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She looked back at me, got a proud look in her eye. “How was she?”
I didn’t say anything, just pressed my tongue into my top lip to stop myself from crying or vomiting on the spot.
Having sex with someone else while she was in the room next door?
Fucked me up. Fucked Parks up too, actually.
“She sounded like she had a great time!” Her voice dripped with sarcasm.
I shook my head, but only barely. “What do you want from me?”
She took a shallow breath. “A time machine?”
I didn’t know what to do or what to say, so I just did what I wanted. Moved behind her wordlessly, wrapped my arms around her, the blanket around us both, and rested my head on top of hers.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered into the back of her head.
She froze, turned around after a few seconds, buried her face in my chest and cried. Cried for ages. I cried too, don’t know if she knew that. Screamed that I loved her as loud as I could without making a sound. Probably wasn’t enough though.
We were fucked up back then, still fucked up now, I guess. I just loved her, that’s all. And I was bad at it even though I used to be good at it. Nowadays I’m worried I won’t know how to be good at it again.
“Come on,” I said to her eventually. “Let’s order up some breakfast.”
“You and your Eggs Benedict.” She sighed, looking over at my breakfast. She ordered the pancakes.
I sniffed. “What about me and my Eggs Benedict?”
She scratched the tip of her nose. “You always get it.”
And I did my best to squash the smile I felt coming but she caught it anyway.
“What?” she asked, frowning a bit.
I shook my head, shrugged. Not a hill I wanted to die on that day. My faint smile started to get less faint though.
“What?” she asked, frowning.
“Nothing.” I shook my head.
Her little fists balled up. “What?” she demanded.
I opened my mouth to say something, then shook my head. Not worth it.
“Go on,” she demanded, drumming her fingers on the table impatiently. I sighed.
“I hate hollandaise sauce.” I gave her a tight smile.
She blinked. “What?”
“I don’t like Eggs Benedict.”
She eyed my plate. “Then why—”
“—Because you like it,” I interrupted her with a shrug. “And for some reason it makes you feel good when you order different breakfast meals, because you pride yourself on being unpredictable.”
She straightened up, put the best nose in the world in the air.
“I am unpredictable,” she said in unison with me.
