She took a deep breath and pulled out her phone.

Max. Please stop sending the cakes.

There. That was done.

She put her head down on her desk and sobbed.

The last week of recess, home in L.A. by himself, without Olivia, was one of the most difficult weeks of Max’s life. He’d pretended to his staff that he was fine, great, thrilled with the town halls, in love with the great state of California, so happy he’d gotten to meet so many of his constituents, having fun at all of the fundraisers! But he felt like he was carrying a heavy, ice-cold weight on his shoulders the whole week.

Every room in his house made him think of her. The kitchen, where they’d eaten pie straight out of the dish and laughed the whole time. The living room, where they’d spent hours working at opposite ends of the couch with comic book movies (his choice) or Bravo (her choice) on the TV in the background. The backyard, where she’d dragged him outside to look at the full moon on clear nights. And good God, the bedroom. He couldn’t sleep there anymore; after that first awful night, he crashed in the guest bedroom—the only room in the house that didn’t have memories of her. Especially over the past month, when they’d spent so much time at his house together because he hadn’t wanted to lead the press to her place—something he’d stupidly forgotten that night he went over to her house. That night she’d broken his heart.

All of a sudden he had so much sympathy for every one of his friends who had ever gone through this kind of heartbreak, and felt like an asshole for whatever he’d said to them at the time. Like “cheer up” or “get back out there” or “she didn’t deserve you!” He definitely remembered saying at least that last one. If anyone said that to him right now, he’d want to punch them in the jaw. Olivia deserved far more than him. He didn’t deserve her. God, he loved her so much. Why wasn’t that enough?

He wasn’t supposed to be back in DC until Sunday night, but he changed his ticket to go back on Saturday instead. He couldn’t take one more night in that house, in that city, with Olivia right there and not there with him, especially after that text she’d sent him. He’d thought the cakes would be a sweet callback to how she’d first agreed to go out with him, and would make her realize all the good times they shared, and that she couldn’t throw it all away. Apparently not.

He let himself into the DC apartment and sighed in relief. He was so happy to be in this generic, boring apartment, a place Olivia had never been.

He dropped his suitcase on the floor of his bedroom and went back out into the kitchen to see if either he or Wes had left beer in the fridge before they left for recess. At least luck was with him today—there was an entire six-pack. It was alone in the fridge with a bottle of sparkling water, a jar of pickles, and three different kinds of mustard.

Just as he opened the bottle, the apartment door opened and Wes walked in.

“Max! What are you doing here?”

Shit. He’d been really looking forward to this night alone, before he had to pull himself together and talk to people in this damn city again.

“I could ask you the same question,” Max said. “I assumed you wouldn’t be back until tomorrow night.”

Wes shook his head and came into the kitchen.

“Give me one of those, will you?” Max pulled the cap off a second beer bottle and handed it to his friend. “No, I got back late last night—they booked me on one of the Sunday morning shows, so I came back early to prep. And so I wouldn’t be so fucking exhausted first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Congratulations,” Max said. Getting booked on a Sunday morning news show was a big coup, especially for a freshman House member. But God, did he wish he had the apartment to himself tonight.

“What are you doing back so early? I thought you’d spend every moment you could in California with your girl. Or did she come back with you?” Wes looked in the direction of Max’s bedroom with a smirk on his face. Max probably would have thought that was funny before.

“She broke up with me.”

God, did it suck to say it out loud.

“What?” Wes dropped his beer on the counter, and it tipped on its side and spilled everywhere. “Shit, wait.” He grabbed a dish towel out of the drawer and mopped up the mess as he stared up at Max. “Are you serious? Are you okay?” Wes looked at Max and answered his own question. “No, you’re definitely not okay.”

Max took a swig of his beer and sat down on the couch.

“No. I’m definitely not okay.” He held up his hand. “I haven’t . . . I haven’t told anyone else, so if you could keep this between us for the time being?”

Wes took what was left of his beer into the living room to join Max.

“You mean, I shouldn’t let it slip while I’m on CNN tomorrow?” He glanced over at Max with a grin on his face, and Max just glared at him. Wes held up a hand.

“Right, sorry, I’m being an asshole, aren’t I? You’re not at the ‘let’s joke about this’ stage yet. Tell me what happened.”

He didn’t want to tell him. He didn’t want to even think about that day. Even though he’d done nothing but think about it for the past week. But before he realized it, he was telling Wes the whole story.

“And please don’t tell me I shouldn’t have called on her in front of the world, I know that, trust me, I know that. If I could only go back to that moment, if I could just take that back, everything would be different. Because that’s the thing that made her break up with me, that was her last straw.” He told Wes about rushing to her house, and then their fight, and then the moment when he’d—just for a second—thought she’d forgiven him. “She said she loves me, but we’re too different, I’m too impulsive and public, and she’s too measured and thoughtful and private—she didn’t use those words, but that’s what she meant—and we’ll never be happy together.”