Problematic Summer Romance (Not in Love, #2)(7)

And for the last three years of my life, I’ve been in love with him.

I’ve always been stubborn, but this is twisted. Sclerotic. Toxic. My brain tripped on him when I was twenty, and here I am. Still. Despite all that has happened since.

All those teachers telling my brother how smart I was, and here I am. So fucking dumb.

“How’s school?” he asks. He has a knack for this—asking innocent questions that’ll put me in my place. Which, in his head, is at the kiddy pool. Far away from the adults. From him.

“Great.” I smile, pointedly ignoring the familiar way Avery’s hand rests on the back of his upper arm. You knew that this would happen, I remind myself. And physical contact is a totally normal thing between people who enjoy each other’s company.

I can’t remember the last time I touched him.

“Avery,” I ask my new friend, “did you see how close Isola Bella is?”

“Yes! I’m really excited about exploring.” She frowns. “Scared, too. I’m not the strongest swimmer.”

“We can go together,” I offer.

“That would be amazing.”

“I was thinking later, maybe after a nap—”

“Jesus, Maya,” Eli chuckles. “We’re here for a week and have nothing planned for most of it. Take today to just sleep off the jet lag. Come on, I’ll show you to your room.” He accepts a suitcase from the driver and heads toward the portico, stepping between two fluted white columns with Tiny in tow.

I would love nothing more than to follow him, but.

“Eli, that’s actually my suitcase,” Avery calls, hurrying after him.

“Shit—okay, why don’t I show you to your room, Avery? Hark, can you take Maya’s? Any of the open rooms is fine.”

Conor doesn’t reply. He does, however, hand the driver a few bills, exchange a few words I don’t understand with him, and grab my bag.

Fine. Fine.

“You speak Italian?” I ask him, chipper. I do not sound like I want to gouge my spleen out and let the exsanguination take me, and I am proud of that.

“Yup.”

“Is that because…Wait, was that nanny you told me about Italian? The one who would hang a ham in the shower?”

“Lisa would have been greatly angered by your insinuation that she’d stoop to eating anything other than prosciutto.”

We step into the marble foyer, and silence falls between us.

“Are ham and prosciutto different?” I ask airily, because I cannot bear the quiet. Come on, Conor, I think. Help me out, here. Let’s set the tone. Cordial strangers for the rest of the week. “Who can even tell them apart—”

“Prosciutto is a type of ham,” he says. Not blunt, but terse.

“Ah.” At least we’re inside. And if there is one thing I can certainly do with a fancy three-story nineteenth-century building, it’s point out the stunning architectural details to make up for the lack of conversation.

“Look at that fresco.

“Can’t believe how elaborate the ceiling is.

“I wonder if that chandelier works?”

It’s annoying, and maybe mortifying, too, how Conor replies only to direct questions. He lets my chatter fill the silence and leads me up the stairs. I follow. Watch his athletic, former-rower shoulders as he effortlessly carries my bag. His thick, dark brown hair, now even more streaked with silver than the last time I saw him. The frown that deepens in his brow, pushing me to blabber just a little harder.

“I die for French doors.

“Would anyone notice if I stole that carpet?

“Is that a library?”

I’m sure there is staff somewhere on the premises, but we cross paths with no one. Eli must have picked a room on the second floor for Avery, perhaps adjacent to Conor’s. It would certainly explain why Conor took me all the way to the third. The lengths he goes to, just to avoid me, have always been impressive.

“This one okay?” he asks, interrupting my monologue on the hallway’s mosaic floor to point at a door. A silver, ornate skeleton key rests inside the lock. When I nod, he carries my bag inside.

“Thank you so much. Eli was right, I am exhausted. Better take a nap, before I collapse.” It’s a clear invitation to leave. But Conor closes the door behind him, dark eyes suddenly hard.

I die a little.

I die a lot, because he asks: “Are you high?”

“I…” I blink, unsure whether I’m processing the question correctly. “Excuse me?”

“Are you on drugs? Stimulants? Is this a thing you do for international flights?”

“I…Sorry, what?”

“I’m not going to narc on you. But if there is a problem—”

“No. Why the hell do you think I’m on drugs?”

He steps into me, forcing me to tilt back my neck. He’s always been too tall for comfort—physically and spiritually. “You’re manic. Your pupils are dilated. You’ve been hyper and fidgety since you stepped out of the car, word-vomiting—”

“This is just how I am.”

He laughs. The dark sound fills the room. “Maya.”

There is so much behind that word. Maya, come on. Maya, I know how you are. I know you, Maya.