Problematic Summer Romance (Not in Love, #2)(57)

I am, I realize, on a bifurcating road. I could pursue him. Keep flirting with him. Tell him that I like him for a million reasons that have nothing to do with his age, or his money, or his looks. Try to get him to accept that he likes me, too. And when I inevitably fail to get through to him, lose him.

Or I could have him. Not to the extent I want him, but…

It’s a no-brainer, my choice.

“Yeah, okay. Yap yap yap.” I force myself to sound bored. “One can’t even pretend to be a femme fatale anymore.”

I feel the confusion over the line. “What?”

“Listen, I was kidding.”

“…About?”

“I was just trying to get back at you for leaving me alone in your room. But…” I swallow. “You were right. Are right. You’re a million years older than me, and it would make things soooo weird with Eli, if I were to develop any kind of long-term crush on you. And, here’s the deal, I really do like sex. Which is the reason why I don’t want a thing with someone who lives on a different continent.”

He is silent. For a long while. Until he says, flatly, “Trouble.”

I laugh. “Yup, that’s me. Here’s the deal, I have no use for you as a boyfriend. I do, however, need a new friend, given that three of my old ones are on thin ice. Can you get over the fact that I’m stupidly beautiful and be that for me?”

“Depends. What kind of friend?”

Just a friend I can talk to, I think. But say, “Can I call you and laugh theatrically at every single thing you say when Georgia and Alfie are in the kitchen making dinner?”

“Maya,” he says, reproachful.

“What?” I reply, defensive.

“I’m disappointed you have yet to do that.”



* * *





Alfie comes to me on a sunny morning, several weeks after we broke up. I’m at the library, finishing up the bibliography for my thesis. He sits next to me, takes a deep breath, scratches the back of his head.

Uh-oh, I think.

“I’m sorry,” he says, wooden. “I was a dickhead. I acted…Harkness was right. I knew what I was doing was wrong. But I was halfway in love with Georgia before even realizing it.”

I fold my arms. Watch him sweat a little. Where my feelings should be—sadness, rejection, anger—I only find tumbleweeds. I’ve moved on from this guy way too quickly. It’s okay, I never really loved you is something that I could say, and it would be the truth, and maybe it would hurt him as much as he hurt me. But I no longer care about him enough to seek any kind of vengeance.

I do have a question, though. “Before you broke up with me, did you and Georgia…?”

After a moment, he nods. I’m not even surprised.

“Did Rose know?”

He nibbles at the inside of his lips, and I know this boy’s tells. I already have my answer. “She saw us once, and…She said she wanted nothing to do with it, and that she was going to pretend to have fulminating amnesia.”

So, yeah. She knew. I wonder if I have forgiveness in me, and…Yes. I do. But it might be wasted on this specific set of people.

On my way home, I call Conor. We’ve been on the phone a lot, mostly when I’m in my apartment, mostly for show. Our calls tend to last a while, but when Rose wanted to know what Conor and I “talk about, all the time?” I couldn’t come up with an answer.

Everything. Nothing. Some things.

“What’s up?” he asks, groggy.

“Were you sleeping?”

“I was, yes. Because it’s five in the morning.”

“Why did you pick up, then?”

“Because you called.”

“Okay, listen. I know you didn’t grow up with any digital literacy, so I’ll hold your hand as I say this. But—”

“I’m hanging up.”

“—there is this magic trick you can do with your phone, which is called silencing your notifications—”

“I gave you an emergency bypass.”

My heart skips so violently, I have to stop. Here, in the middle of a busy sidewalk. “You better take it off, or I’m going to abuse my privileges.”

“How about you just don’t, Trouble?”

“Doesn’t sound like me, though. Anyway, I’ll let you go back to sleep.”

“Nah, it’s five a.m. I might as well go for my run.”

“A sentence you will never hear me utter.” I resume walking. “Do you happen to have a chia protein smoothie before your morning exercise?”

“No.”

“After?”

No response. Yes, then.

“So, do you have a personal trainer?”

“Just a lurid student athlete past.”

“You know how to squat, hmm? That explains it, because you’re really fit—”

“Maya—”

“For your age.” A faint, rumbling grunt. I smile. “Hey, Conor?”

“Yes, Trouble?”

“I think I want to know everything about your exercise routine.”

“Why? So you can make fun of me?”

“Yeah, of course.”

He sighs.

And then he tells me.