JENNIE

I can't sleep. I've tried to close my eyes and block out the world, leave the chaos and stress of the mess that is my love life, but I can't. It's impossible. It's impossible to fight the irresistible power that draws me to Lisa's room, that begs me to be near her. She's being so distant, and I have to know why. I have to know if she's behaving this way because of something I did, or because of something I didn't do. I have to know that it had nothing to do with Sasha and her tiny gold dress, or Lisa losing interest in me.

I have to know.

Hesitantly, I climb out of the bed and tug on the small cord to bring the lamp to life. I pull the thin band from around my wrist and gather my hair into my hands, pulling it into a ponytail. As quietly as possible, I tiptoe across the hall and slowly turn the handle on the guest room door. It opens with a low creak, and I'm surprised to find the lamp on and the bed empty. A pile of black sheets and blankets are pushed against the edge of the bed, but Lisa isn't in the room.

My heart sinks at the thought that she's left Seattle and gone back home—to her home. I know things were awkward between us, but we should be able to talk about whatever it happens to be that is weighing on Lisa's mind. Scanning the room, I'm relieved to see her bag still on the floor, the piles of clean and folded clothes knocked over, but at least still there.

I've loved seeing the changes in Lisa since her arrival only hours ago. She's been sweeter, calmer, and she actually apologized to me without me having to pull the words from her. Regardless of the fact that she's being cold and distant right now, I can't ignore the changes that a week apart seems to have made and the positive impact that the distance between us has had on her.

I quietly pad down the hallway in search of her. The house is dark, the only light coming from small night-lights lined along the floor of the halls. The bathrooms, living room, and kitchen are empty, and I don't hear a single noise coming from upstairs. She has to be upstairs, though . . . maybe she's in the library?

I keep my fingers crossed that I don't wake anyone during my search, and just as I close the door to the dark and empty library, I see a thin line of light creeping from the door at the end of the long corridor. During my brief stay here, I haven't made it to this part of the house, though I think Kimberly had vaguely indicated that this is where the theater and the gym are. Apparently, Christian spends hours in the gym.

The door is unlocked, and I push it open with ease. I feel a momentary spark of worry as I entertain the idea that it's Christian, not Lisa, who's in the room. That would be incredibly awkward, and I pray it isn't the case.

All four walls of the room are mirrored from floor to ceiling and lined with large, intimidating machines, a treadmill being the only recognizable one. Weights and more weights cover the far wall, and most of the floor is padded. My eyes move to the mirrored walls, and my insides liquefy at the sight of them. Lisa—four Lisas, actually—are reflected in the mirrors. She's shirtless, and her movements are aggressively quick. Her hands are wrapped in the same black tape that I've seen on Christian's each day this week.

Lisa's back is to me, her hard muscles straining under pale skin as she lifts her foot to kick the large black bag hanging from the ceiling. Her fist strikes out next; a loud thud follows her movement, and she repeats it with the other fist. I watch as she continues to punch and kick the bag; she looks so angry, and hot, and sweaty, and I can barely think straight as I watch her.

With swift movements, she hits with her left leg, then her right, and then both fists smash into the bag with such fluidity, it's incredible to watch. Her skin is shining and covered in sweat, and her chest and stomach look slightly different than before, more defined. She simply looks . . . larger. The metal chain attached to the ceiling looks like it's going to snap from the force of Lisa's aggression. My mouth is dry, and my thoughts are sluggish as I watch her and listen to the angry groans that escape as she begins using only her fists against the bag.

I don't know if it's the soft moan that falls from my lips at watching her, or if she somehow felt my presence, but she suddenly stops. The bag continues to sway on its chain, and while keeping her eyes on me, Lisa reaches out one hand to stop it.

I don't want to be the first to speak, but she gives me no choice as she continues to stare at me with wide and angry eyes.

"Hey," I say, my voice hoarse and tiny.

Her chest rises and falls rapidly. "Hi," she says, panting.

"What, um"—I try to contain myself—"what are you doing?"

"Couldn't sleep," she breathes heavily. "What're you doing up?" She gathers her black T-shirt from the floor and wipes the moisture from her face. I gulp. I can't seem to find the strength to look away from her sweat-soaked body.

"Um, same as you. Couldn't sleep." I smile weakly, and my eyes flicker to her toned torso, the muscles moving in sync with her hard breaths.

She nods; her eyes don't meet mine, and I can't help but ask, "Did I do something? If I did, we could just talk about it and work it out."

"No, you didn't do anything."

"Then tell me what's wrong, please, Lisa. I need to know what's going on." I gather as much confidence as I can manage. "Do you . . . never mind." The ounce of confidence I had slips away under her stare.

"Do I what?" She sits down on a long black cushion, which I think is some sort of weight bench. After wiping the T-shirt over her face again, she wraps it around her head, restraining her dampened mess of hair.

The impromptu headband is oddly endearing and very attractive, so much so that I find myself fumbling for words. "I'm just beginning to wonder if maybe, possibly, you . . . you're starting to not like me as much as you did." The question sounded much better inside of my head. When said out loud, it sounds pathetic and needy.

"What?" She drops her hands onto her knees. "What are you talking about?"

"Are you still as attracted to me . . . physically?" I ask. I wouldn't feel so ashamed or insecure if she hadn't rejected me earlier tonight. That, and if Ms. Long Legs Short Dress hadn't been fawning over her right in front of me. Not to mention the way her eyes lingered as they slowly took in her body . . .

"What . . . where is this coming from?" As her chest rises and falls, the sparrows inked just under her collarbone appear to be fluttering along with her breathing.

"Well . . ." Although I take a few steps farther into the room, I make sure to leave a few feet between Lisa and me. "Earlier . . . when we were kissing . . . you stopped, and you've barely touched me since, and then you just up and went to bed."

"You actually think that I'm not attracted to you anymore?" She opens her mouth to continue but suddenly closes it again and sits silently.

"It has crossed my mind," I admit. The padded flooring has suddenly become fascinating as I stare down at it.

"That is fucking insane," she begins. "Look at me." My eyes meet hers, and she sighs deeply before continuing. "I can't begin to fathom why you would ever consider the notion that I'm not attracted to you, Jennie." She seems to think over her response and adds, "Well, I guess I can see why you would think that because of how I acted earlier, but it's not true; that literally could not be further from the fucking truth."

The ache in my chest slowly begins to dissolve. "Then what is it?"

"You're going to think I'm fucking morbid."

Oh no.

"Why? Tell me, please," I beg her. I watch as frustrated fingers run over her chin.

"Just hear me out before you get mad, okay?"

I nod slowly, an action that completely contradicts the paranoid thoughts that are beginning to flutter through me.

"I had this dream, well, nightmare, actually . . ."

My chest tightens, and I pray that it's not as bad as she's making it out to be. Half of me is relieved that she's upset over a nightmare, not an actual event, but the other half aches for her. She's been alone all week, and it hurts to know that her nightmares have returned.

"Go on," I gently encourage her.

"About you . . . and Rosé."

Oh boy. "What do you mean?" I ask.

"She was at our—my—apartment, and I came home to find her in between your legs. You were moaning her name and—"

"Okay, okay, I get it," I say, raising a hand to stop her.

The pained expression on her face compels me to keep my hand up for a few seconds to keep her silent, but then she says, "No, let me tell you."

I'm extremely uncomfortable about having to listen to Lisa talk about Rosé and me in bed, but if she feels like she needs to tell me—if telling me will help her work it out—I'll bite my tongue and listen.

"She was on top of you, fucking you, in our bed. You said that you loved her." She grimaces.

All of this tension and all of Lisa's strange and awkward behavior since she came to Seattle stemmed from a dream she had about me and Rosé? At least this helps explain her middle-of-the-night demand last night that I call Rosé and take back the invitation to visit me in Seattle that I agreed to.

As I stare across the room at the green-eyed, grief-stricken woman with her face resting on her hands, my earlier paranoia and frustration dissolve like sugar on my tongue.