Problematic Summer Romance (Not in Love, #2)(8)

And yes. He does. He does know me. Which is why he should know better than to think I’d do drugs at my brother’s wedding. “I’m not high. And you could stand to be a little more grateful.”

He frowns. “Grateful to whom?”

“To me. For trying to be easy.”

“Easy?” An amused huff. “You haven’t been easy a second in your life.”

“But I can be.”

“Maya.” That same tone. He shakes his head and looks down at me, like it never even occurred to him that I would want to pretend that things between us are not fraught and uncomfortable and sticky. “Get some sleep. And stop acting like a red dye–guzzling child. That’s not easy.” He turns to leave, not even annoyed enough to be angry. As dismissive of me as he’s always been.

And that’s when I decide that if he’s going to play this game, I’m going to give him difficult. “It was Avery, wasn’t it?”

He freezes, facing away from me. “What?”

“She was the reason you stopped talking to me.”





Chapter 4




Conor turns around very, very slowly.

Slowly enough for me to gather my face into something neutral—not too cross, not too hurt.

He’s remembering it, too, our last conversation. His words over the phone—precise, formal, definitive. The long silence before I managed a response. My slightly disbelieving laughter. “I am starting to see someone, Maya. And I worry that she might misconstrue the relationship between you and me.”

I hung up on him. And regretted it when he didn’t call back—not that night, nor any night of the past ten months. Clearly, those anger issues of mine are alive and thriving.

It took a single, offhanded question to Eli to figure out that the someone was Avery, but that was the extent of my discoveries when it came to the relationship. Conor was never going to update social media accounts he didn’t have with pictures of his romantic coastal weekends, and more prying would have only made Eli suspicious.

I did try to contact Conor again. We were, after all, good friends. Despite his fear of misconstruction, our relationship had been explicitly not romantic. But Conor saw right through that. Instead of picking up my calls, he would reply with texts that made something very clear: he was there for me, but he’d rather wire me a million dollars than have a five-minute conversation with me.

And today, after nearly a year of silence, he finds my eyes and says carefully: “Avery and I have not been together in months.”

“I know.” I smile through the acrid taste in my mouth. “Interesting story: Minami and Sul came over a couple of weeks ago. They started talking about you two. How it was a shame that it didn’t work out. How they thought it was just a timing issue. They’re sure that this trip will reunite you.”

Conor closes his eyes, nostrils flaring in anger. His temper, after all, is almost as quick as mine. “They all need to mind their goddamn business.”

I force myself to shrug. “I get where they’re coming from. Avery’s really nice. Age appropriate, too.”

“Maya.”

“How old is she, by the way?” It’s my turn to fold my arms. Shift into his space. This is a dangerous line of conversation. On my quest to make him hurt as much as I’m hurting, I may have misplaced my self-preservation. “I’m only asking because we both know that you consider a nonexistent age gap the core requirement of a successful relationship.”

“Maya.”

“What?” I tilt my head. “We’re friends. I think it’s only normal for me to be curious. I’d love to know what my friend likes about this girl who—”

“That’s precisely it—she’s not a girl.” Conor’s jaw shifts. When he continues, I can feel the frequency of his anger in his tone. “None of this is relevant. Avery and I are colleagues, and friends. The reason I’m here is to celebrate Eli’s wedding. I have no more interest in resuming my relationship with her, than I have with you.”

It’s a punch in the stomach. I order every muscle on my face to play statue, but that last word hits me so forcefully, I stagger backward a little.

Conor notices. He turns away, the tendons in his neck in sudden relief. “For fuck’s sake, Maya.” He runs a hand down his face. For a heartbeat, he looks as torn apart as I feel. “We last spoke almost a year ago. You were abroad for months. You are…You have everything going on for you.”

“What does this have to do with anything?” I hate how small my voice sounds.

“I expected you to have moved on.”

“Moved on from what?”

“From caring about—”

“About you, Conor?” I shake my head, laughing. Genuinely amused. “Out of curiosity, do you think that my brain is not yet able to form long-term memories? Or just that I don’t have the capacity for sustained emotions—”

“Enough,” he interrupts, sharply. Locks eyes with mine and says, “I’m going to walk out of this room with the assumption that you are high.”

“I’m not—”

“And”—he cuts me off—“by the next time we cross paths, I expect you to have come down from whatever this is and to stop acting like the childish brat you so love to remind me you aren’t.”