Page 44 of Burn the Script

MIGUEL

NOW

Friday, January 27th

Carmen’s spoon clinks on the edge of her teacup, adding to the other tinkling sounds in the tearoom. Fine chinaware and lace doilies decorate each table occupied mostly by older women. Looking around, I wonder at what point I started liking floral patterns and pastels, or if it’s just a phase that will end once we leave.

“What was wrong with the last guy?” Carmen asks, setting her spoon aside.

“Two words: finance bro. And I’m pretty sure he was straight. You’re no longer allowed to choose my dates.”

Bringing the porcelain cup to her lips, she samples the artisanal lemongrass blend and winces. We haven’t been to a tearoom in years, but she likes to get fancy on her birthdays. The curious thing about her choosing tea and finger sandwiches for today’s lunch, besides bringing her own gift, is that her birthday passed two months ago.

“Don’t be so quick to judge, Miguel. I’ve found many happy endings in a bar bathroom.”

I hold up a hand. “Stop right there. This isn’t The Carmen Show. We’re talking about me, and there are no public bathroom escapades in my story, except the time Graham stole a kiss.”

“The finance bro offered to remedy that,” she says.

The reminder of last night’s date sends a shudder down my spine, and not the good kind. “In explicit detail. Honestly, I don’t even know why I’m bothering with that stupid app.”

She places her floral cup on the matching saucer. “Don’t let a few bad dates ruin the experience. Think of them as learning opportunities.”

“I’ve learned there’s a bunch of sexually liberated people in this neighborhood, and I’m not one of them. Maybe something’s wrong with me. It’s like I’m missing the wire in the brain that makes the promise of an orgasm a good motivator. So far, the only person I’ve met who’s looking for more than sex is Patrick, or whatever his name is.” My fingers find the bridge of my nose and squeeze. “God, why can’t I remember his name? Am I allowed to rename him?”

“There’s nothing wrong with being selective or staying true to your heart.” She waves off my follow-up questions. “And give your friend a nickname, like you do for everyone else.”

“I’ve thought about it but draw a blank every time. Nothing fits him.” I crumple up my napkin and jerk my chin at the chair between us. “What’s in the bag?”

She lifts the gift bag and sets it on the table. “Don’t shoot the courier. I was asked to pick up a package and hand-deliver it to you.”

“Graham,” I mumble, pulling out the paper stuffing. “Has he completely stolen your loyalty from me?”

She doesn’t answer, nibbling on a cucumber sandwich as she waits for the big reveal. Inside the bag, there’s a flat white box tied with fuchsia ribbon. A quick tug unravels the satin bow, and I lift the lid to find a photo album with a berry-red leather cover. Engraved on the front, in silver script, is the word Favorites.

Each double-sided page contains sleeved photos of me and Graham taken over the years. The majority of them look familiar because they came from the memento box sitting on my TV stand.

The pictures we had printed and framed while we lived together are still at his house. I didn’t think to take any with me when I left, so I made prints of my own. You don’t realize how impersonal digital photos are until the thing you love most is gone and you need something tangible to fill the void.

As I flip through his favorite memories of us, a truth hits me. He burglarized my apartment, and I shouldn’t be smiling so big.

I snatch my phone off the table, thumbs flying across the screen as I navigate to my contacts before sending a message.

Me

YOU’RE A THIEF!

Graham

I have no idea what you’re talking about.

Me

Liar! You stole these photos from my apartment.

Graham

The photos in your possession?