This wasn't the first time around. They'd been together twice before the long one. The current one.

Both times, Kip had unceremoniously ended the relationship. The first time, he'd been honest, and they didn't speak to each other for months. The second time, Katrina called him first. He didn't believe her when she said she was sorry, but he was so happy to hear her voice again, so happy to imagine her, in her room, on the phone again, that he let go what suspicions he had.

Test trial number two lasted a short week; then he lied, and broke it off more abruptly than even he thought he could.

His heart was entirely intact, which surprised him.

The third time was a mistake. A dreadful, strange, exotic mistake.

Kip blamed Mexican food. Katrina blamed Prozac.

Kip had never fainted at the sight of blood before.

And yet, when Katrina's veins lay open before him, it was all he could do to keep from swooning long enough to quickly drag her into the bathroom and wrap her arms in towels.

He hit her head on the toilet as he was pulling her in. A dark bump started to grow on her smooth forehead.

He finished wrapping her up, and ran into the kitchen. After desperately grabbing the phone from the wall and ejecting a short sentence or two, he fainted, lights out before he hit the cedar floor.