THE PROPOSAL.

DIEGO'S POV

The photo was from three years ago.

Matteo's arm around my shoulders, both of us squinting into the sun at Venice Beach. His smile was wide and real and I could still hear his laugh if I tried hard enough.

My phone buzzed. Avani's name on the screen. Calling at 11 PM on a Thursday which meant either she was drunk or something was very wrong.

I answered. "Hey."

She was crying which meant something was wrong. "Where are you?" I asked, already standing up.

"Home." Her voice broke on the word. "Can you—Diego, can you come over? I need—I just need you here."

"I'm coming. Twenty minutes."

"Okay." A shaky breath. "Okay. Thank you."

The drive to her apartment in Silver Lake took eighteen minutes. I parked illegally and took the stairs two at a time because the elevator in her building had been broken for three weeks and the landlord didn't care.

She opened the door before I could knock.

Mascara everywhere. Hair in a messy bun. Wearing the oversized UCLA hoodie I'd given her four years ago that she only wore when things were bad.

"Oh, babe," I said. She walked into my arms and sobbed.

I held her, kicked the door closed behind us and walked her to the couch where we sat down with her still attached to my chest like she was trying to crawl inside my ribcage.

This was familiar. This was our pattern. She dated terrible men. They broke her heart. I showed up. We did this dance.

Except this time felt different.

This time I knew exactly who had made her cry; Felton fucking D'Angelo.

I'd heard about him for six weeks. How he was honest. How he told her from the beginning he didn't do relationships and she was fine with that because the sex was incredible and she didn't need labels anyway.

I smiled and nodded and wanted to throw up every time she mentioned his name, not because I was jealous.

Okay, because I was jealous. 

"What happened?" 

She pulled back, wiped her face and looked at me with those dark eyes that had been destroying me since we were thirteen.

"I went to surprise him," she said. "With dinner. I made—I actually cooked, Diego. I made that pasta thing from the recipe you sent me. I bought wine. I wore the dress he likes. I thought—" She stopped. "I thought maybe if I showed him I could be casual and fun and not needy, he'd—I don't know. Want me. Actually want me."

My jaw was tight. "What happened when you got there?"

"The door was unlocked. I walked in and I heard—" Her voice cracked. "I heard sounds from the bedroom. So I went to check and he was—there was a guy. On his knees and Felton was just—" She made a sound that was half laugh, half sob. "He looked at me over the guy's head and said 'want to join us?' Like I was interrupting a business meeting. Like it was nothing."

"Avani—"

"He told me from the beginning," she said. "He said he doesn't do anything exclusive. He said he sleeps with whoever he wants. I said I was fine with it. But I thought—I thought maybe I'd be different. Maybe he'd want just me eventually. But I'm not different. I'm just another person he fucks when he's bored."

I pulled her back against my chest. "You deserve better than that."

"Do I?"

"Yes."

"Then why do I keep choosing men who treat me like shit?"

I didn't have an answer for that. I have been asking myself the same question for six years. Watching her date assholes while I sat in the friend zone performing gay so well I'd almost convinced myself it was real.

We sat in silence. Her breathing eventually slowed. She pulled away, wiped her face again, and looked at me.

"I want revenge," she said.

I blinked. "What?"

"I want to hurt him the way he hurt me. I want him to feel what I feel. I want—" She stopped. Something shifted in her face. "You should seduce him."

I stared at her. "I should do what?"

"Seduce him, make him want you. Make him fall for you then break his heart."

"Avani—"

"You're exactly his type; dark hair, pretty face. That whole tortured artist thing you have going on." She was talking faster now, warming to the idea. "And you're gay so he'd never see it coming. He'd think you actually wanted him and then when he's invested, when he actually cares, you destroy him."

"I'm not—"

"Please." She grabbed my hands. "Diego, please. You're the only person I trust. The only person who would understand. You've seen what he did to me. Don't you want to make him pay for it?"

I looked at our hands. Her fingers laced through mine. The desperation in her eyes had nothing to do with revenge and everything to do with the fact that she needed me to do this. 

"I don't know if I can," I said.

"You can. You're—Diego, you're beautiful. You're smart. You're funny. Any guy would be lucky to have you."

Any guy except the one I actually wanted. The woman sitting in front of me who had been using my feelings for thirteen years without ever acknowledging them.

I should have said no and told her that asking me to seduce someone for revenge was fucked up on about seventeen different levels. That I wasn't actually gay and pretending to be gay to hurt someone was a different category of wrong.

But I looked at her face and I heard my own voice say: "Okay."

"Okay?"

"I'll do it. I'll seduce him. I'll make him fall for me and then I'll break his heart."

Her face lit up. "Really?"

"Really."

She threw her arms around me. "Thank you. Thank you. God, Diego, I love you so much. You're the best friend I've ever had. The best person I know."

Best friend?

Right, that was all I was ever going to be.

She pulled back. "How should we do this? Should you just show up at one of his hotels? Or—wait, he has that club. Sinners. You should go there. Kevin's girlfriend works there, right? Sienna? She could get you in."

"Avani—"

"This is perfect. You go to the club. You make eye contact. You let him chase you. He loves to chase and then—" She stopped. "Oh my god, what if you're better than me? What if he likes you more?"

"He's not going to like me more."

"You don't know that. You're—you're you. You're perfect."

I was not perfect. I was a liar who had been pretending to be gay since high school because it was easier than admitting the truth.

And somehow, I just knew that it was going to come back to bite me in the ass.

The truth being that the rumors had been right.