Despite what I'd said to Dr. Fersan, I actually did plan on celebrating Thanksgiving with my family—well, one family member, anyway.

Michael had invited me over once a week since moving into a condo two blocks away from the Santa Monica shoreline, which he described in no modest terms as a massive upgrade from the seedy studio loft he'd been renting before. And, considering the fact he'd previously been living in an apartment complex owned by a drug dealer, I had no doubt that was true.

Without giving him a reason, I'd declined stopping by his place for months, though I promised I would eventually. That was why I knew there was no way to get out of joining him for Thanksgiving when he asked me what I was doing to celebrate—that is, unless I really wanted to look like a prick. Besides, it wasn't as if I had anywhere else to go, so I figured, why not?

Granted, Sophie had told me that I was welcome to join her and Parker at her dad's house, but that sounded even less appealing than spending the afternoon with Mike. Meeting people's parents was awkward enough without being the third wheel at what would otherwise be an intimate family gathering, especially because I knew how eager Parker was to impress Sophie's father. A year ago, I never would've imagined that I'd be turning down an A-list celebrity's invitation to hang out, but life was strange like that.

Michael had put me in charge of picking up the turkey and I listened to the fifteen-pound bird roll around the floor of my car while I pulled onto the ramp for the 10-West. Signaling to merge onto the freeway, I was pleasantly surprised to see that the roads were clear.

It's a Thanksgiving miracle, I thought to myself before pressing down on the accelerator and settling on a speed somewhere between seventy and eighty—fast enough to feel like I was moving, but too slow to draw a cop's unwanted attention.

I hummed as I sailed along the empty stretch of road, wondering what Michael and I would talk about while the turkey roasted in the oven. Because Parker still worked in Michael's office on the days that he didn't have class, I'd already heard most of the gossip that my brother would be able to tell me without breaking any confidentiality clauses.

Let's see, I thought. We could talk about sports, but that was probably risky seeing as we no longer rooted for the same professional teams. What else was there? Other than our last name and the friends we shared from the fraternity, we didn't have much in common, a fact that I'd always been aware of, though it seemed particularly obvious today.

Listening to my phone's GPS, I pulled off the highway ten minutes later and continued cruising towards the address that Michael had texted me. It was strange to see the streets around the Promenade deserted, and when I pulled up to a red light, I stared at the vacant area where Gemma's favorite farmer's market usually set up. I shook my head, letting my thoughts drift back to Michael in an effort not to think about her.

What most people didn't know about my brother was that he'd had dug himself into thousands of dollars of debt in order to finance the appearance of being a successful talent agent. The day after he graduated, he'd leased a mid-range BMW and put three designer suits on his nearly-maxed out credit cards. He lived on instant noodles for months while he slowly paid back his loans, though he stubbornly insisted that the expenses were necessary. After all, according to him, clients didn't want to sign with someone who showed up to meetings in a decade-old Camaro, and the pricey clothing apparently helped him overcome any skepticism about his age. Michael insisted that image was everything in Los Angeles, and he was certainly the master of putting on a front; at the very least, I never knew what he was thinking.

Truthfully, I couldn't say if his scheming had paid off, or if he was just good at his job, but it was hard to argue that Michael hadn't made it. His career had taken off in the last eighteen months and no matter how hard he tried to deny it, he largely had Sophie to thank for that. Even I was smart enough to know that without the commission she brought in for him, there was no way that he would've been able to afford his new place, or the souped-up Mercedes he'd bought for himself after she signed on to last summer's biggest blockbuster.

The parking on Michael's street was sparse, so I circled the block a few times before giving up and pulling into his apartment complex's garage. A security gate prevented me from descending to the lower levels, but the floor I was on had plenty of open spaces, including a few marked with signs that read, RESERVED FOR OFFICE MANAGEMENT. For some reason, I doubted that the building's staff would be burning the midnight oil on a holiday, so I drove into one of the empty spots, killed my engine, and began gathering the groceries that Michael had asked me to bring.

Holding the turkey in one hand, and two bags filled with wine, sweet potatoes, and cranberries in the other, I made my way to the elevator, struggling not to drop anything as I lifted my knee to hit the call button, pleased that I wouldn't have to take the stairs up to the fourth floor.

That gratitude didn't last long, however, because to my immense dismay, the elevator rattled as it began its climb from the basement. Shaking and banging while it rose, panic gave way to a few seconds laughter as I thought about the irony of dying on Thanksgiving. I waited for the moment when the unseen wires overhead snapped and I plummeted to my doom, though a small part of me thought that maybe I'd survive—like James Bond, or someone else much luckier than me.

When the elevator doors opened again, I took a deep breath and stepped out into the corridor, promising myself that I would take the stairs back down.

Michael had sent me his apartment number earlier in the day but no instructions on how to reach it, so I began walking aimlessly down the halls. Annoyingly, the signs and numbers on the doors didn't seem to match, so I double-backed to the elevator and started in the opposite direction. Balancing the turkey in my tiring arm, I circled the level with mounting frustration until I spotted the apartment with 472 emblazoned on the wall next to its door.

Lugging the turkey around had left me in a bad mood, so I used my foot to kick the door frame instead of knocking. Silence hung in the hallway until the door to Michael's apartment swung open with a resounding bang. Holding a half-empty beer bottle in his hand, my brother studied me beneath raised brows, his gaze drifting to the bags that I was carrying.

"'Sup?" he said, stepping aside so that I could go in. I grunted in response and handed him the turkey as I walked by. "Happy Thanksgiving to you, too," Michael added sarcastically before securing the lock.

Although I knew that my brother did well for himself at his job, looking around his apartment made me realize just how well he did. I'd been expecting an upgrade from his last place, sure, but his new home indicated that he was absolutely swimming in it now. Everything inside his place was new—new furniture, new paint, new carpets. The artwork on the walls looked expensive, as did the guitar in the corner that I knew he couldn't play. His floors were covered in rugs that would make Mom jealous, and he even had a small humidor on the desk next to the window. Despite being afraid of breaking anything, I felt an urge to examine the room from top to bottom. A stack of business cards rested on the side table in his entranceway, and I picked one up, studying the person's neatly printed name.

"Don't touch those," Michael scolded, whacking me on the shoulder with the back of his hand.

I set the card back down. "Sorry."

"I spent ten minutes putting them in alphabetical order so that I can add them to my contact list later."

"Seriously? You've got, like, fifty cards here."

"Yeah, I went to a networking event on Tuesday." Michael sighed. "It was awful, they ran out of wine after an hour."

With that, he motioned for me to follow him, and I did, still trying to wrap my head around how much money Michael must have spent to decorate. Like the rest of the apartment, Michael's kitchen was modern—filled with chrome and high-end appliances. I watched as my brother slipped an old barbecue apron over his head before setting to work on cleaning out the turkey. He whistled a single note tune while he pulled the giblets from the bird's puckered body and dropped them into a small saucepan.

"So, what's new?" he asked after a while, speaking to the stove rather than to me. "How's school going?"

"Fine," I said, leaning against the center island. I ran my finger along its surface, disappointed when I didn't capture even a single fleck of dust. "Do you need help with anything?"

"No, thanks. How are your grades?"

"None of your business."

Michael snorted. "That bad?"

I glanced down at the floor, embarrassed when I saw how dirty my shoes looked against the light grey tiles. I kicked off my sneakers, using my toe to push them underneath one of the island's bar stools. "I think I might get a B-plus in kinesiology," I said, almost afraid that saying it aloud might jinx it.

"Hey, that's great," he replied, surprising me with the genuine excitement that filled his voice. "I guess working with Melanie really helped you, huh?"

That caught my attention, and I stared at the back of his head. "How'd you know that?"

"I know everything." Michael reached for a paper towel and used it to mop up a small puddle of bird juice that had leaked onto the countertop. "Besides, she told me when we went out for drinks last month."

"Oh."

The word came out sounding like a cross between a dying animal and a balloon deflating. As if reading my mind, Michael lobbed the wet towel at my head. "Don't start crying," he teased, and when I met his eye, I scowled at the realization that everyone was right; we really did look frighteningly similar. "It wasn't a date or anything."

"Why would I care?" I grumbled, picking up the paper towel and dropping it into the garbage can.

"I don't know, but Parker mentioned that you and Melanie are pretty close these days."

I froze, unsure of what to say. "Not really."

"You're not?" Michael stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Well, maybe I should ask her out again, then."

I gaped at him, feeling like a fish that had been hooked in the gut. "You're joking."

Michael's mouth twitched and I cursed myself for falling for his trap as he burst out laughing. "Obviously. She has a huge thing for you, so it'd be a complete waste of my time."

I didn't say anything, instead watching as he seasoned the turkey and filled its body with the stuffing that he'd prepared before I arrived. He wiped his brow with the crook of his elbow before calling over his shoulder, "Would you mind grabbing me another beer?"

I walked over to his refrigerator and opened the door, amazed by how well-stocked and organized he kept its shelves. Three six-packs and a half-empty bottle of white wine stared back at me as I bent down to read the labels of the different beers. "Which one do you want?" I asked, taking a lager for myself.

"Doesn't matter," Michael replied, so I grabbed him an I.P.A. and straightened.

Pushing the fridge's door closed with my hip, I set the beer bottles on the nearest countertop and searched through two drawers before Michael said, "The opener's in the living room. I think I left it on the coffee table."

Rather than starting for the hallway, I reached into my pocket and pulled out my keys. Years ago, Gemma had given me a cow-shaped bottle opener that I still kept looped on the ring. I studied it for a moment; the color had faded over time, and I felt a small pang of sadness as I used the opener to peel back the cap on my beer. Once it was off, a rush of foam surged past the mouth of the bottle, and I slurped up the escaping fizz while I opened Michael's I.P.A. and handed it to him.

"Thanks," he said, bringing the beer to his lips and drinking it with a satisfied noise.

I returned to where I'd been standing, torn between wanting to talk to my brother and sticking to my self-imposed rule of never telling him anything. When he asked me if I wanted to listen to music, I opened my mouth to respond, and ended up blurting, "I told Melanie that I like her."

Michael had been lowering the turkey into the oven when I spoke and, startled by my confession, he dropped the roasting pan onto the wire rack. He swore frantically as he reached out to make sure it wouldn't fall, but once he was convinced that the bird was secure, Michael turned to gawk at me.

"And?" he asked, wiping his hands on his apron.

I shook my head. "She wasn't having it."

"What?" he asked incredulously. "That makes no sense. Did she say why?"

"Kind of. I mean, I think it's because I haven't officially ended things with Gemma."

Michael folded his arms across his chest. "Wow. Wow. You know, for a second, I almost felt bad for you."

"You should still feel bad for me," I protested.

"Jesus, I can just imagine Melanie's reaction to you asking her to join your harem. I'm surprised she didn't give you a black eye."

"Shut up," I mumbled into my beer bottle. "I was drunk."

"Oh, even better," Michael said, clapping his hands together with false enthusiasm. "You really went out of your way to impress her, didn't you?"

I groaned as I rubbed my eyes. When I looked at Michael again, he was still watching me. "I totally screwed up, didn't I?

Michael shrugged. "If we were talking about anyone else, I'd say yes, but it's Melanie so you may still be able to redeem yourself."

"You think?"

"I'm guessing." Michael paused. "She's a nice girl—really understanding, you know? She might be willing to overlook the fact that you're an idiot, at least this once."

He sounded strangely affectionate while he described how great Melanie was, and it reminded me of one of the things I'd been most worried about when I started spending time with her.

"Do you still..." Michael tilted his head as I trailed off. "Did you actually like her?"

"Who?" he asked, furrowing his eyebrows. "Melanie?"

I nodded.

"No."

"Really?"

Michael gave me a funny look, and then turned his attention to the pot of cranberry sauce that simmered on the stove. He picked up a wooden spoon and began stirring the shallow vat's contents. "Listen, I'd be lying if I said that I was never interested, but I can assure you that I didn't spend my time writing poems about her in my diary either."

Maybe Michael knew me better than I gave him credit for because when I didn't reply, he added, "For what it's worth, even though I asked her on a date over summer, I knew that it'd never be serious—which is why I told Parker to set you up with her in the first place."

"What?"

With his spoon, Michael fished a cranberry from the pot and handed it to me to try. "Is this too sour?"

Knowing that he wouldn't answer my question until I humored him, I picked up the bursting cranberry and placed it on my tongue. Between the heat and the taste, I promptly shuddered.

"That's what I thought," Michael said, taking the spoon back from me as he stirred in more sugar.

"What do you mean you told Parker to set us up?" I asked, washing away the bitter aftertaste with a swig of beer.

"What do you mean, what do I mean? It's exactly what it sounds like. I told him last year that I thought the two of you would be good together."

"Why?"

"Honestly?" Michael wiped down the counter's surfaces with a crumpled tea towel. "Because you're a mess and she's kind of into that."

"I don't understand."

Michael's mouth twisted into a wry grin. "It takes a special person to put up with your bullshit, Scott. Look at the people you're closest with: Parker's got your back because he's just as bad as you are, and Gemma... Well, I guess having you around is probably good for her ego more than anything."

"How does Melanie fit into that?" I asked, almost afraid to hear his answer.

"Melanie gets off on helping people," Michael replied. "It's borderline compulsive, if you ask me, but she's the only girl I've ever met who I could imagine dealing with you for the long haul."

"Should I be offended?" I asked, scraping the label from my beer bottle with my thumb nail.

"Probably." Michael glanced at the digital clock on the oven before lifting his apron over his head and hanging it from a hook next to the sink. "But you can't help what you are."

"What am I, exactly?"

"You don't want me to answer that." Michael ruffled my hair with his knuckles, and I could've sworn that something close to fondness passed between us when I slapped his hand away. Smiling, he glanced at the door and jerked his head for me to follow him. "Come on."

"Where are we going?"

"One of my clients gave me a case of Nicaraguan cigars as an early Christmas present. I thought we could smoke a couple while we wait for the food to cook." Michael rubbed the back of his neck. "Only if you want to, that is."

"I'm down," I replied, and Michael grabbed two more beers from the fridge before leading me out to his small patio.

A few minutes later, I was reclining in a comfy garden chair, and I propped my feet on top of the balcony's railing as I stared out at the Pacific Ocean. The salty breeze coming off the water tickled my face, and I squirmed in my seat to avoid the slight chill.

"So," Michael said, and although he wore a pair of aviators that hid his eyes, I knew that he was looking at me. "What are you going to do about Gemma and Melanie?"

I puffed on my cigar in an effort to stall. "I'm not sure."

Michael's eyebrows rose past the top edges of his sunglasses' frames. "Seriously?"

"It's complicated."

"If you could only save one of them from drowning, which one would you pick?"

"What?" I asked, taken aback.

"You heard me."

"This is stupid."

"Maybe," Michael admitted. "But whoever you thought of first is the one that you should spend your time pursuing. Just, you know, my two cents or whatever."

As I thought about that, my phone began to vibrate in my pocket—two pulses followed by a long buzz. I set my cigar down on the ashtray that Michael had placed between us and sighed. With my brother's words echoing in my ear, I knew that it was time to stop avoiding her. Perhaps more importantly, I finally knew what I needed to say. I unlocked my phone's screen and skimmed the preview of Gemma's text, not really focusing on the words. She'd wished me a happy Thanksgiving. She wanted to get together when she got back in town from her parents' place. She missed me.

I glanced at Michael, hoping that he was right but accepting the fact that I might be making a huge mistake. Holding my breath as I typed out my response, I hit Send before I could change my mind and then pocketed my phone again. I felt a little sick as Michael leaned towards me. "Well?" he asked, though I shook my head to indicate that I didn't want to talk about it.

My heart pounded as I thought about what I'd written. Two sentences, nothing more.

Happy Thanksgiving. Come over when you're back—I think we need to talk.
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A/N: Thank you to everyone for reading and voting! Sorry for any typos that I missed; it was a very long Wednesday.