Problematic Summer Romance (Not in Love, #2)(79)

“Should I have talked about your PhD?”

“I never got one.”

“Don’t be modest, Conor. You have a pretty huge dick.”

A thoughtful stare. “You really are,” he muses, “a constant menace.”

“I try.”

“Are you drunk?”

“Nah. Wine’s too grapey. You?”

He shakes his head.

“What’s your excuse? You’re not one of us, the unwashed masses. You like wine. You have a refined palate. You pair shit, and…” I straighten, in utter disbelief that I missed this. “You’re not drinking.”

He glances around, as if to highlight the absence of a glass. “How observant of you.”

“No, not just right now. You no longer drink. I haven’t seen you take a sip of alcohol since you got here.”

His stare seems to ask: Do you want an award for noticing?

And yes, I do. Also wanted: answers. “But you weren’t…?”

“An alcoholic? No. I don’t think I was. But it got to be a bit much.”

“When?”

“A few months ago.”

My throat seizes. “About ten or so?”

A pause. He nods, silent, and I have to clench my fist. All I want in the world is permission to reach out and kiss him. I nearly do so, but he adds, “I figured it might be better to take a break. I never liked myself much when I drank, anyway. The things I said…They could be quite cruel.”

I can relate. There have been approximately ten thousand times in the last few years when I haven’t liked myself. Nine thousand and nine hundred of them, I was angry and said something unfair to someone who didn’t deserve it. “Do you miss it?”

“Hating myself, or drinking?”

“Either, I suppose.”

“I miss the alcohol…sometimes. Often, even. Not this week, though.”

“Why not?”

The look he gives me practically begs me to keep up. Come on, Maya. You know why. Use that top-recruit brain of yours.

“To make up for it, I still give myself plenty of opportunities for self-loathing.”

“Glad that’s taken care of. If you need any help…”

“Don’t worry, Maya. You remain the reigning queen of my regrets.”

A dull ache spreads through my bones. But he’s smiling, like he wants to turn this into banter, into our usual back-and-forth, and…

“Let’s dance,” I say. The music is faint, the balcony poorly lit, and I don’t think I’ve ever danced to slow music in my entire life. Still, I pull him closer.

“Maya, it’s not a good—”

But we’re already doing it. My arms are wrapped around his waist, and we’re swaying, and after a moment he’s holding me, too. Even tighter than I do him.

“Hi,” I say into his shirt.

“Hi, Trouble.” His lips find the top of my head. Linger. We’re barely moving—this is not dancing, this is a hug. But I can pretend, if that’s what he needs.

I bury my face in his chest, and say, “Thank you for today. With Eli.”

“You’re welcome.” His hand caresses my hair. “You’d have both calmed down on your own, eventually.”

“True. But it was nice, not wasting half a day resenting him. My therapist would be proud of you.”

“Mine would be proud of me, too.”

I laugh. Clutch the cotton of his shirt. “Conor?”

“Yeah?”

“I really—”

“Hey, Hark, the cars are—” Avery cuts off as she rounds the corner of the balcony. Her expression shifts from amused, to confused, to hurt.

Betrayed.

I put some space between Conor and me, but it’s too late.

She clears her throat. “The cars will be leaving soon,” she says. Then spins on her heel and leaves.



* * *





We return to the villa.

The sky is starless, pitch black except for Mount Etna, which spits out little bursts of fire, then large waves of smoke. Everyone makes Mordor jokes. Paul brings up the apocalypse. Axel asks what Mordor is. Avery laughs a little too loudly.

There’s a prehistoric flavor to this. Beautiful, yes, but also a reminder of the insignificance of our little lives. Job interviews and marriage certificates and normal range of iron levels and tax extensions and a fifteen-year age gap and even the Friedman doctrine…do they matter, when the earth is sputtering fire like a giant dragon?

I steal a glance at Conor, but he’s not looking at me. Surely, we’re not just going back to our respective rooms. The world is ending. Sauron might take over Middle-earth. But Minami pulls him aside. They talk by the pool, clearly worried for Eli and Rue and the wedding, and I don’t have a good excuse to loiter. I climb the stairs up to my room, and nearly have a coronary when I find my brother in the upholstered chair by my desk.

“Why am I having flashbacks to that time I snuck out past curfew and came back to you sitting on my bed?”

He chuckles. After our fight, I feel more relaxed around him than I have in a long while. “And you kept insisting that you’d just gone for a run.”

“I had.”

“You reeked of weed and wore a denim miniskirt.”