“Yeah.”
“Noah, you can’t just play something like this without warning people. It’s so sad. You can actually hear her heart breaking.”
“So fucking sad,” he agrees. “I play it in my car when I feel like crying.”
I laugh softly.
“You mock my pain.”
“Sorry. My bad.”
“How about this one,” he says, tapping another button on his screen. “The Night We Met” by Lord Huron plays next.
“Oof. This is a doozy.”
“I know, right?”
“It’s like musically having your heart gouged out with a fork.”
“That’s disturbingly graphic, but apt. I also occasionally like to stare into the abyss and despair of life to this one.” He plays another song. The version of “Hallelujah” by Jeff Buckley.
“Having an existential crisis to this song is honestly an appropriate response.”
“Glad you approve.”
I stab my spoon into the softened ice cream. Seems you can in fact eat too much sugar. “You’ve completely derailed my wallowing. Shame on you.”
“I’d hope you’re still feeling at least a little shitty. You seemed so set on tonight being the worst. I would hate to trash that for you.”
“Nope. You’ve completely wrecked my plans,” I say. “Thanks.”
He stares at me for a moment and smiles, and I have to remind myself again—just friends. He doesn’t want anything romantic and I can and will respect that. But each moment I spend with him, my heart seems to slip a little farther out of my reach.
CHAPTER SIX
“An iced coffee with skim milk and a shot of butterscotch syrup, please,” I say with a smile bordering on rigor mortis. My face is aching from holding this sucker in place. It’s Thursday morning and I have decided to come at the world with the energy I hope to see. Therefore, I am being the politest, most boundary-respecting bitch in all of time and space.
Wide eyes blink at me from behind the counter. “You’re that girl.”
“Yes.”
The barista mumbles something and gets busy with my order. No idea what he said. I don’t really want to know. Any hope people had been starting to forget about my existence has been obliterated, and there’s nothing I can do about it. The trailer is sitting pretty at a quarter of a million views. And you just know ninety percent of those views are probably from the citizens of this fair city. Briana Petersen and my ex and I are back in the news. However, I am not going back into hiding.
There’s a sort of alert stillness to the people behind me in line. Like when someone is busy listening into your conversation. You can feel their focus on you. “They’re filming down at the lake,” says the lady over my shoulder.
“What did you say?” I ask with my smile still in place.
“For the documentary.”
“Oh.” My stomach sinks. This is some unfortunate fucking news on a bright sunny day. I thought they made trailers after they’d finished making a show. Guess not always. I turn back to the barista. “Make it two shots of syrup, please.”
“I saw them down there with a camera crew.” Her tone isn’t judgmental or anything. Just your usual level of interest insomething salacious. She’s wearing a shirt with a picture of a cat on it, and I respect her fashion choice.
A young man stands waiting behind her wearing a Red Sox cap. “A bunch of them are staying at the Hilton.”
“They were in earlier with big orders,” says the barista. “Made the boss real happy.”
“The local economy could certainly do with the boost. But I don’t believe his story one bit,” the woman confides in me. She might not, but the dude behind her is squinting down his nose at me. Like I might pull a weapon at any moment.
