I return to the house in the mid-afternoon. I'd managed to find a caterer who'd been able to promise most of the things Dylan and Isabelle each wanted.

Dylan wanted champagne and caviar, crab-cakes, and endive hors d'oeuvres. Belle wanted a beach-side barbecue. The caterer assured me she could make it work; I wondered if the same could be said for Dylan and Belle's marriage. They seemed to have vastly divergent tastes, and I wondered what had brought them together in the first place.

When I get back, everyone is relaxing by the pool, furniture relocation complete. I'm not sure why a man who lives mere yards from one of the largest lakes in the world would want a pool, but when I dip my hand in the water, I understand: it's heated.

Spencer and Mike are splashing around, playing a spirited game of 'Who Can Drown the Other First,' while Isaac and Dylan lounge on a luxury patio sectional beneath an enormous, canopy-like umbrella that hangs from a stand.

"Felix!" Isaac calls, waving me over. "Come join us!"

I obey, and Isaac lifts the top of the ottoman to reveal a refrigerated compartment full of bottles of beer. He pulls one out, pops the cap off, and hands it to me.

"Sierra Nevada Pale Ale—seasonal staple," he says.

I take it, although if he'd asked I might have refused, and sit beside him opposite Dylan.

"Got us a caterer," I say, breaking into a yawn as I do.

She'd been very kind and amenable, especially given the short notice, but talking to her was exhausting. She spoke at about a million miles an hour, and had the energy of a hummingbird on meth. I'd only been able to follow what she said about fifty-percent of the time, but the portfolios she'd shown me were lovely, and I was confident she'd do a good job. Still, when I finally escaped her office I'd been worn out, and even now I feel like an injection of caffeine would do me more good than a dose of beer.

"What about the bartender?" Dylan asks. "I don't want some shit mixologist-wanna-be handing out drinks. I want the real deal."

"That's for tomorrow," I say, rubbing my eyes.

Dylan frowns, and as I raise the bottle to my lips to take a drink, he nods at it. "You sure you should have that?"

I pause and return his scowl, confused. I don't drink often, and when I do I don't drink much. "What do you mean?" I ask.

He shrugs. "You're a light-weight. You know how you get."

I feel my frown deepen. I don't know what he's getting at or why, but I don't like it. "I think I can handle one beer, Dylan," I say, aware of how defensive I sound.

A tiny smile crooks the corner of his mouth, and I realize he thinks he just scored a point.

I take a drink of beer and turn the conversation back on him.

"How's Dad, anyway?" I ask.

"He's great," Dylan answers, leaning into the cushions at his back with a smug smile. "Didn't even notice you were gone."

I doubt that. Dad has good and bad days, sure, but there's nothing wrong with his cognition.

"Did he say when he was thinking to come up? It'd be best if he had at least a day to get used to the altitude," I say, ignoring Dylan's attempt at a jibe.

"How should I know?" Dylan shrugs and takes a swig of beer, his nonchalance confirming my suspicion that he didn't spend any time with Dad at all.

"Did you even talk to him?" I ask, feeling a coal of anger and resentment begin to smolder in my chest.

"Sure," Dylan says, smiling. "He said you outta stop being such a sad sack and get a fuckin' life."

"He did not," I shoot back.

Dylan shrugs again. "Well, maybe not in those exact words, but pretty much. What he said was, 'I wish Felix would get out there and make something useful of himself, instead of putzing his life away on music and a sick old man.'"

"You're such an asshole, Dylan." I glare at him, feeling an uncomfortable sting behind my eyes.

The thing is, that does sound like something Dad would say—the expression, the cadence—but I also know how manipulative Dylan can be without even trying. He knows that I know there's a chance Dad might really have said that, but also an equal or greater chance that Dylan made it up. It's the fact I can't be sure that kills me.

Meanwhile, Isaac looks between us, eyes wide and face tense, as though unsure whether this is serious or just banter.

I take another drink of ale and move to set the bottle on the low table, but as I do, Dylan jostles it with his foot and the bottle tips, spilling beer across the top of the ottoman.

"Shit," I swear, and look around for something to wipe it up with.

"See what I mean?" Dylan says to Isaac with a wink. "Two sips and he's wasted."

He reaches behind him for a beach towel and tosses it at me. I catch it and use it to wipe up the beer, feeling my face heat with anger and embarrassment. Calling him out as the cause of the spill will only make me seem childish and petty, and he knows it.

I look up to find Dylan watching me with an easy grin. To Isaac, he probably just looks mildly amused—the big brother laughing at his dumb little brother's gaffe—but to me, he looks like a shark that's scented blood.

A bit like that guy this morning, actually.

"Hey, Dylan—who's Neil?" I ask, sitting back down and laying the towel aside.

As I'd hoped, that gets a reaction. Dylan's smile disappears and his face loses at least a couple shades of color.

"Who?" he returns, taking a small sip from his bottle. He's going for careless, but I see the tell-tale jiggle of his leg—a nervous tick he's had almost his whole life.

"Older guy—older than us, I mean—forties, early fifties, maybe? Looked like something out of The Godfather," I say. "He said that you gave him this address, and he seemed surprised you weren't here."

"Shit," Dylan swears, wiping his hand over his mouth. Then he laughs. "Neil, huh? He must've been trying to surprise me. Things must be going better than we thought."

"What are you talking about? Who is he?"

Dylan waves a hand. "No one—a business partner. We started a small venture together when I was in school in LA. He contacted me a few weeks ago, wanting to meet. I gave him this address because I knew I'd be up here during the time he named. Didn't expect him this early though." He lifts a shoulder in a casual shrug.

"He said to call him," I add. I can tell Dylan's lying, but not about what, or to what degree.

"Oh, sure. I'll do that," he says, adjusting his watch. "Hey, Isaac says you've got some great stuff lined up for the wedding. Why don't you show me?"

He's clearly trying to distract me, but it's a bad move. The last thing I want to do right now is perform—on the spot—for him. I'm about to say as much when the real target of his tactic interrupts.

"Oh God, yes! Felix, please?" Isaac begs. "I want to hear, too. Please, please, please? I've been dying to hear you play again. Pleeeease?"

He crawls towards me across the settee on his knees with his hands clasped before him, a ridiculous look on his face and a laugh behind his eyes. Unlike Dylan, though, there's nothing mean or deceptive about it. If it's possible for a grown man to act like a silly, eager puppy and also be absolutely genuine at the same time, Isaac has it nailed.

"Fine, I'll play. For you," I add, smiling. I can let Dylan slither out of it for now, but he's mistaken if he thinks I'll let it drop.

"GUYS! COME ON! FELIX IS GONNA PLAY THE PIANO!" Isaac bellows, making me wince, and interrupting Spencer and Mike's underwater wrestling match.

They definitely don't look as excited as he does, but they dutifully climb from the pool, towel off, and follow us inside.

In the music room, I pull out the bench, open the piano, and sit down. I don't want to run through wedding pieces again, and I doubt Dylan, Spencer, or Mike have the patience for something like Debussy.

I decide on Schubert's Impromptu in A-flat minor. It sounds impressive and has plenty of intense passages to take my feelings out on. Plus, it's long, I like it, and I could play it in my sleep. Let Dylan call me wasted now.

I skip the repeats, but it's still a good few minutes before I get to the end.

I feel a spark of triumph as the last chord lands with flawless precision, and then a spark of alarm as something heavy collides with my back.

It's Isaac, wrapping me in a hug. He squeezes me, pulls me to my feet, spins me around, and grabs the back of my head with both hands. Then his mouth is on mine, kissing me hard and passionate, like someone who hasn't seen a lover in years, reunited at last.

"Mmh! Isaac," I gasp, trying to push him away.

It's not that I don't want him to kiss me; it's that his friends and Dylan are watching us with looks of shock, as surprised as they might be if the pitcher and the batter from rival teams started making out in the middle of a baseball game.

"That was...amazing," Isaac says around breathless kisses. "You're...amazing."

"Isaac—your friends," I remind him when his lips leave mine and move to the side of my throat, sending an involuntary shiver up my back.

"Fuck 'em," he says, moving back to my mouth and sliding his hands to my waist, pulling me closer. "No wait, don't do that. Fuck me instead."

"Isaac!"

My voice is a shamefully breathless squeak.

"Ooookay. Um. We're gonna go now," Mike says. "Nice music, Felix. Uh...Yeah, good job."

"Yeah, thanks for the show," Spencer chuckles. "Damn, I gotta learn me some guitar or something. Musicians get all the action," he adds, shaking his head.

This is close to being the most action I've ever had, but I'm not about to point that out.

They leave, winking and making rude gestures at Isaac, which I take it is a primitive form of encouragement.

Dylan, on the other hand, is already gone.