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It’s June, there’s a bit of a chill hanging on, but it’s nice to see some sunshine. I’m sure my vitamin D levels are pathetic. We’re arm in arm, letting the sound of traffic fill the space between us. I’m glad he’s here. I’m dying to ask a million questions, but I know that’s not fair to him. Maybe he’s here to break up with me. I’m overcome with sadness again as I envision a life without Mikey and Ari. A tear runs down my face. He rubs it away from my cheek.

“I’m so happy to see you,” I blubber out.

“Stop crying. You’re my fruit fly. Where else should I be?” I jerk my head to his in disbelief.

“You have lots of women in your life.”

“I do. They’re Ari’s hags. You’re all mine. I wasn’t expecting it to happen, and now it’s super complicated, but there it is. You’re it. Don’t fucking cry again.”

I take his hand. “You’re my fruit.”

“That I am. But this revelation shouldn’t lead you to believe I’ve taken up allegiances. I simply missed you and wanted to see if you were ok.”

We dive on the only open table. “We can order in shifts.”

“I got you. Do you want something to eat too?”

“Something gooey and terrible for me. And I’d like—”

Mikey interrupts me. “Half caf Americano with room for cream.” I guess he’s inadvertently become my best friend. With emotional backup, I’m bold enough to open Instagram for the first time in a while, and there’s a picture of Alex and the boys. I forgot to unfollow Extended Media. His hair’s shaggy. His eyes are a bit bloodshot and swollen. As are mine.

Placing our food and drinks on the table, Mikey slides into his seat. “Ok, go.”

“Go what?”

“What the fuck happened?” He leans in, putting his palms down on the table.

“Surely, you know all of it.”

“Not from you. And you get one question.”

I show him my phone. “He looks rattled in this picture, and I don’t want to think I’m the cause but is he’s ok?”

Mikey sighs. “Of course, you’re the cause. He’s not ok. He’s drinking copious amounts of Diet Coke again, and his phone is rarely out of his hand. It’s worse than before. He’s out every night with the bros, whom I detest, and if he’s not drunk, he’s sad. He came to dinner, didn’t mention you once, but he had whiskey shots for dessert.”

I shift in my seat and pick at the cinnamon bun.

Mikey says, “Ari yelled at him to process things better. Then he snapped at Ari and warned us not to evoke you in any way. I played one terrible trick on him because he snapped at Ari.”

This doesn’t make me feel better or worse. Still numb. Time needs to speed up, so I don’t feel like this anymore. Forward. Tackle things. Write. Writing will be my salvation as it has been before. The only way to close his gaping wound in my soul.

All the sadness I thought I had moved on from has broken through. Wimbledon, my parents, cancer, cheating boyfriend, it’s like I’m experiencing all of this grief again, and I’m fucking over it. I need to be me again. The me I know how to be. I don’t know this crying unmatched underwear mess. It’s time to get dressed.

“Hit me. What trick?”

“I put the proof of your book on his desk.”

My lips curl up, and then I jerk my head up. “Oh shit.”

“Yup. I imagine you’ll change the dedication before it goes to press, but it’s there.” It flashes through my head. Fuck. It’s already at press.

For Alex.

Every day is someday with you.

“I was hoping it would propel him to do a little more soul searching and a little less bourbon. It did not.”

“He’s sleeping his way through the interns. I assume.” Salt. Can’t stop putting it in the wound.