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Warmth was never Sienna’s strong suit but she’s trying. Even if it’s only for my sake. And though this town is infested with snakes that would love nothing more than to sink their fangs into me, it’s nice knowing that at least I have one person here that is in my corner.

Then again, Sienna never wavered in being my friend. She could have. It would’ve been so easy for her to turn her back on me. So easy to cave to the peer pressure and fall in line behind Peyton and her minions. But Sienna always stayed true to her own moral compass. I think that’s why we were friends all those years. Not because our friendship mattered more to her than anyone else’s, but because standing by me was the right thing to do. Sienna has always had an unwavering sense of justice. Maybe that’s why she joined the FBI.

Guilt gnaws at me as the only thing I know about her life now is her job. I’ve been so consumed with my own baggage that I haven’t asked Sienna anything about herself or what she’s been up to since we last saw each other.

“I’m a shitty friend. Here we are talking about people unworthy of our time when I haven’t even asked you about your life. How have you been? What about your grandparents and your sister? How are they? And your mom? Is she still living at Salem’s Creek?”

Sienna’s face loses all its warmth, her blank canvas expression taking center stage once again.

“Like I said, we’ve reminisced enough,” she says coolly, stepping off her stool. She then catches the bartender’s eye and says, “Charge it to my room.”

Seeing as Sienna is done talking, I try to mimic her casual movement off the barstool and fail spectacularly, nearly landing flat on my face.

“God, you’re such a lightweight,” she says, grabbing me in the nick of time.

“Hey, don’t judge. That last shot really got to me,” I mutter, pretending the room isn’t spinning all around me.

“Come on, Cinderella. That’s enough fun for you.”

Fun?! As if any of this were fun for me.

Sienna hooks her arm through mine and helps me make my way through the bar, across the foyer, and up the stairs to my room.

“Sleep it off.”

“There’s nothing to sleep off,” I defend with a hiccup. “I only had a couple of shots.”

“Yeah, well, apparently that’s all it took for you to get plastered.” Her lips dip into a frown. “See you tomorrow at brunch. Or do you want me to knock on your door first so we can go together?”

I nod, tears welling up at her generosity in offering to face the Reds along with me.

I haven’t spoken to Sienna since I ditched this hellhole, and here she is, ready to have my back all over again. I really am a shitty friend.

“Oh, my God. Are you going to cry?” she asks, looking both appalled and horrified at the prospect of me shedding a tear or two.

“No,” I mutter, wiping a tear away.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. You really are a lousy drunk. Now I get why you don’t drink.”

“You know that’s not the reason,” I defend, wiping away the tears still streaking down my cheeks.

Sienna’s jaw ticks, but she doesn’t add anything to my statement. Like me, she knows what our mothers went through with their addictions. Sienna might be strong enough to dabble in a glass of whiskey or two, but I’ve never felt comfortable doing anything that might tap into that addictive gene. I saw firsthand how easily it could destroy a life. It sure as shit destroyed mine when I lost my mom. Why tempt fate when I can avoid it altogether? Not that alcohol or recreational drugs have ever held much appeal for me, but still, better safe than sorry.

“Okay, Max. I’ll see you tomorrow. Goodnight.” She waves off, eager to leave.

“Night,” I whisper before entering my room.

Once inside, I take off my heels and collapse onto the bed, throwing an arm over my eyes to block out the sunset rays streaming through the curtains.

Poor Sienna. When she first decided to come to this reunion, I highly doubt that she knew what she was up against, having to babysit me. If this is how I react after just one conversation about the past, I can only imagine what tomorrow will bring. I really need to woman up and get a hold of myself. The Reds smell weakness a mile away and like hell I’ll let any of them have any power over me. Never again.

As I lie there, playing out every possible scenario for tomorrow’s dreaded brunch, each one feels worse than the last. That’s the one little downside of being an author. Our overactive imagination can work against us when it comes to painting the worst-case scenarios. The term overthinker doesn’t even cover it.

“Fuck!” I shout, snatching up a pillow and burying my face beneath it to muffle my frustrated screams.

However, when neither peace nor sleep comes, I spring out of bed and head for the desk by the window where my laptop rests. I put on my playlist and crack my knuckles, ready to take my mind off what awaits me tomorrow. Maybe if I concentrate on work, I’ll feel more like myself and less like the teenage version of me. Thankfully, I have a few emails from my editor, my agent, and my PA to keep me busy.

It’s only when my stomach begins to growl that I realize I haven’t eaten anything since leaving New York. I cross the room and pull open the mini fridge tucked beneath the coffee station, finding nothing but a few measly bottles of water. Even after raiding the little snack basket beside it, all I come away with is a bag of salted peanuts.