Page 20 of Getting Over You

She glances at my fingers curved around her. I drop my hand, still battling with the unfamiliar feelings waging in my core. “What else you got?” she asks, a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth.

“This is the only thing I’ve found,” I say. “So, unfortunately, this is the end of our tour. You hungry?”

Her eyes glitter with joy. “Starving,” she says.

When EJ isn’t working a shift at the coffee shop across from Gigi’s mom’s diner, he told me he picks up early afternoon shifts at a pizza and ice cream parlor combo near the building I want for my shop.

When I mention the place to Gigi, she says she’s never heard of it—some local she is. When I pull into the lot and cut the engine, she sighs longingly.

“No way I’ve been here,” she says. “As if Belinda would have ever allowed pizza or ice cream. Heavens, no! Whatever would I do if the dairy made me,” she gasps dramatically, “fat?”

“Very funny,” I deadpan.

“My mom uses ice cream as a cure-all,” she says. “And she’s typically spot-on. Shows you how she and Belinda differ, really.”

“Wait.” I stop once we reach the front doors. “You lost me. Belinda is your mom.”

“She’s mymother,” Gigi tells me pointedly. “I have a mom—back in Connecticut, my sister’s mom—and then Belinda. My mother, giver of life. Whatever she is. Two completely separate roles.”

“You have a sister?” I ask.

“That’s what you got from what I told you?” Gigi places a hand on that hip again. I want my hand wrapped around that curve. “Yes, I have a sister. She’s eighteen. And I don’t know for certain, but if I asked, I bet she’d say tattoos aren’t her favorite, either.”

I chuckle. “I think you covered all my questions.”

“I figured,” she says. “Now, are you going to be a gentleman and buy me lunch?”

God. This girl.

“I’m not a gentleman,” I tell her sternly, pulling the door open for her to slide under my arm and into the building.

The overhead lights are so bright, reflecting off of the glass display cases full of pre-made pizzas sitting under heat lamps. Not far from those, there’s another counter showcasing large tubs of ice cream.

We find a table near the back of the room, a plastic numberfouracts as a barrier between us at this cheap plastic table with red pleather chairs that are as brightly colored as the paint on the walls. Gigi’s sipping on a Coke, and that makes me happier than it should.

When we walked into the diner to give Gigi’s mother her coffee, the woman was frantic. She immediately took the coffee from Gigi, sipped it, and then started going on about how she prefers iced, as most people should. Then, she asked Gigi what coffee she had, took it upon herself to take Gigi’s coffee from her, and recommended that she choose black coffee, as it’s calorie-free.

“Thatisblack coffee,” Gigi told her.

Belinda smiled warmly, her bright pink lipstick spreading about her face. She placed a kiss on Gigi’s head, whispering something, and then handed her coffee back. Almost like a reward for answering correctly, even if Belinda was going to inspect the coffee, regardless.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asks, pulling me from my thoughts. “Never mind. I know that look. You’re thinking about Belinda.”

I sigh. “Sorry.” I swirl the ice in my cup. “But—”

“It’s easier not to piss her off, Cade,” she tells me. “I know that’s crazy. But it’s the truth.”

“I was going,” I say through a breath, “to ask why you bother to see Belinda if she’s so… You know. Hard to be around.”

“Seeing her this time was out of necessity.” Gigi takes a sip from her drink. “I needed to get out of town. I’m running from something. Just like you are.” When I don’t question her, she continues. “Like, at Beach Brew earlier. You told the barista you were flirting with that you were running from something. I’m running, too.”

“I was not,” I say coolly, “flirting with her.”

“You were.” Gigi nods, sure of herself, as she fiddles with her straw wrapper, twisting and untwisting it around her fingers. “What are you running from, Cade?”

My chest tightens, my lungs shrinking with it. “What areyourunning from, Gigi?”

“I see,” she says, not meeting my eyes. “You’re putting the question back on me because you’re uncomfortable and don’t like talking about your dark parts.”

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