Page 77 of Revenge Cake

“No.” My answer is too quick to sound sincere.

“I came to hang out with you, but any time I try to talk to you, you shoot me down.”

I shift in my seat so I can meet her gaze head on. “I’m sick of being told that I need to move on and forget about her.”

“I haven’t told you that once.”

“No, but you’re thinking it.”

She stares at me for a moment, as if in indecision about what to say next. “I’m just worried you’ll be disappointed when your guitar thing doesn’t work.”

I turn away from her. “Keep your worries to yourself.”

When I start to shut my laptop, she asks, “What happened between you guys? Why won’t she talk to you?”

My hands freeze in place. I knew we would come to this eventually. This is Lauren. I tell her everything, but I’m not ready for this talk. I’m not ready to reflect on the misery just yet. I need to wait until Lani and I are back together, when it won’t feel quite as miserable in retrospect.

But something in Lauren’s tone holds me in indecision. She’s a good listener. My favorite kind—she gives me her full attention and she doesn’t bullshit me. She’s a lot like Lani in that way, which is why I can’t bear to hear her honest opinion right now. I can’t bear to be told that I fucked everything up irreparably.

“I won’t tell you to forget about her. I promise. I’m actually hoping you guys get back together. I want someone who will keep Mom in check the next time she tries to humblebrag about your nonexistent modeling career.”

Even in my shit mood, a smile rises to my lips. I want that too. I want Lani around at shitty family dinners at Christmas time. I want her around a decade from now.

I want her forever.

And it’s still not too late to win her back.

Ultimately, it’s hope that drives me into telling Lauren the whole ugly story. She doesn’t flinch at any of it, because even my colossal fuck up is nothing worse than things she did in her wild teenage days, and by the time I’m done I feel better than I have in months.

“It sounds exactly like what you did to Becca Keller junior year,” she says, almost absently.

Her reflection startles me. “What?”

“She went on vacation over the summer you broke up with her, remember?”

“Not really.”

“Well, I remember it perfectly because Mom blamed me for it. She loved Becca and you broke up with her for my friend Jessamyn, remember her?”

“I never dated Jessa!”

“No, you did. Becca went on this whole European cruise thing. She was gone for like a month, and you started hanging out with Jessa and me because you were so lonely, and then you were like, ‘Lauren, I’m so torn. I love Becca, but Jessa just understands me.’ And of course, I was like ‘go for it,’ because you know me—”

“I don’t remember any of this. I feel like you’re making it up.”

“I assure you I’m not.” She waves a dismissive hand. “Becca and Jessa were at least twenty girlfriends ago, and you only dated Jessa for like a minute. I wouldn’t expect you to remember. The only reason I remember it so vividly is because Becca was the girl you broke up with through email—”

“I would never do that!” I shout.

She looks like she’s trying not to smile. “I’ve been telling this story for years. It’s one of my favorites. You dumped poor Becca while she was still on the cruise, and after she got back, her mom called our mom because she was so mad at you for ruining their family vacation—”

“No way! I would never break up with someone through email.”

Lauren only looks a little exasperated when she says, “You did, Logan. You wanted to talk to her every day and she couldn’t because the calls were so expensive on the cruise, so eventually you just said ‘fuck it’ and broke up with her over email.”

The protest I start to form freezes on my tongue. A memory surfaces that makes the hairs on my arms stand up. You wanted to talk to her every day and she couldn’t. I remember that. It’s not a typical memory—not the sight of my hand dialing her number or the sound of the phone ringing over and over again. It’s a feeling. The anxiety of reaching out to someone far away, the mounting dread of being ignored, and the sickening plummet when the fear is confirmed. I hardly remember Becca at all, and yet I know I hated it when I didn’t hear from her. I can barely call up an image of her face to mind, but the long-ago hatred of being ignored by her is so strong, I feel it even now.

As if sensing my distress, Lauren smiles sympathetically. “You had me read the email before you sent it. It was really heartfelt.”

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