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"It's mine. If you won't even tell me who you lost, why should I tell you anything about how I feel?" I grit my teeth. "Whoever you are, can you bring back the Miles I met last month?"
"Even that guy would notice how upset you are."
"Fine. I'm upset. You did your friend duty and asked what was wrong. I did my friend duty and gave you the details. Can we close the book on this conversation?"
"No."
"Then take me home."
He stares at me.
"Is there a reason why you're cross-examining me?"
He scoots closer. "It's the decent thing to do."
"You never struck me as a decent guy."
He shrugs. "You're lucky I don't offend easily."
"I can try harder to offend."
He rests his hand on mine. There's something in his eyes. He's uncertain. It's the first time I've seen Miles anything but confident.
"It's not something I talk about," I say. "It's not personal."
He shifts onto his back, his eyes on the stars. "Fine. But I'm still not having sex with you tonight."
* * *
Even without Miles's questions, I feel a pull to reveal myself, to share my pain with him. I want to feel the way I do when I listen to his songs, like he understands me and I understand him.
Why is that intimacy so elusive when we speak?
I close my eyes and sink into the sand. The gentle breeze sends a chill down my spine. I rub my arms with my palms but it only helps so much.
Miles wraps his arms around me and pulls my body into his. It's like slipping into my favorite hoodie—warm and comforting.
Everything that happened with Rosie hurts. Every time I see someone with a drink and a smile, every time I hear her name, every time I find one of her things—it hurts somewhere so deep I can't breathe.
Minutes pass. Maybe hours. I'm aware of nothing except the waves, the breeze, and Miles's breath. He pulls me closer, wrapping his arm around me and stroking my hair. This isn't the Miles I saw fucking some girl at a party. It's not the guy who teased me about being a virgin. It's the guy who wrote In Pieces, the one who knows what it feels like to lose everything that matters.
So why can't I talk to him? My lips refuse to move. I think up a million ways to start the conversation. Who did you write In Pieces about? How long ago was it? Does it hurt less? I used to live with Rosie, in a two bedroom. She died finals week. I was so depressed I missed two finals. I had to beg my teachers to let me make them up. My GPA took a hit. It's still not what it needs to be. What did you lose? How far did you fall?
I want to tell him, to tell someone. I don't talk to anyone about it. Not even Kara.
Still, my lips refuse to move.
I try to focus on the stars, something to center me and keep my mind from drifting to places it shouldn't go. It doesn't work. Vivid mental images form. Miles as my doting boyfriend, walking me to class, sharing my sashimi, whispering sweet nothings under the stars.
I don't want a boyfriend. He doesn't do boyfriend. It should be a perfect arrangement. Only he keeps acting sweet, like he's going to sew the pieces of my broken heart back together.
I sink into Miles. This time, I soak up every ounce of comfort. Minutes pass. Hours even.
He taps me on the shoulder and whispers, "are you asleep?"
"Yes," I murmur.
He chuckles. "Dreaming about anything good?"
