I groan and click the phone off, but Miles snags it from me. He sticks it in front of my face to unlock it, opens the camera, then drapes his arm around me. “Smile.”
“What are you doing?”
“Taking a selfie,” he says. “Send it to your ex so he gets the hint that you’re busy... living your life.” He holds the phone up and snaps a photo of the two of us, then studies it.
“Eh. You look weird in that one.”
“Hey!”
“We need to take another one,” he says. “Get a little closer—like, pretend we’re together.” He scoots in and holds the phone back up. He looks at the two of us through the camera. “Maybe lean your head on my shoulder? Like, pretend you like me.”
“I’m not that good of an actor,” I say with a laugh, moving even closer and inhaling his familiar scent. His draped arm tightens as his hand lands on my shoulder, and at the touch, a ball of heat radiates in my chest.
I momentarily forget reason and tip my head down so my face is practically nuzzled right in the crook of his neck. “Aaand... there. Perfect. Don’t move. Okay, but look at the camera and smile like you just found a cat in a dumpster.”
At that, I laugh, and he takes five quick pictures. The air thickens, though it’s quite possible I’m the only one who feels it.
“Send him one of those.”
I take the phone and look at the photos, lingering on one in particular.
He’s got a goofy grin, I’m laughing for real, and we look... like a real couple.
We look happy. I look happy.
And while itwouldbe nice to prove to John that I’m not pining and heartbroken, I decide against sending it and click the phone off.
“Ah, you chicken. I knew you wouldn’t.” Miles smirks at me.
“Really? How?”
He shrugs. “You seem like you have your own lane on the high road.”
“I’ve dipped down to the low road a few times.” An image of the fountain behind the country club ballroom floats through my mind, and I shiver at the memory of the cold water soaking through my clothes.
I draw in a breath and hold up the cup of ice cream. “Trade back.”
We switch again, and I take a bite of my gelato.
“How is it that you still believe in love?” Miles asks between bites. “This guy sounds like a total piece of work.”
“Well, for one, I can’t believe that one experience isallexperiences.”
He smiles. “Oh-for-eight.”
I pull a face. He has a point.
But still. I don’t want to believe that it’s a “one-and-done, that’s it, good night, folks” kind of life when it comes to love.
“In my experience,” he says, in a rare glimpse behind the curtain, “relationships end. Badly. Was yours all that different from mine?”
I stare out at the open green space of the quiet park under the dim light of the moon, wondering if I should share this story. Will talking about it make it feel less painful, or will it only make it worse?
I wouldn’t know—even in therapy, I never repeated the whole story of the night I found out about Misty, much to Dr. Baskin’s dismay. I remember her saying,“If you don’t want to talk about it, then write it all down. Journaling is the cheapest form of therapy.”
I hadn’t written it down either. Because the public humiliation felt cruel the first time around, and I had no interest in reliving it.
I didn’t like thinking about it because I didn’t like the way it made me feel.
