Problematic Summer Romance (Not in Love, #2)(102)

Paul offers to help me transport Tiny and Bitty, and flies into Austin with me.

“Thank you,” I tell him at the airport, as we finish our espressos at the bar counter, elbows brushing, croissant flakes sticking to our fingers.

“You’re welcome. So, you and Hark?”

I nod.

“Cool. I mean, weird.”

“Why?”

“Well, he’s terrifying.”

“No, he’s not.”

“Yeah, he is.”

I laugh. “Okay, fine, yes. He is a bit terrifying.”

Paul snorts. “I just didn’t see this coming. I mean, did you know I interned with him? He was such a hard-ass. And you…you’ll always be the girl who puked on me all those years ago.”

I think about the stench of half-digested mac and cheese filling Eli’s beat-up Honda Civic. And then about what’s to come—new job, new life. New boyfriend, old love. I think about the little moments that are going to make up my near future. Sorting myself out. All the firsts ahead. Baby steps and races to the finish line. Building memories.

With a smile, I say, “I won’t, though.”



* * *





Nyota: First day back at work. Had an EGG WHITE OMELETTE for breakfast.

Nyota: I’ve made a terrible mistake.

Maya: I can’t believe we voluntarily came back, Ny

After Sicily, I don’t see Conor for sixteen days. He flies directly from Ireland to Canada for some reason that rhymes with active deal, but since Eli, Sul, and Minami are all still in Europe, I try not to take the comings and goings of financial markets too personally.

There is something icy about the way he constantly keeps me updated via message—should be back in two days; there were errors in the due diligence; a meeting was moved; three days; next week, unless these idiots fuck up—and while I know he’s not lying to me, there’s a pinch of unease in my stomach, a residual from years of being avoided, rejected, pushed away.

He never says that he misses you, an insecure, jellylike bit of me points out.

He’s busy, my brain quips back. You’re overthinking.

And I know I am—alone in Eli’s house, dog-sitting two ungrateful beasts who like each other more than they like me, damn them, eating takeout every night, friends out of town, rink closed, nothing to do in the sweltering, oppressive Texas heat except classroom prep that at once terrifies and electrifies me. But Conor does feel off. There’s a layer of transparent tarp between us: I can see him through it, but he’s a little distorted. And about seven days in, when we FaceTime, I ask him directly.

“You sound weird.”

“Do I?”

“Like you…” I adjust myself on the pillow. “Like there’s something you’re not saying.”

“There isn’t.”

“Right. Of course. But if there were…?”

“I don’t…” He shakes his head. He’s still wearing his button-down, and his hair sticks up on the left side of his head. It’s a fucking tragedy, how little I’ve been able to touch him lately. On the very day I got permission, his skin was taken away from me. The Hague would convict. “It’s okay, Maya. Tell me about Tiny and—”

“It’s okay, but…?”

A deep sigh. He glances away, laughing, irritated, needled. I love him. He’s stubborn, thinks he always knows best, has no clue how to talk about his emotions, and he’ll probably be a pain to have as a boyfriend.

I cannot wait for our first real fight. I cannot wait for the rest of our lives.

“I just—” He stops. At last, restarts. “I just really need to be, at the very least, in the same fucking country as you.”

I smile. Hug my knees to my chest, trying to keep all the warmth his words generated inside me. “Tell me more,” I say.



* * *





Conor: You cannot do that

Maya: What?

Conor: You know what.

Maya: Do I?

Maya: Wait. Is this about the thing I sent?

Conor: You know it is.

Maya: So, I’m not allowed to send you photos?

Maya: I’m confused.

Conor: You have never been confused a day in your life.

I grin.

Maya: First time for everything.

Maya: I just don’t get what the issue is. Do you think this is a copyright infringement situation? Because maybe it’s not clear, since you can’t see my face, but the picture was a selfie. It’s my intellectual property.

Conor: Maya.

Maya: I own it. Legally. And I am of age.

Maya: Why? Did you not like it?

Maya: Are you saying that I’m ugly?

Conor: Are you trying to give me an aneurism?

Maya: Listen, use it as you will

Maya: If you don’t want to look at it, you can always delete it.

Conor: I’m not going to fucking delete it.

Maya: But what you’re saying is that I should absolutely not send you more, wearing less?

Conor: Fuck.



* * *





Eli and Rue return before Conor, tanned and relaxed and loose-limbed, smiling like they’re high on the most magical cocktail of uppers and downers, not yet ready to start keeping their hands off each other.