I couldn't believe it had come to this.
We were seated in a semi-circle in the library, where the Alcove family usually held meetings about important things like investments or new business partnerships—not, well, interventions about my dating life.
Theo sat in the center, legs crossed, wearing his "calm, impartial therapist" expression that he'd honed over the years as my brothers' unofficial psychologist.
Clipboard in hand, he looked more like a high-end psychiatrist than the kid who barely cracked a joke. On the table in front of him, he'd set out a box of tissues, a notepad for each of us, and, as if we were really in a group session, a small bell.
"Thank you all for coming," he began, voice cool and measured. He scanned the room, looking every inch the young professional—if you ignored the fact that he was trying to treat his own family.
