?" Charity's platinum blonde hair falls forward in a curtain as she buries her face in her hands. She drops her hands and flings herself back against the couch beside me dramatically. "Why is dating so frustrating? I don't even know if we are dating. Maybe we're just sleeping together."

I could say the same about me and Dean. I have no idea where we stand and about as much information as Charity has to operate on. Dean and I actually have texted, at least, but it's been entirely about wedding plans and preparation, like we're scared our text thread will be monitored for propriety somehow. Fortunately, Charity and Tim's ambiguous relationship situation has largely dominated the conversation for our girls' night in, sparing me the pain of having to disclose my own predicament.

"Just text him." Peyton rolls her eyes and picks up a silver throw pillow, playfully tossing it at Charity. Her trademark bluntness works for her—which is how she ended up going home with Jay at Brendan's party, because she basically went up and asked him if he wanted to bang—but she's also so gorgeous it hurts. Laying it all out there is easier said than done for us mere mortals. Not all of us have her endless well of self-assurance, either.

Charity frowns at the peanut butter-filled pretzel nugget in her hand. "What if he doesn't want me to?"

"Text him once," I tell her, leaning forward to grab another spanakopita from the plate. "Then leave it at that. That way, you've put it out there."

She purses her lips, drawing in a long breath and exhaling slowly. "Right. I can do that... After about two more glasses of wine."

"I got you covered." Peyton reaches over and uncaps the rosé, refilling Charity's glass nearly to the brim. I hold up my glass and she does the same for mine.

The newest season of Love Match drones on in the background, but none of us are paying much attention beyond occasionally commenting on the hot, shirtless male contestants. Even then, Dean's body puts all of theirs to shame. Damnit. I avert my eyes to my glass. It's been nearly impossible to distract myself from him, which is moderately alarming because I moved on from my breakup with Travis without nearly as much fuss. What does it say if Dean is already in my head more than someone I actually dated for an extended period of time?

I must have something written all over my face, because Charity clutches her rosé and turns her attention to me.

"You seem off," she observes, eyes fixed on my face. The urge to squirm is almost overwhelming. "Are Vidya and Brendan doing okay?"

Taking a sip of my rosé, I debate whether to tell them what happened. I'm not sure whether sharing will make me feel better or worse. They say misery loves company, but in this case I think it would just prefer anonymity. At least, until things are more clear.

"Brendan's okay, other than the stress from everything. Vidya is a little hit or miss. She's still experiencing some lingering concussion symptoms."

Peyton's mouth tugs into a sympathetic frown. "Are they going to charge the driver?"

"The police are still looking into the accident. I think they're reviewing traffic cam footage. But I hope they do. He blew a stale red light and t-boned their car. Brendan says he was drunk, but technically that part is still under investigation."

Charity nabs the last chicken potsticker off the plate. "Well, let us know if there's anything we can do."

"Know much about planning weddings?" I swallow another gulp of rosé , halfway to a decent buzz. Maybe I should slow my roll or I could end up drunk dialing Dean later.

"Why, have you got news?" Peyton nudges me teasingly.

"I'm helping Brendan and Vidya with their planning while she's out of commission. And feeling a little... in over my head."

"Oh." A knowing look crosses her face. "Is this about Travis?"

I scoff, taking another sip of my wine. "No, I've barely even thought about him."

"You sure? It would be understandable," Charity says gently. "That can't have been easy news to hear."

Travis who? At this point, that's where I'm at. That news stung for approximately 20 minutes. Then I soothed the burn with a generous application of Dean's lips all over my body, and borrowed bigger trouble than I can handle.

"Oh, I'm sure. I've had other things on my mind..." My heart starts to race and I trail off, losing the courage to continue.

"What? What is it?" Charity looks at me with concern.

Peyton leans forward, pinning me with her gaze, and nudges my foot with hers. "Now you have to spill."

Telltale heat rushes to my face and I hide behind my hands, immobilized by sudden regret. Bringing this up was a mistake. I want to melt into the taupe sectional and disappear. Unfortunately, I've shown my hand— it's too late to backpedal now.

"DeanandIhookedup," I blurt out, peeking out from behind my fingers. "Twice."

"Nice." Peyton gives me a feline grin, offering me a high-five that I reluctantly return. "He's hot."

Charity's green eyes widen. "Did I hear that correctly? You slept with Dean? When?"

"New Year's. And then again on Brendan's birthday." I shrug, studying my chipped mauve manicure, trying to minimize the impact of my revelation. "I mean, it's not a big deal. It was just sex."

A surge of memories come rushing back. The heat of Dean's torso pressing against mine. His hands on my body, his breath on my skin. The way he uttered my name, his voice low and gravely, somewhere between a plea and a command. I bite the inside of my cheek, unsuccessfully willing the throb between my legs to disappear.

"That's why you didn't come to Tim's, you minx." Peyton chuckles into her glass, shaking her head. "Right on."

"Wait a minute. How does Brendan feel about this?" Charity asks.

"He doesn't, uh, know yet. I'm not sure we're going to tell him, either. I don't really know what we are, and I don't think Brendan would take too kindly to us casually hooking up." Rightfully so, because it's going to be problematic if—or when—it goes down the drain.

"It's nothing more than that?" Peyton studies me. "Because some of the stuff Jay said the other night has me thinking..."

"Back up, when did you talk to Jay again?" I ask, both eager to change the subject and curious about what she just said. Peyton's practically as commitment-phobic as Dean. I can't remember the last time she actually 'talked to' a guy.

Peyton shrugs, draining the last of her wine, and bites into an oversized cookie, swallowing before she continues. "We've been texting here and there. It's not exclusive or anything. Back to you." She gives me a pointed look. "Jason said Dean was acting hella weird when you saw him at the gym that day."

"Probably because he was trying to avoid me," I mutter. "Anyway, now I'm planning a wedding with him, so the tire fire that is my life continues. Maybe I should just cut the cord now while I'm ahead." Before I fall for someone who won't catch me.

Even saying it out loud makes me feel a little uneasy. But so does the idea of letting this continue. I'm already twisted in knots about him. I don't think I've ever had my heart truly crushed before, and getting involved with Dean is likely to change that if I'm not careful.

"Jason also said you were thinking about coaching," Peyton adds, picking up on my discomfort and kindly changing the subject at hand away from Dean. "You totally should, Brooke. You'd be great at it."

I was thinking about coaching, until Jason sent me an email asking me for my academic credentials. When I inquired as to why—since teaching fitness classes doesn't usually require a degree—he said it was because they like to promote from within and may be looking for a regional fitness manager to oversee all their studios in the future. Great news in theory, except Jason—along with my friends and family—is under the impression I finished my degree.

And I kind of, sort of... didn't.

Worst part is, I'm only three classes shy of graduating with my marketing degree, but successfully completing those three classes is about as likely as me climbing Mount Everest. Financial accounting; managerial accounting; and financial management. All heavy on the math, all my worst nightmare. I attempted all three twice before giving up and privately accepting defeat. Math is like another language, and one I can't seem to pick up.

Which is why it was easier to just go on a backpacking trip that conveniently coincided with my convocation, thereby eliminating the need to explain to everyone that I wasn't exactly convocating.

"Still thinking about that one," I tell her, stilling my expression. "I have some educational requirements I'd have to fulfill." None of the work I've done since college has required my degree, but I know my opportunities are limited without it. I keep thinking I should go back and finish the courses, but in truth, I'm not sure I am capable of completing them.

"You'd get free classes too," Peyton points out. "Worth it even as a side gig."

"Maybe. But it sounds like you guys have been talking quite a bit, huh?"

Peyton tucks her long legs beneath her, shifting to face us. "I mean, we've chatted some. He has potential and it might be nice to get off the dating merry-go-round someday. Dating apps are a hellscape. Look." She grabs her phone and taps the bright yellow icon to open up the app, holding the screen so Charity and I can see. Her fingers fly as she begins swiping, dismissing each potential match one by one. "Lying about his age; he's holding a gigantic fish; this guy has a wedding ring tan line; there is no way this guy is actually 6'2; oh, this guy is cu—" She stops short, because who we're looking at just clicked.

It's Dean.

Looking charming as hell in his photo, too. Because of course he is.

Nausea barrels into me like an oncoming semi-truck. I snatch my glass of wine from the table, downing half of it in two gulps. I shouldn't care. Why do I care?

The urge to seize her phone and read his entire profile grips me, but I tamp it down. Besides, that can be done later, from the privacy of my own home using a fake dating profile. Which may or may not happen later, depending how much more wine I drink.

"That could be old," Charity says soothingly. "It doesn't tell you when someone was last active."

"Or it could be recent and he could be matching with girls as we speak." Putting my worst fear into words is bitter.

Peyton scrunches up her mouth. "I'd test him and see, but he knows who I am."

"No, it's fine. We don't need to catfish my two-night stand." Grabbing a cookie, I cram half of it in my mouth. Eating feelings is what I do best. Who needs coping skills when you have sugar? "Like I said, I was thinking of putting an end to it anyway. Not like it was ever going to go anywhere."

Dean hasn't exactly been talking about dating apps in his POV but still, ouch.

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