But I’m getting ahead of myself! There’s a lot to rule out first.
The doorbell chimes, and I check the app for the Ring that Mom had gotten installed a few years back.
Greg’s standing on my front steps holding a casserole dish.
Not now, I’m busy trying to fix all my flaws at once! Come back later!
My leg jiggles and my chest feels tight. But the longer I stare at him on the video screen, the more I think itwouldbe nice to see a friendly face.
Then I glance in the mirror and realize I still have hair removal cream smeared all over my upper lip.
I text him one-handed—just a minute!—as I hop over to grab some toilet paper and wipe away the burning cream. And I pad through the house to the front door and wave him inside.
“My mom made too much kare-kare,” he says, lifting the casserole dish. I’m already salivating, thinking about eating it over rice—the tender beef, string beans, and eggplant, all stewed in a thick peanut sauce.
Greg is staring at me, for some reason, while he slips his shoes off. “Is this a bad time?”
“Why?”
“You, uh—” He gestures around his head, reminding me of the curlers I have on. “Getting ready to go somewhere?”
“Oh, shut up,” I say, and he laughs.
“Where can I put…?” He lifts the dish again.
“Oh—oh right. Um—the fridge.”
Greg heads for the kitchen, and I follow him. Of course he knows where everything is. It’s been a while since he was in my house, and my heart is pounding so uncomfortably.
He finds a place for the food and stares at me some more as he closes the fridge.
“What are you looking at?” I demand.
A small smile spreads on his face as he gestures vaguely above his mouth. “It’s a little…red here?”
My hand flies reflexively to cover my upper lip, and I drop the notebook that was wedged under my arm.
Greg bends to pick it up before I can.
“Hey!”I grab for it as he starts reading the list, but he holds it up higher, away from me, like we’re fourteen again.
He squints at it, trying to decipher my wild handwriting. “Potential sources of unfinished business?”
“I’m trying to rule things out. Like your mom said.”
He frowns.“Date someone in a higher tax bracket?”
“There are lots of things to rule out first!” I reach feebly for the notebook, but he’s still got it raised high. “And…I mean, what’s a date or two?”
“Not going to lie,” Greg says pointedly. “I’m pretty worried about you.”
“Why do you suddenly care?” I snap. “You seemed perfectly fine not knowing what was going on with me for years.”
Greg’s arm droops, and I snatch the notebook back from him.
It’s a bad look, letting the venom creep into my tone. I promised myself a long time ago: Pretend nothing happened. That this doesn’t bother you so much. Then you won’t have to feel pathetic on top of feeling hurt.
Greg’s stare skewers me under the weak yellow kitchen light. “Of course I care,” he says levelly. “You seemed like you didn’t want to talk to me, but…” He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “It’s not like I stopped caring about you.”
