“I mean yes, it was wild and passionate, everything I expected,” she continues, giving me a duh look.

I think I'm going to throw up right here in front of her.

“What happened? Did he cheat?” The words are out of my mouth before I think it over, before she says something to make me feel even more sick than I'm feeling right now.

She shakes her head condescendingly, like she feels sorry for me. “No, and if you knew Devon, you'd know how ridiculous that question is. I broke up with him, and we’re still friends. And twenty questions is over.”

“Fine by me,” I snap. Stuck in a room with his ex-girlfriend that he made love to. After he left me to go fuck someone else the other night. Yeah, it keeps getting better and better. This shit could only happen to me. I braid my hair and pretend to watch whatever stupid show is on, but my mind is reeling.

After an hour of excruciating silence, I’m ready to scream. She must have told me all of this on purpose, just to rub it in my face. Why else, if she thinks there's something going on between us? I’m also getting pretty damn hungry, and it's making me cranky. Most pathetic of all, I miss Devon, anyway, despite what I just heard.

How did this happen?

“He's the most loyal person I know,” Hayley says, breaking the silence. “You need to stop whatever you're doing with him, Leighton. I'm not jealous, the two of us were never meant to be, and I have nothing against you. If things were different . . . but I care about my friend. If he's loyal to you, you don't even understand the shitstorm it will cause. Just think, Leighton, think who you are and who he is. It's never going to work, even without all of this.”

I lean forward and put my face into my palms.

“You've taken enough from him already,” she delivers the final blow, making my eyes water. I'm glad she can't see it.

That's all it comes down to. In the grand scheme of things, my unrequited . . . crush, whatever, it's nothing compared to what my family took from him. I know he did his best to stay away from me, I just never thought it went beyond this rivalry between our families.

All my life, even when we were kids, I did everything and anything I could to get Devon's attention.

It may hurt like a bitch to find out he never cared back, that I've been fooling myself into thinking we had some epic connection, but I don't want him harmed.

“You're right,” I tell her, exhaling deeply and leaning back. She nods at me, but her attention has already switched back to the fictional lives on TV.

I only wish she weren't so right.

DEVON

There's nothing to killing a man.

The first time I did it, I was sixteen, just a boy, really. My uncle sent me out with Stevie to take care of some business. On the way there, Stevie's expression got serious; too serious, I thought. After he parked the car he looked at me, taking out his gun. Then another. I remember the dread I felt when he pointed the gun at me, but then he laughed at my expression. I laughed, too, pretending I understood the joke.

I almost shit my fucking pants then.

He turned the gun handle my way. When I did nothing, he nudged it toward me, and I hesitantly took it into my hand. It was heavier than I’d expected, and the cold metal shocked my fingers, but I steadied my hand and gripped the handle like my life depended on it. I thought of making the same joke Stevie made, but chickened out at the last second.

He explained it to me: This is how you unlock it, and This is how you aim, and Keep your hand steady, take a deep breath, and exhale when you pull the trigger.

It felt like I was being initiated into a secret society, a special order.

Stevie took me into the warehouse, toward a black sedan parked inside. He opened up the trunk—two pairs of wide eyes stared at me. They weren't big men, but they were bigger than me. Stevie dragged one out, and the man whimpered, a girly sound. He resisted Stevie's pull, but to no avail, as he rounded the car with him then threw him on the floor. Then he cocked the gun and fired off three shots straight to his head.

I wouldn't have done anything about it even if I hadn't been stunned, frozen in place.

“Your turn,” Stevie had said, giving me a grin as he went back and dragged the other man out and over to me, practically throwing him at my feet.

The gun became heavy in my hand; so heavy I thought I would drop it if I didn't grip it harder.

“Do it, Devon. Just like I told you.”

And I did. I held onto that gun for dear life with my sweaty hands as I raised it. I kept them steady as I cocked the gun. I inhaled. I exhaled.

Time didn't slow down, the earth didn't move. It was over in a second.

Stevie fired another bullet into his head. For good measure, I guess.

He came over to me and slapped me on my back, and then he left me to look at the two slumped bodies on the ground.

I kept waiting for that nausea to kick in. I kept waiting to feel different. I just killed a man, for fuck's sake. But none of it came to me. It disappointed me. For sure, it meant I was a bad man. It thrilled me because, yeah, I'm an Andre. I have the proof lying in front of me, its head blown apart.

“I've made a bit of a mess,” Stevie said into his phone.

I shake off the memory of that day long ago as I walk the aisles of an art supply store in Cambridge. I never feel bad after I kill someone. Usually, I just get it over and done with, and then I move on. There are no feelings associated with it.

So I ignore the overwhelming feeling of satisfaction as I pick up random drawing supplies: pencils, colored and graphite, sketching pads, charcoals.

The girl at the checkout gives me a flirtatious smile. “Oh, you're an artist?” she asks, batting her eyelashes.

“No, my girlfriend,” I answer automatically, returning her smile politely.

“Lucky girl.”

“Yeah.” A stand with erasers and sharpeners catches my attention, reminding me I didn't get her any. I grab some and add them to my pile. I look around to see if maybe I could have gotten something else as well, but decide it's enough.

It's more than I should be getting. I bet Hayley will love this.

I stop on the way home at a donut place. I frown, trying to remember if I know what her favorite kind is. In the end, I just get two boxes with every choice available.

I open the door, and Hayley looks up at me, smiling until she sees the bag in my hand. Then she purses her lips, shaking her head. Leighton is on the bed, her gaze fixed on the television, ignoring me. I drop the bag on the floor and place the boxes with donuts on the bed, then walk over to Hayley. She stands up and gives me a kiss on the cheek as I give her a half hug.

I catch Leighton rolling her eyes.

“Leighton,” I say. She ignores me.

“That took longer than you said,” Hayley says, jabbing my chest with her finger. “I have to go, but I'll be back tomorrow to talk.” She glances at Leighton, and then looks back at me. “Don't think you're off the hook.”

“I'll be here.”

“I'll see you tomorrow, Leighton.” Leighton harrumphs, but doesn't say anything. Hayley shrugs, giving me another smile, then turns and leaves the room.

I lock the door from the inside, then pick up the bag with the art supplies and cross the room. The pencils clatter against each other as I spill the contents of the bag, breaking the thick silence in the room. Leighton's eyes stray to the heap on the bed, the hard lines on her forehead softening for a moment, then she looks at me, and I almost do a double take at her shuttered expression. Her eyes are guarded, not giving away any hints of what she’s thinking.