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“Hair of the dog that bit you,” she says. “It’s the only way.”

“What does that have to do with your slutty underwear?”

“I wasn’t sure if you had any of your own. I’m saying you need to fix yourself up and get laid. Brendan isn’t the only hot guy in the world.”

Except he’s the only one I want. I can’t imagine I’ll ever feel otherwise. And I can’t imagine how he was able to feel otherwise the minute I left.

* * *

I get through the next days mostly by dreaming that Brendan will make some grand gesture. I picture him waiting on Harper’s steps so he can tell me he was wrong. Or standing outside my window, playing the song we danced to at the wedding loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear. Except the guy who can’t even make a small gesture is unlikely to make a grand one anytime soon.

I leave him a message about picking up my stuff—my running shoes, my favorite jeans—and he waits a full two days to return the call. Waiting two days to call is so casual it's almost as if he's had to force himself to do it. I can picture him frowning at the phone, sighing wearily, and deciding he needs to get it over with.

"Hey," he says, his voice completely unworried, nonchalant. "Got your message."

Oh my God. As if we barely know each other.

I was hurt before. Now I’m enraged. He has no right to act like we were nothing—either that or he had no right to act like it all meant something when it didn’t. I’m so angry that it’s an effort to speak normally. My words emerge clipped and precise, as if I’m calling someone about getting my furnace looked at.

"Yes. I need my running shoes. Is there a time when I can come by and get them?"

He yawns. "I’m on my way out, but I can set them outside the door if you want to get them later.”

For the first time in days, I’m glad I have plans tonight. "I can't. I'm getting ready to go out to dinner."

"Oh yeah,” he drawls. “The big dinner with Rob. How's that going?" He doesn’t sound jealous. He barely even sounds interested.

"Fine," I tell him.

I feel spiteful, but it translates, in my voice, to enthusiasm. I’m not getting back together with Rob—I’m certain of it—but fuck Brendan and his ambivalence.

"That's awesome, Erin," he says. "I'm happy for you."

I want to take the phone and smash it against the counter. Or against his head. "Thanks," I chirp. Fuck you, Brendan. Fuck you fuck you fuck you.

"So that's it then, huh? 'Mission Make Rob Pull His Head Out of His Ass' worked like a charm," he concludes.

"Yes, Brendan, I owe it all to you," I say snidely.

"Hey," he says with a laugh. "You deserve a little credit too. You laid there so well."

It felt like so much when we were together, and now he's laying it out in a way that makes it nothing if not ugly and cheap—as if I could have been a blow-up doll for all my contribution to the endeavor.

"Fuck you."

He laughs. "I was just joking," he says, and then his voice grows earnest. "I'm sorry. It was just a stupid joke, babe. I'm really happy for you."

I don’t want you to be happy for me, Brendan. Your happiness breaks my heart.

61

Erin

Present

Rob picks me up later that night, handing me the most gorgeous bouquet I've ever seen.

"You didn't need to do that," I say. His every thoughtful action makes me feel worse.