“Nope.” I stand up. “Not going there.”
I attack the packing with renewed determination. George watches, occasionally offering commentary in the form of aggressive bleating.
“What did I expect?” I ask him. “For him to chase me to the airport? Beg me to stay? That’s not—that’s rom-com bullshit. This is real life.”
Although last night felt pretty freaking rom-com, with the dancing and the guitar and the way he—
“Stop it,” I tell my brain. “Besides,” I continue, cramming products into my toiletry bag, “we both have careers. Important careers. His is here, mine is…” I pause. “Nonexistent. But it’ll exist again. In California. Where I live.”
George looks skeptical.
“Don’t give me that look. It’s called being a grown-up. You make rational decisions based on logic, not on how someone’s voice sounds when they say your name.”
Poppy.
Damn. Even in my memory, it wrecks me.
My phone buzzes. It’s CeCe.
CECE:You up? Coffee before airport?
ME:Packing. Come by whenever
CECE:Bringing pastries and tissues
ME:Why tissues?
CECE:Because I know you
Ugh.
Fair.
I finish packing—badly—and hop in the shower. The water’s perfect, which feels like a personal attack. Even the guest house is trying to make me sad about leaving.
“Get it together,” I mutter, shampooing aggressively.
By the time CeCe arrives, I’m dressed and pretending to be a functional human. She takes one look at me and shakes her head.
“Oh, honey.”
I glance up from zipping my suitcase, defensive already. “What?”
She sets down the pastries and coffee, studying my face with that knowing look. “You’re wearing your feelings on your face.”
“No I’m not.” But my hand goes to my cheek automatically, like I can wipe them away.
“You’re literally pouting.”
She hands me a chocolate croissant and coffee that smells like heaven and bad decisions.
“Talk to me,” she says, settling on the bed and patting the space beside her.
“Nothing to talk about.” I take a massive bite of croissant, chewing deliberately. “Wedding’s over. I’m going to Italy. End of story.”
“Uh-huh.” She sips her coffee, waiting. “And Dean?”
The name alone makes my stomach drop. “What about him?”
