Page 27 of Somewhere in the Sunset

My brows draw together. I’m surprised Weston even remembers our conversation in the diner over a week ago. When I think of that morning, I think only of his touch and nothing before it. “I was hungover that morning,” I say dismissively. “I didn’t know what I was talking about.”

The atmosphere around us changes. The air grows heavier as tension draws close.

We’re both thinking ofthatmorning now, and all of the things we haven’t addressed.

Weston dips his gaze and traces a circle around the lid of his cup. He parts his lips, but I can’t bear to hear what he has to say.

“Don’t,” I cut in, my voice almost a whisper. “Don’t say anything about it. Please.”

His lifts his chin, soft eyes finding mine. “Can I ask one thing?” He waits for me to stop him, to hold my hand up and beg him not to talk about us sleeping together, but my lack of responseisa response. I wait for him to ask: “Do you regret it?”

And it’s not a question I haven’t asked myself already. A whirlwind of emotions has followed in the week since I fled from Weston’s apartment and I’ve tried to decipher exactly what it is that I’ve been feeling since. I know only one thing for certain: it isn’t regret.

“No,” I answer, and I put on a brave front and force myself to look him in the eye. “In the moment it’s exactly what I wanted, but I just .?.?.”

“Feel guilty?” Weston finishes.

“Yes.” I audibly release the breath I’m holding and shake out the tension in my shoulders. “Guilty, like I cheated on Luca.”

“I feel the exact same way.”

There is comfort in this knowledge, even though logically, weknowneither of us cheated. Our relationships are over. We are both single, but of course there are still complex emotions involved. My feelings for Luca will linger forever, I think. And Weston clearly still has love for Charlotte.

“We can’t let that happen again,” I say quietly, and Weston nods in agreement.

“You may not have meant what you said in the diner,” he says, “but I did. That thing about us being friends .?.?. I still think we could be. Weshouldbe.”

He props his elbows on the table and interlocks his hands together, then rests his chin against them. Patiently, he gives me time to consider the idea of us being more than just two strangers with our heartache in common. There’s a flash of hope in his gentle gaze.

“Justfriends,” I agree, and then I surprise myself by adding: “Definitely no benefits, because we aren’t emotionally strong enough for that, clearly.” I couldn’t bear the thought of us discussing the fact we had sex; now I’m poking jokes at it. It’s peculiar, how easily I sink into being comfortable around him. It’s almost reminiscent of how I felt when I was fifteen around Luca at the beginning. Natural. No pressure. Some people you just click with more easily than others.

Weston rolls his eyes and drops his locked hands from his chin. He points to my closed laptop again. “Do you have your own accounts?”

“No.”

He doesn’t even grimace. It’s like he knew what the answer would be. Is it so obvious to everyone around me that I’m codependent? “Step one of being selfish,” he says, reaching across the table for my phone and handing it to me. “Get your own damn Instagram, Gracie.”

“But—”

“But nothing,” he interjects. “Do it. Right now.”

“Youdon’t even have Instagram,” I remind him. He didn’t even know what an influencerwaswhen I first told him, because he claims he doesn’t use social media. In our generation, that is absolutely bizarre to me.

“Then I’ll make one too.” Weston swigs his coffee and pulls out his phone. The sound of steaming milk and the idle musings of other customers serve as background noise. After a few moments, Weston turns his phone screen toward me, and I see the Instagram app is currently downloading. “Happy?”

“I’ll be your first follower,” I tell him with a smile.

“And I’ll be yours.”

I open up Instagram on my own phone and my heart plummets into my stomach when I see all the new notifications on that photo I uploaded of Luca and me. Quickly, I navigate to settings and start a new account, but I need a username. My full name is already taken by some other Gracie Taylor, so I add some underscores and some numbers. It’s not aesthetically pleasing, but it’s mine.

I study Weston over my phone. “Done.”

“There’s a lot of Weston Reeds in the world; every username is taken,” he mutters, and I laugh because there are also a lot of Gracie Taylors. “Okay. Done.”

We show each other our phone screens in unison. Two entirely blank Instagram profiles. Weston has also been forced to add a string of symbols to his username, and I search it and follow him. He follows me back.

“Do you think maybe I could .?.?.” Weston sheepishly holds out his phone again. “Can I get your number too?”

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