Page 40 of Getting Over You

“It wasn’t me,” I tell him.

“It wasn’t Cade,” Gigi says. “His name’s Shane. He’s an artist.”

“The guy from the coffee shop,” EJ realizes, looking at me in confirmation. I nod once.

“I knew you were spying on me,” Gigi says, her brow furrowing before she softens out again, laughing. “You are such a jerk.”

“I can’t help what I overhear,” my brother tells her with a sly smile.

Or if his brother indirectly asked him to do reconnaissance if she was ever at Beach Brew without him. He can’t help that.

I want to make sure she’s safe. That’s all. Guysarejerks—I would know—and I’d hate to see Gigi get herself into a situation she doesn’t want to be in for the sake of proving to herself she’s something that she’s not.

“Your usuals?” EJ asks.

I nod. “Please.”

It’s weird, spending enough time with Gigi to where at Brew and here—which we’ve appropriately named The Pizza Ice Cream Parlor for lack of a real name—we have usuals. We are regulars. Gigi and I make up awe. We laugh every time we sit down to eat here, because Gigi says something stupid, like,What if they didn’t change the name because they really intended on serving pizza-flavored ice cream?

And then I say,That’s ridiculous, princess. Clearly, they’re going for ice cream pizza and haven’t found their groove yet.

She doesn’t correct me about the nickname. And we laugh at our own stupid jokes, and I admire her smile and wish I could see it every day.

And the thought of that doesn’t make my heart race and my palms sweat.

The realization is for nothing, though, because I know myself. I’ll fuck it up in the end, break her heart in half, and then she’ll hate me forever. No matter how calm we feel around each other now, it’ll erupt.

I’m keeping my distance so that doesn’t happen.

I’ve tried to, anyway. We see each other at the diner three or four days a week. She’s been going out with her hookup a lot recently, so that negates the issue of seeing her after work. This is the first time since her third or fourth date with that dude that she’s sat down to debrief.

And I’ll admit, I’m bummed about it.

“Where do I start?” Gigi says as we sit at our usual booth.

“Anywhere,” I tell her, and I mean it. I’ve missed her these past few weeks.

“He painted me,” she says.

I nearly choke on my ice cream. “You hook up once,” I say, “and you get kinky and paint each other? Fucking weirdo.”

“No.” She laughs. “He painted a portrait of me. On a canvas.”

“Oh, wow,” I say. “That’s one way to get a girl’s pants off.” I usually cook dinner and offer a bouquet of flowers. This guy painting portraits is going to make the rest of us look bad.

“And it did,” Gigi says.

“He expected it to,” I tell her. “That’s why he did it.”

“He did it just from the few times he’s seen me on our dates,” she continues. “He didn’t have me stand there and model or anything. And it looked good.”

“And he did it,” I remind her, “to see you without your panties, princess.”

She frowns, her lip jutting into a frustrated pout. Seeing it, a jolt goes right to my groin.

“I thought it was sweet. It was super thoughtful.”

“Did he send you home with it?” I ask. “Like a memento?” Best I ever do is an accidental mark or two.

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