I can’t tell from her tone if she objects to “terrifying” or “kind of.” Through the phone, I hear her fingers flying over the keys.
“However,” she says. “If I were limiting myself to characters within the Harry Potter universe, I would say you’re more like a young Sirius Black.”
“Who?”
“Don’t worry. You’re still in the second book, right? He doesn’t show up until the next one.”
How does she know not just which series I’m reading, but how far into the series I’ve read?
“I revise my earlier statement. You are more than kind of terrifying.”
“Hey!” She almost sounds offended. “When my older brother falls in love for the first time, I’m allowed to meddle.”
This time, my steps don’t just slow. I stop dead in my tracks. Right in front of the doors to the building.
Students stream around me. Time seems to stop inside the bubble of my shock.
“What did you just say?”
“That I’m allowed to meddle?” she asks. Then the keyboard chatter on the other end of the line ceases. There’s a pause and then an audible gasp. “Oh my God, you didn’t know.”
“I’m not . . .” I start the sentence, but it gets caught in my throat.
Because I’m not.
I am not in love with Holly.
The very idea is . . .
Yes. She’s beautiful. And funny.
Yeah, I can admit that.
And smart. In her own way.
Do I admire certain qualities about her? Like the fact that she isn’t intimidated by me and never backs down? Yes.
Did my chest feel tight and panicky when she texted me “It’s a date”? Yes, it did. But then I realized, obviously, that the phrase “it’s a date” is common parlance for “we have an appointment.” And since an appointment with a work colleague has no romantic connotation at all, I was able to ignore that panic. Until now.
“You’re wrong,” I blurt out. “I’m not in love with her.”
“Oh, Max.”
The tone of her voice when she says it is soft and low. Almost a whisper.
That hits the hardest. Because there’s regret there. And maybe a little bit of . . . I don’t know what. Caution, maybe? Like she’s afraid.
“Max, are you all right?”
Suddenly, I’m fighting the urge to bolt. To run to my car, get in, and just drive.
Which is stupid.
Because I don’t run. Ever. My fucking hip doesn’t allow me that kind of agility.
And I don’t bolt. Ever. My fucking temperament doesn’t allow me that kind of cowardice.
“Love isn’t real,” I blurt.
