Denny Wyatt: friend.

Denny, who sleeps in threadbare tees that smell like his cigarettes, who coats his arms in the guts of engines, who kisses like he's sampling you, scenting you, until you forget that there are things you can't afford to forget.

Denny Wyatt: with benefits.

It's not dating. You've both done enough of that. You're both stuck in this town, you're both going nowhere, but at night, you have each other. It's sex. It's an arrangement. It suits you both.

Denny Wyatt: yours.

Tonight, the lie shatters. Denny Wyatt is so much more than friend, than lover, than any one word. But you'd better speak—better find the words—or he's gone.