He sighs and picks up my hand again, but this time the gesture is one of comfort, as if there’s a chance we might actually walk away from this still friends. “Lana, you don’t want to be with me any more than I want to be with you. You know the two of us aren’t actually right for each other.”
“Then why have we been together for so long, Evan?” I might as well be asking myself that question since I know he’s right; the two of usdon’tbelong together. We shouldn’t be dating, let alone thinking about getting married.
His grip on my hand tightens. “Do you want the real, honest answer?”
I purse my lips, nodding, even though only half of me—the sadistic half—wants the truth.
“Every girl I dated before you hated my mother, and I liked how you two clicked. I get that she and I have a relationship that might be closer than most, but I never thought it’d be an issue in my dating life. But all my old girlfriends complained about her and how much time she and I spent together, and how much I shared with her.” A hint of an apology darkens his eyes, also brown, though with zero flecks of gold.
“Until me.”
“You know, sometimes I think you like her better than me,” he grumbles under his breath.
I don’t refute his comment, which he takes for the confirmation it is. Judy is one kick-ass woman—was I not supposed to hang out with her when she asked?
“It was a nice change for a while, but then I realized I don’t think I want to be married to someone who’s got Olympic-level mommy issues.” He crosses his arms over his chest and an actual pout forms on his thin lips. How quickly we’ve moved from a semi-rational conversation to throwing barbs.
“Oh, is that the newest Olympic event? Damn, I can’t believe I missed the trials.” I slip back into sarcasm like it’s my favorite old Princess Leia T-shirt, comforting and safe.
“Lana—”
“Look, Evan”—two can play the condescending game, and I drip it into my voice like I’m pouring salted caramel on a sundae—“I really have nothing left to say to you other than you better drop some serious cash on this table before you leave. I’m going to be drinking on your tab for the rest of the night.” I happily accept a fresh martini from our server—already thankful I like them light on the vodka and heavy on the olive juice—who glares at Evan before retreating to the bar, where a small crowd of employees are pretending not to watch the reality TV drama unfolding right before their eyes.
This is LA though, so chances are pretty good they’ve seenactualreality TV play out in front of them. In fact, I’msure the cast ofVanderpump Ruleshas filmed here more than once, so they’ve most definitely seen top-tier cocktail tossing.
I take a long sip of my fresh drink as Evan clearly doesn’t get the hint. “I’m sorry, why are you still here?”
“I’m not just going to leave you alone when you’re well on your way to being drunk. I may not love you, but I’m not that much of a dick.”
I channel my inner Thor, tilting my head to the side and scrunching up my face. “Aren’t you though?” Another quarter of my drink goes down, chilling my throat and numbing my feelings. I know that once those feelings return, my inevitable sobs will make Elle Woods’s look downright peaceful. Therefore, numb they must stay. “Also, I won’t be alone for long. May is already on her way.”
He sits back in his seat, frowning. “Seriously? Do you guys have some kind of Bat-Signal?”
“Yeah, it’s called a cell phone, dipshit. I texted her while you were in the middle of your it’s-not-you-it’s-me speech.” I stab an olive, imagining staking the toothpick right through his eyeball. I can’t believe that for half a second I thought we might be able to get through this breakup like mature adults. Now I’m taking solace in the image of a plastic cocktail skewer burying itself in his pupil. Anger, keep the anger flowing. It’s far better than sadness. “For the record, I’d like to make it clear that you are one hundred percent right about that. It is most definitely you.”
His pout transforms into a scowl. “Why am I notsurprised? You can’t even make it through one breakup conversation without needing someone to lean on.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“You’re incapable of being alone, Lana. And frankly, it’s exhausting.”
“Your face is exhausting.” Ouch. That not-quite-a-comeback slips out before I can stop it.
“Are you sure you want me to leave? I wouldn’t want you to be by yourself for five whole minutes.” At least the maturity level has dropped across the board.
“I’ve literally never been more sure of anything in my life.” I swig the rest of my martini, and before I even set down the empty glass, another full one is sitting in its spot. Someone is getting a very large tip tonight. “And if I were you, I’d blow this joint before May arrives.” Unlike myself, my best friend would never hesitate to throw a drink, and there’s a fifty-fifty chance she might also throw a punch.
The skin beneath his spray tan pales. He reaches into his wallet and throws three hundreds down on the table. He pushes his chair back and stands, lingering for just a second too long. The quips and the insults fade away, leaving space for memories of the good times we managed to have over the last four years. “I really am sorry, Lana.”
Yeah, well, me too.
I expected to be leaving this restaurant engaged, our arms wrapped around each other, both of us happily buzzed on the complimentary champagne that would’ve accompanied my giant rock of a ring.
A ring that probably wouldn’t have looked anything like the hundreds I have pinned to my public wedding board, which I’ve conveniently left open on my laptop any time Evan has been at my house over the course of the last year.
But I would’ve grown to love it.
Just as we would’ve grown to hate each other.
