“Poppy.” It’s not a question. It’s an accusation wrapped in concern.
I swallow the most delicious bite of croissant, buying time. “What? We had a moment. Now the moment’s over. That’s how things work.” I wish they didn’t, but they do.
“A moment,” she repeats, eyebrows climbing. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
I focus on my croissant like it holds the secrets of the universe. “Yes.”
“Not ‘the first time you’ve clicked with a guy in three years’?”
“Dramatic.”
“Not ‘the only guy who’s ever made you forget about your to-do list’?”
“That’s not—”
“Not ‘the reason you’ve been lit up like a lighthouse all week’?”
“I have not been lit up.”
George bleats in what sounds suspiciously like disagreement.
“Even the goat knows you’re lying,” CeCe says.
I slump next to her, the fight draining out of me. “It doesn’t matter. He didn’t ask me to stay.”
“Did you ask him to?” She sets down her coffee, turning to face me fully.
“That’s not—no. Why would I?” I pick at the croissant, pulling it apart into tiny pieces.
“Because you’re in love with him?”
The word hangs there like a challenge.
My hands go still. The croissant crumbles forgotten in my lap. My heart is doing something arrhythmic and painful in my chest.
“I’m not—we barely—it’s not possible, CeCe.”
“So?” Her expression is serious, unflinching.
“So people don’t fall in love in a week!” I wipe flakes of croissant crumbles from my cheek with more force than necessary.
“Says who?”
“Says… I don’t know. Science. Logic. Common sense.”
“Right. Because you’re such a fan of common sense.” She gestures around the chaos. “That why you’re running away to Italy?”
“I’m not running. It’s been planned for months.”
“Convenient.” She nods, but there’s no judgment in it. Just sad understanding.
I stand up, needing to move, and pace to the window. The main house sits there, all perfect and haunting in the morning light.
“What was I supposed to do?” I ask quietly, my breath fogging the glass. “Wait around hoping he’d suddenly develop feelings? Beg him to try long-distance?”
“Maybe tell him how you feel? Go from there?”
“I don’t—” I stop. Can’t even lie about it anymore. My reflection stares back at me, hollow-eyed and tired. “It doesn’tmatter how I feel. He’s got his life, I’ve got mine. That’s how it works.”
