I'd intended to play it cool—maybe admit the pizza was tasty if it turned out to be good—but I can't hide the truth.

It's the best fucking pizza I've ever had.

It's thin—New York style—and the crust is light with a lively sourdough tang. It's covered in a heavenly layer of melted cheesy bliss, lightly toasted on top, glistening with the best kind of grease, and the sauce is rich and alive with flavor. I find myself closing my eyes with the first bite and making an unconscious noise of enjoyment.

When I look up, Isaac is watching me with a cocky grin. "I win," he says.

There's no point denying the obvious.

"Yeah, you win," I agree. "This is amazing. I can't wait to take my dad here. He lives for good pizza."

"There's another place we can try," Isaac says, "but it's closer to the Italian style—wood-fired, light on the toppings, extra thin—amazing flavor. It's pretty close to the real thing."

"You've had the real thing?" I ask.

"Yeah, I went on one of those European tour trips after high school," he says. "I'll show you."

He gets out his phone and pulls up his pictures, scrolling through to a series that shows him in various tourist highlights across France, Germany, Italy, and Spain. In a lot of the selfies, he shares the frame with a  young blond woman.

"Who's that?" I ask.

"Oh, that's Ashley. She was my girlfriend at the time."

I have to admit I'm surprised. She's not ugly, by any means, but she's no great beauty either. She looks...pretty average, actually. She has wide blue eyes, thin lips, a slightly curved nose, and a noticeably flat chest. Not exactly the Beach Barbie type I'd pictured Isaac going for, but the expression on his face when he looks at her picture is wistful and fond.

"This trip was probably the last good time we had together," he says.

"You broke up with her?"

He shakes his head. "She left for college—got into a fancy East Coast school. I wanted to try the whole 'long-distance' thing, but she got all honest on me and said I wasn't 'intellectual enough' for her." He laughs and shrugs. "She was right, but that's what I liked about her—she always had something interesting and smart to say."

Once again, I'm forced to reassess my opinion of Isaac. It seems I'd judged him unfairly based on a few faulted factors: his appearance and interests, and the fact that he and Dylan are friends. I'd assumed he was shallow because he was good-looking, but I guess I'm the shallow one for thinking that way.

"What about you?" he asks, slipping his phone back in his pocket. "You traveled much?"

"Not really," I admit. "We went on a few trips when I was kid, but only within the States."

"Where would you go if you could go anywhere?" He takes an enormous bite of pizza and chews it while he waits for me to answer.

I think for a moment. "I'd take my dad to New York," I say. "He grew up there and I've never been. He says he misses the food."

"You're really close with your dad, huh?" Isaac remarks.

I nod. "Yeah. He's all I've got, really."

He frowns. "You've got Dylan. And now you'll have me an' Belle."

I brush some loose curls behind my ears and take another bite of pizza without answering.

"What's the deal with you an' Dyl, anyway?" he asks, slurping soda from a straw.

I hesitate, considering what to say. I go with a partial truth. "I don't really know. We used to get along pretty well when I was a kid, but once we got to be teenagers...things changed."

"It's the opposite with me and Belle," Isaac comments. "We used to hate each other's guts as kids. It wasn't until I got to high-school that we become close. I  got bullied during my freshman year, and Belle stood up for me. She was in with the popular kids and let everybody know I was her brother. Really saved my skin."

"That's sweet," I say, taking a sip of water. "Belle's a good person. She deserves—" I was about to say 'better than Dylan,' but stop myself. It's true though, and suddenly I feel like I'm betraying Isaac's trust by not being completely honest. At the same time, I'm afraid to say too much. "She deserves to be happy," I finish, swallowing the uncomfortable feeling in my throat.

"Yeah, she does," he agrees, holding my gaze with a smile. 

As we finish our meal and then walk back to the house, I let Isaac carry the conversation and half-listen as he tells me about being on the swim team in high school and the crazy shit he got up to in college before he dropped out. Somewhere along the way, I get lost in my own thoughts and he jolts me back with a light touch on my arm.

"Felix? You okay?" he asks. "You seem kind of distracted."

"Sorry, I wasn't listening," I admit, wincing. "Did you ask me something?"

He looks a little put-out, and I hope my inattention hasn't offended him too much. "I was just saying that I've got some friends coming up tomorrow to help move furniture," he says, "and afterward I'm taking them to see a show. I wondered if you'd like to come. I have enough tickets if you do."

"What kind of show?" I ask.

"Imagine Dragons. They're not my favorite band, but they happen to be in town, playing at one of the casinos that has an outdoor arena. It's not the best venue, but it's nice and open—good if you don't like crowds."

"How do you know I don't like crowds?" I ask.

"Just a guess," he answers with a small, self-conscious shrug.

"I don't know," I say. "I'm not sure it's really my thing."

"Come on," he pleads, "if you don't go, the ticket will go to waste. It's live music! Please don't make me use my pizza pass on this."

"Pizza pass?" I repeat, confused.

"Yeah, remember? You said if you liked the pizza I got to ask you for something. That was the deal."

I should have known he'd take that stupid bet seriously. "Fine, I'll come."

"It'll be fun—I promise." He grins.

"That's what you said about the beach," I remind him.

"Oh, yeah," he says, wilting a little.

I can't help smiling at his reactive expressions. He wears his heart on his sleeve, as they say, and it's kind of endearing.

"But you were right about the pizza. Two out of three?"

He brightens. "You're on!"

I make more of an effort to be present and listen to him after that, though his honesty and openness gradually increase my guilt. I've already told him one lie; it feels like the longer I let it go, the harder it will be to tell the truth.

#

The following morning, Isaac sleeps in again, and Reg leaves early to catch a plane to LA for a business meeting, which leaves me momentarily alone.

With the big expanse of house to myself, the quiet, and the natural beauty on display right outside the window, I'm able to relax like I haven't since this trip began.

I'm sitting on the couch, reading a book on my phone when the doorbell rings. As there's no one else around, I answer it, thinking maybe Isaac's friends have shown up early.

Instead, it's an older guy—mid-forties, maybe—dressed in obviously expensive clothes, with a thick gold wristwatch, pale skin that looks like it rarely sees the sun, and sleekly styled dark hair. He looks the way I'd imagine a lawyer for the mafia would appear.

"Hello?" I ask, opening the door.

He looks me up and down and smiles like a shark. "Hey there. You must be one of Dylan's," he says, leaning against the door-frame and eyeing me with interest.

I'm not sure what he means. Dylan's side of the family, maybe?

"I'm his brother," I answer.

"Really?" the man raises a well-groomed brow and his expression grows instantly more guarded. "You don't look much like him."

I'm not sure what to say to that, and while I search my brain for an appropriate response, he goes on.

"Can you tell Dylan Neil is here to see him?"

I frown. "Dylan's not here."

"Oh yeah? You know when he'll be back?"

"Dylan doesn't live here," I clarify, confused. He must not be a relative, after all. "He won't be here until next week."

The man looks surprised. "That so? This is the address he gave me."

"Um, yes, for his wedding? It isn't until next week."

"Wedding?" The man scoffs and then breaks into laughter. It's a rude sound, and it puts my teeth on edge. "Guess my invitation got lost in the mail."

I'm feeling more confused by the second, and increasingly put-off by this guy.

His eyes flick over me again, and past me into the house. "Hey, what's your name?" he asks.

"Felix," I answer, fighting the urge to shut and lock the door.

"Felix," he repeats and bites his bottom lip in thought. "Alright, well maybe you can get Dylan a message for me, Felix. Tell him Neil says hello—and congrats on the wedding. Tell him to give me a call when he gets a chance, and tell him I wish him lots of...future happiness."

"Sure," I agree. "I'll do that."

"Great. Thanks, Felix. See ya 'round." He flashes a wave at me and another predatory grin, turns, and walks away back towards the street.

I watch as he gets in a long, low, expensive-looking sports car and drives away.

I don't know why, but I didn't like him, and something about him makes me think he's bad news; his vibe shadier than the underside of an umbrella.

It's my habit to think about Dylan as little as possible, so it's not surprising that I don't really know what he's been up to over the past few years. Now, something tells me I might be glad I don't. It also makes me wonder if Isabelle has any idea.

With a sinking feeling, I realize that the answer to that question is likely 'no,' and that without some sort of intervention, it probably won't change until it's too late. Worst of all, I realize that I might be the only one who can make that happen.

As I shut the door and turn to see Isaac descending the stairs, another thought occurs. It might be up to me to find out what sort of shit Dylan is wrapped up in, but maybe I don't have to do it alone.