I’m startled to feel a sharp ache between my legs. The idea of Dean sneaking in and fucking me while Hannah sleeps obliviously in the next room is a turn-on I didn’t expect.

I ignore the unwelcome response and type, Goodnight, Dean.

Then I turn to Hannah and say, “Are we done bashing telemarketers? Because this script isn’t going to read itself, babe.”

“Sorry. I can’t help it—I hear the word telemarketer and I turn into a ball of rage.” She sits cross-legged on the center of my bed and catches the script I toss at her.

I remain standing. The opening scene requires my character to pace, and I want to get a feel for how talking while marching back and forth will affect my breath control.

Hannah thumbs through the intro pages. “All right. Who am I? Jeannette or Caroline?”

“Caroline. Her defining traits are petty and insensitive.”

My best friend grins widely. “So I get to play the bitch? Nice.”

Honestly, I wish I was playing the bitch. My character is a young widow who lost her husband in Afghanistan, which is the more emotionally draining role. Thanks to this breakup with Sean, my emotion well is dangerously close to depleted, and I’m scared I won’t be able to tap into it and do this role justice.

My fear isn’t off base. We’re only five pages in and I’m already drained, so I call for a quick break.

“Wow,” Hannah remarks as she skims the next few scenes. “This play is intense. Everyone in the audience is going to be bawling the entire time.”

I collapse next to her and stretch out on my back. “I’m going to be bawling the entire time.” Literally, because my character weeps in every other scene.

Hannah falls back on her elbows and a comfortable silence falls between us. I like it, because I don’t have this with many people. Even with Megan and Stella, who I consider close friends, one of us is always trying to fill the silence with conversation. I think it takes a certain level of trust to sit next to someone and not feel the pressing urge to babble away.

My dad once told me that the way a person responds to silence reveals a lot about them. I always figured he was talking out of his ass, because Dad has a habit of coming up with insightful-sounding adages and insisting there’s wisdom in them, when half the time I know he’s bullshitting me.

But right now, I see the truth in his words. When I think of the silences I’ve shared with my other friends, I realize they really are incredibly telling.

Meg breaks a silence with jokes, doing her damndest to fill the lull with laughter. For as long as I’ve known her, she’s resorted to humor whenever shit gets too serious for her.

Stella fills the silence by barraging you with questions about your life. For as long as I’ve known her, she’s avoided discussing herself if she could help it. I guess that’s why it surprised me when she started dating Justin Kohl, the football player Hannah had a crush on before she fell for Garrett. Stella has openly admitted more than once that she’s afraid of intimacy.

The thought of Justin has me turning toward Hannah. “Hey, did Garrett ever own up to being wrong about Justin?”

She wrinkles her forehead. “Where did that come from?”

I grin. “Sorry. I was just thinking about Stella, and it reminded me of how Garrett was convinced that Justin had sinister motives. Didn’t he insist that Justin was a slimeball?”

“Yep.” She sits up with a laugh. “We actually talked about it a while back. I accused him of being subconsciously jealous of Justin.”

“Ha. I bet he loved that.”

“It’s the only thing that makes sense, though. Justin is one of the nicest guys I’ve ever met. But Garrett insists he just misread him.”

“Well, either way, I’m glad Justin turned out to be a good guy. Stella deserves to be happy.” I hear the wistful note in my voice and hope Hannah doesn’t pick up on it.

She does. “You deserve to be happy too. You know that, right?”

“I know.” I swallow the lump that rises in my throat.

Her green eyes take on a hesitant light. “Allie…do you regret breaking up with Sean?”

The lump gets bigger. It makes it hard to breathe, especially when I remember the agony in Sean’s voice when he’d asked me who I slept with.

“No,” I say finally. “I know it was the right decision. We wanted completely different things for our future, and it wasn’t something we could compromise on, not without one of us resenting the other.”

Hannah looks pensive. “Do you think you’re ready to start dating again?”

I shudder out a breath. “Nope, not even close.” But God, what I would like is a distraction. I’m tired of being sad. I’m tired of wondering how Sean is doing and fighting the urge to call him. I might not want to get back together, but I hate knowing that I hurt someone I care about. I have this terrible habit of wanting to make everyone happy, even if it means sacrificing my own happiness. My dad insists it’s an admirable quality, but sometimes I wish I were more selfish.

I guess I was selfish on Friday night, though. My rebound sex with Dean was all about satisfying my own base urges, and as guilty and embarrassed as I felt afterward, I can’t deny it was hella satisfying.

Shit. Maybe Dean’s right. Maybe we should hook up again.

“Maybe I need a fling,” I say aloud, just to test out the idea.

Hannah’s response is swift and scolding. “You tried that, remember? After you and Sean broke up the first couple times. You hated it.”

It’s true. I did hate it. “But I didn’t actually sleep with anyone,” I point out. “All I did was go on a bunch of crappy dates and make out with a few jerks. Maybe that was my mistake—actually dating those guys. Maybe this time I should pick a hot dude and bang his brains out for a few weeks. Just sex, no expectations.”

She snorts. “Good luck with that. We both know you can’t even make out with a guy without hearing relationship bells in your head.”

Also true.

And why am I even contemplating this? If this is how Hannah responds to me broaching the subject of a fling, I can just imagine what she’d say if I admitted I’m considering a fling with Dean. The guy is a player to the extreme. Not only is he not relationship material, but I doubt he could even commit to a fling. I can’t see him being exclusive to me, which is absolutely non-negotiable, because there’s no way I’m sleeping with someone who’s also sleeping with other people.