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“Yes,” she says drily. “Jeremy broke up with me. Let’s not revisit it.”
Forming her hand into a knife, she chops a few slices. We take some.
It’s yummy, but not yummy enough to totally blot today away. I’m not sure anything could.
“I just don’t know if this means things are over,” I say quietly, mouth full of cake.
Wynona hands me another hand-cut cake slice. I take it.
“You’ll have to talk to him for that,” Josie says. “But he seemed to really like you, so…”
“I don’t know what I was thinking,” I admit. “This relationship has been all over the place from the start.”
“Relationships are hard,” Josie says. “I mean, neither me nor Wyn has managed a successful one, now have we?”
Wynona takes a big swallow of cake, glaring her red-and-black-lined eyes at her sister. “Speak for yourself. Wyatt and I have been doing just fine, thank you.”
Josie snorts. “You’ve been together for, like, five minutes.”
“That’s five weeks, thank you very much,” Wynona says stiffly.
Josie just rolls her eyes.
“Shit, though, what are you going to do about work?” she says suddenly.
I stop chewing.
Jesus. She’s right. I hadn’t even thought—
“He didn’t say that she was—” Wynona begins.
But I cut her off: “No, she’s right. I can’t go to work now. Not with things like this.”
“Maybe he’ll call you up to tell you that things are good?” Josie says in a hopeful tone I can tell even she doesn’t believe. “Since those articles you did write him were amazing, at the end of the day.”
“Maybe,” I say, because I don’t want to talk about it anymore.
The twins stay the night, but the next morning, they have to go to their jobs.
I walk Horatio, do some cleaning I’d been avoiding, and then it’s unavoidable.
Here I am, with even less than I started with. OK, I earned some decent money and journalist experience—but at what cost?
In the afternoon, he calls me. “We should talk.”
It’s odd, after hearing that voice with so much emotion and good humor, hearing it lifeless like this now.
“OK,” I say. “Where?”
“Your place?”
“There’s a park nearby,” I say. Maybe that will prevent me from having a full-blown freak out. I always have managed to stay calm better when I’m in public. “There?”
“Sure,” he says. “Twenty minutes?”
“Twenty minutes,” I say, and then he hangs up.
“Twenty minutes,” I murmur to myself—and then race to the mirror.
It feels childish, making sure that my hair looks not-shit and my face doesn’t look as kill-me-now as I’m feeling, but I do it. As if, somehow, me looking good will change his mind. As if anything will change his mind at this point.
I get to the park first. It’s a laughable ‘park’, basically a foursquare patch of green no one cared enough to do anything else with. I sit on the only bench, and am careful not to slump.
“Hey,” he says, coming to sit beside me. He doesn’t look at me.
“Hey,” I say.
“I’m sorry for doing the article,” I say. “That’s why I quit—it didn’t feel right.”
He nods. He’s close, but not touching me. “I’m sorry for believing the worst about you. I just don’t get it—why do it at all?”
“I was a little mad,” I admit. It’s weird, talking like this, not looking at him, gauging how he’s taking it. But it’s easier too. And I won’t look until he will. “About the fake engagement. It seemed like you were forcing it on us just to suit your purposes. It made me question things.”
“That makes sense,” he says neutrally.
“But?”
“Who says there’s a but?”
I chance a glance at him. Face of stone. He isn’t even frowning. Just blank. Like he handed off his emotions to someone else to make better use of. “It’s written all over your face.”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.” Suddenly, maybe it’s the growing dark, or how he’s not taking my hand, I feel bold. Fuck it. “Tell me. You knew about this whole will thing the whole time. Can you tell me for sure that it didn’t influence you pursuing me and things getting more serious between us?”
The birds chatter, and I see a flit of one—a chickadee. They giggle over our dour expressions. But Nolan remains silent, and I can’t accept how loudly that silence says: No.
“Nolan.”
“I don’t trust you,” he says suddenly.
“And I don’t trust you,” I say, realizing it as I say it. “Now tell me, can you say for certain that your dad’s will didn’t influence you pursuing me, us getting serious?”
It comes out a bit louder than an exhale, quieter than normal speech: “No.”
I wait, for him to explain it or joke it away, like he normally does. For him to make it better. But he just sits there, as if he knows what I’m going to say, wants me to say it, even.
“So, then that’s it,” I say quietly. “This is it?”
