Page 21 of The First Love Myth

“Liz said something to me the other day, that I should be over our parents’ divorce because it’s been almost two decades and that the divorce was mostly civil, considering.”

Evie sips her wine, and I can see her mind running through everything that falls under “considering.” I’m not going to get the girlfriend answer, not tonight. Not when she’s staring at me as if I’m the best project that’s ever fallen at her feet. “That seems like a valid assumption.”

I think of all the weekends my mother came to see me that year after the divorce, after the Zoey bomb. I was a junior in college, living the quintessential college life despite being a professor’s daughter. I lived off campus in an apartment with my two best friends. My father was on sabbatical that semester, which seemed weird timing. I wondered—still wonder—if he knew. Had he heard whispers of his former TA being pregnant and then signing up for the Peace Corps? Had he worried endlessly at night that his world could come crashing down? Does it matter? Whether he knew or not, I can’t get past the endless tears my mother cried on those weekends she visited. The only place she could grieve without Liz as a witness. Liz, who hadn’t complained about spending weekends with our father or babysitting her new sister, was falling in love with Zoey and Julian at the same time. She had fallen seamlessly into her new life.

“My parents’ divorce might have been civil, but it wasn’t as easy as Liz remembers. Our mom went to such great lengths to make sure Liz didn’t see her upset. And my sister, god love her, believed my mom and loved my father and Zoey, as if it didn’t hurt my mom every time one of their names came out of Liz’s mouth.”

Evie narrows her eyes and puts her wineglass down on the table. “Liz was... seventeen? I highly doubt she was that oblivious to your mother’s feelings.”

I open my mouth to protest, but Evie silences me with a look.

“Did you ever think that, maybe, as hard as that time was for all of you, Liz was making the best of it to survive? Just likeyour mom was hiding from Liz, maybe Liz was hiding from your mom.”

The weight of that possibility hits me like a bar across the chest. Julian makes too much sense in that light. Liz couldn’t be sad when our mother was devastated. She couldn’t be angry since I had that covered. Liz had to be brave, and Julian held her up through it all.Ugh.This is why I don’t tell Evie things. It’s impossible to be righteously angry when your anger might be misplaced.

“I’d prefer the girlfriend answer. Please.”

Evie rolls her eyes. “That bitch.”

I laugh so hard tears sneak out. Evie almost never curses, a holdover from working with young kids all day. I kiss her lightly. “Thank you.”

With that conversation effectively dead, we turn to other topics. Evie tells me about her day wandering around Princeton and meeting up with some old friends. I add in stories about the latest requests from a young client who wants a fixer-upper. Spoiler alert—they will not fix it up. Twilight falls, and we’re still on the couch talking and laughing and touching. It’s a perfect night, on top of a series of perfect nights. Two weeks of perfect nights. Not that I’m counting.

“So...” Evie starts after depositing our plates in the dishwasher.

I do not like the sound of that. “Yes?”

“I got you something.” She perches on the edge of the couch. “But don’t make it a thing, okay?”

I cross my racing heart. We’re not gift givers, and I have an uncomfortable feeling about Evie’s hesitation. She stares at me for a moment longer, gauging my mood, before finally pressing something small, pointy, and cold into my hand.

“I want you to have this for when we’re back home.” She says it assuredly, clearly, unrushed. She’s been thinking about this for a while.

A key.Wow.It sits on my palm almost accusingly. Set. Point. Match. I close my fingers around it. It’s not the first time Evie offered me a key, but itisthe first time I think I might want to keep it. What is it about this woman? I literally can’t quit her. I’ve tried, and somehow here we are. I don’t allow myself to get into situations like this. It’s rule number one. But I have no intention of returning to my own cold bed when we get home unless Evie wills me away. And I know she won’t. Not when she’s handed me a key to her apartment.

This is a gross overreaction to Liz’s marital woes. I’m aware of that. But the news shook me. That and the fact that Liz ran to herotherfamily. To Zoey. How many days was she in Ardena before she called me? Those were probably the hardest moments of my sister’s life, and she didn’t let me in until I flew across the country and demanded answers.

I tear my gaze away from the key clasped in my hand. Evie’s eyes are full of love and hope. My stomach flutters.

“Thank you,” I say, taking her hand.

Maybe this is the answer. Maybe letting Evie in is as simple and complicated as it has to be. Because sitting on this couch, Evie’s hand in mine, I can almost pretend I don’t care about anything else.

Chapter 18

Liz

The seating situation at work is slightly better today. Instead of being shoved into a storage closet, I’m in an actual office with a window, a chair that can be ergonomically adjusted, and a standing desk. The space still reeks of old man cologne, as if the stench has latched onto all the things left behind by the former occupant. As an added bonus I can also smell whatever hellish food someone is microwaving across the hall. The kitchen in this suite is mecca. Coffee gurgles all day, milk aerates, the microwave beeps, and people whisper. Closed doors aren’t exactly a thing here. Sure, if you are on a call, but there’s an unofficial—and literal—open-door policy. Still, it’s better than the closet. And after I bought an infuser and attacked every surface with Lysol wipes, it’s doable for now. The admin promises to have the boxes, papers, and other things out in another week. I’m not holding my breath.

People slouch past my office in a steady stream and are always straighter on the return. The magic of coffee. I watch the parade for a few moments, flipping through spam emails. There are so many every day. Half, I don’t remember signing up for, and one, I know I’ve unsubscribed from several times since they email me three times a day. And yet, here is my second email of the day, right above a message from my mother. She probably sent another self-help article. My mom went from never texting during the work day to sending several articles a day by emailalong with a constant stream of texts. I’m positive if I look now there will be a message on my phone. Something like:Checking in. Still want to see your new place. Pictures only do so much. Stop buying secondhand furniture! I know a guy.If it wasn’t absurd, it would be funny.

I scroll to the offending marketing email, ignoring my mom’s latest intrusion, and click the unsubscribe button a little too forcibly. It feels good. I jam my fingers onto the keys to type in my reasoning.

“I hope I’m not on the other end of that email!”

Great, it’s Angie from HR, a frequent kitchen whisperer. She couches her extended coffee breaks as part of the employee wellness initiative because "breaks and human interaction improve workplace morale.”

“No, no,” I say, sitting back in my chair. “Taking my frustrations out on a marketing email.”

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