“We’re always in the kids’ room,” I say.
That’s what Sabrina’s family calls it, because it has two twin beds, rather than one king, like each of the other two bedrooms.
“Cleo and Kimmy offered to take it this time,” Sabrina says. “You two only get to see each other like once a month—we’re not going to make you spend your visit in separate beds.”
As long as Wyn and I have been together, we’ve pushed the twins together.
“We don’t mind,” I say.
Sabrina rolls her eyes. “You never mind. You’re the queen of not minding. But in this case, we do. It’s a done deal. Clee and Kim already unpacked.”
“But—”
Wyn cuts me off: “Thanks, Sabrina. That was thoughtful of you all.”
Before I can feebly protest, he herds me into the largest bedroom, like he’s a cattle dog and I’m a particularly difficult sheep.
The second the door snicks shut, I whirl on him, prepared to attack, only to be hit with the full force of his closeness, the strange intensity of being behind a closed door together.
I can feel my heart beating in the back of my throat. We’re close enough that I can see his pupils dilating. His body has decided I’m a threat he needs to analyze as quickly as possible. The feeling is mutual.
It was easy to be angry when we were downstairs, surrounded by our friends. Now I feel like I’m standing naked on a spotlighted platform for his inspection.
He finds his voice first, a low rasp. “I know this isn’t ideal.”
The ludicrousness of the statement jump-starts my brain. “Yes, Wyn. Spending a week locked in a bedroom with my ex-boyfriend is not ideal.”
“Ex-fiancé,” he says.
I stare at him.
He looks away, scratching his forehead. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t know what to do.” His eyes come back to mine, too soft now, too familiar. “She called me with a speech. About how this was the end of an era. About how she’d never asked me for anything and she never would again. I tried calling you. It only rang once, but I left a voicemail.”
There was a very good reason I hadn’t gotten the message.
“I blocked your number,” I say. I got tired of lying awake late into the night with my thumb hovering over his contact number, practically aching from wishing he’d call, tell me the whole thing had been a mistake. I needed to take the possibility away, to free myself from waiting for it.
His eyes go stormy. His lips part. He looks toward the balcony, grooves rising between his eyebrows. He just has one of those vaguely tortured faces, I remind myself.
He can’t help it, and he certainly doesn’t need my comfort.
He’s the one who derailed our life together in a four-minute phone call.
His jaw muscles leap as his pale-fog eyes retrain on me. “What should I have done, Harriet?”
Found an excuse.
Simply told her no.
Not have broken my heart like it was a last-minute dinner plan.
Not have made me love you in the first place.
I shake my head.
He steps closer until he’s a question mark, hanging over me. “I’m really asking.”
On a sigh, I drop my eyes and massage my temples. “I don’t know. But now there’s nothing we can do. You can’t break up at a wedding. Especially when the guest list is four people.”
“Maybe we give them tonight,” he says. “Celebrate everything, tell them tomorrow.”
I look up at the ceiling, buying some time. Maybe in the next four seconds the world will end, and I’ll be spared making this decision.
“Harriet,” he presses.
“Fine,” I bite out. “I’m sure we can stomach each other for one more night.”
His gaze narrows, limiting the intake of light to his eyes and sharpening their focus to better suss out my expression. “Are you sure?”
No.
“I’m fine,” I say. “It’s fine.” I slump against the edge of the bed.
After a beat, he shakes himself. “I’m glad we’re on the same page.”
“Sure.”
He nods. “Fine.”
“Fine.” I push off the bed.
He retreats a step, keeping the space between us. “We can tell them things have been rocky for a while, and seeing how happy they were made us realize we’ve grown apart.”
My chest stings. It’s not the exact phrasing, but it’s close enough to what he said to me, months ago: We were kids when we got together, and things are different now, and it’s time we accepted that.
“You honestly think they won’t suspect anything?”
“Harriet.” His eyes flash. “They didn’t even know we’d been hooking up for a whole year.”
I step backward, only to collide with the bed so hard I rebound right into him.
We snap apart like each of us is convinced the other is made of wasps, but the faintly spicy scent of him has already hit my bloodstream.
“This might be harder than that,” I say stiffly.
Wyn’s hand rakes back through his hair, his T-shirt riding up to expose a sliver of his waist so sensually you’d think there was an art director in the corner barking orders.
I force my eyes back to his face.
“We can handle one night.”
He’s trying to make one night sound like a mere accumulation of minutes. I know better. When we’re together, time never moves at a normal pace.
I rub my eyes with the heels of my hands. “We should’ve told everyone months ago.”
“But we didn’t,” he says.
At first, it wasn’t intentional. I was just too stunned, hurt, and—yes—in denial. Then, a few days after the breakup, a box of my stuff had arrived on my doorstep. No note, so abrupt I half wondered whether he’d dumped me while en route to the nearest UPS.
Then I was angry. So I mailed his stuff back to him on the same day. Even tossed my engagement ring in loose when I realized I couldn’t find the blue velvet box it came in.
Three days after that, a second package, a small lump of brown paper, arrived. He’d sent the ring back. I knew him well enough to know he was trying to do the right thing, which only made me angrier, so I’d immediately mailed it back to him. When he got it, he texted me for the first time in two weeks: You should keep the ring. It belongs to you.
I don’t want it, I replied. More like, I couldn’t bear it.
You could sell it, he said.
So could you, I said.
Five minutes passed before he messaged again. He asked if I’d told Cleo and Sabrina. The thought nauseated me. Telling them was going to destroy our friend group, ten years of history down the drain.
Waiting until I can catch them both at the same time, I said. It was only halfway a lie.
I’d told a couple of coworkers at the hospital but barely texted with Cleo and Sabrina. We were all so busy.
Sabrina and Parth worked late for their respective law firms most nights, and because running a farm meant lots of four a.m. wake-up calls, Cleo and Kimmy went to bed early.
Out in Montana, Wyn has the Connor family furniture repair business to run, and his mom to help out.
And then there’s me, in my own time zone out in San Francisco, two years deep into my training at UCSF. Most days I’m operating at a level of tired that goes beyond yawns and eyelid twitches to reach straight to my core. My organs are tired. My bones are exhausted.