When Robyn closed her eyes, she could hear him. Then he stopped and said, "Huh. Looks like someone lost a tire. Shit. Guess I should be a gentleman and offer to help."

Don't, baby. Please, please, don't…

She drained her champagne glass and refilled it. Hope didn't notice. She'd stopped talking and was staring across the club, eyes glazed over.

Gave up on me, I guess, Robyn thought.

She stared at the bubbles in her glass and allowed herself a two-second self-pity break.

She could imagine what Damon would say. What did you expect, Bobby? She came all this way to help you, but she can't do it by herself. You need to give a little.

Help her with what? Get over it? Get over him?

Robyn downed the drink. Hope was still staring out at the club, eyes unfocused. When Karl tapped her shoulder, she jumped. He whispered something. She shook her head, mouthed "nothing." He frowned, unconvinced.

Then Portia declared she was ready to move on. To another club, Robyn presumed, but Portia was chattering too fast for Robyn's booze-soaked brain to keep up.

She did know, however, that she had no intention of going anywhere but home. Hope and Karl decided to call it a night, too, and Hope offered her a ride, but Robyn insisted that Portia's driver would drop her off. Otherwise Hope would see how drunk she was and want to walk Robyn to her apartment. It wasn't ready for visitors yet. Robyn had been there three months, but still needed a few things. Like pictures for the blank walls. Dishes for the empty cupboards. Food for the bare fridge.

Portia barely waited until Hope and Karl were out of earshot before grabbing Robyn's arm and squealing, "Oh my God, he is so fine. I know he's kind of old for me, but I could use an older guy, don't you think? Someone more mature? He's classy and smart and funny." Portia sighed and Robyn thought she was going to swoon. "Can you imagine what everyone would say if I showed up at the premiere next week with him on my arm? What Jasmine would say? And Brock? You have to give me his number."