Page 27 of The First Love Myth

“He’s the one who forgot that.” I lean forward and take her hand in mine. “Wear the ring or don’t. Sleep with Hot Bookstore Dad or don’t.”

“I don’t even know his last name!”

“My point is,” I continue as if she hadn’t protested, “you don’t owe Julian anything right now. This next six months is about you and what you want.”

She flops back in the armchair and worries at her bottom lip. “What if that’s not Julian?”

I shrug, though I feel anything but nonchalant about that response. “Then it’s not Julian.”

Liz pulls the ring off her finger and places it on the table in front of her. I’m nauseous with anxiety at her action and have equally never been prouder. I resist the urge to pick up the ring and instead find myself awestruck by the gleaming white line on her ring finger. The evidence of her marriage will be there for quite some time. As if Liz notices it, too, she tucks her hand under her leg.

When she looks back at me, her eyes are dry and steady. Maybe after leaving and signing a lease and changing her address, taking the ring off is a formality. But no, her lip quivers, and her free hand clutches her wineglass like it’s holding her together.

“I can see how Evie managed to stick around so long,” she says, effectively changing the topic.

I’m about to protest, but her expression as she stares at her ring stops the words in my throat. “It’s only been a year.”

“Seemed pretty serious tonight.” She grins. “I mean, you gave her a key.”

I narrow my eyes. “Were you eavesdropping?”

She laughs. “Of course.”

“You know I don’t do serious,” I say in an attempt to wave away the heart emojis that have replaced my sister’s eyes. “But I do care for her.”

She rolls her eyes. “I think that’s the wrong four-letter word.”

Love. The word always makes me think of Liz and Julian. In a way, their imperfect and resilient relationship became my definition. They are one of the few couples I’ve gotten to watch grow over the years, from teenagers to post-grads to married adults. All the while, I flitted from one partner to the next, neverfinding a person who made me want to use the L word or let my guard down. Until Evie.

“I have told Evie that I love her.”

I remember that night. I think about it often. What made me tell her when I withheld from so many before. It was shortly after I rejected her request to move in together. I thought I was days away from getting dumped. Hours, if I was being honest. Evie was in a foul mood, unusual for her. Midway through our argument, she stopped and asked me point blank if I loved her. Because even though it was eight months into our relationship, I had yet to tell her, despite the fact that she’d told me months ago. Her vulnerability in that moment caught me off guard. "Yes,” I told her. “I love you more than I ever thought I could. More than I have loved anyone in a very long time.” And that was that. Evie sat down, picked up her wineglass, and returned to our regularly scheduled program. Because she knew how much she’d won in that moment.

“She also understands that I don’t need to flaunt that particular emotion constantly,” I say to my sister’s incredulous expression. “But these last three months, when she pushes I don’t necessarily want to pull away.”

“Good,” Liz says with a giant, cheesy smile. “You deserve happiness.”

I scoff at the notion. “Love does not define my happiness.”

“Semantics.” She rolls her eyes. “You deserve to love and be loved, Cee. I’m not sure why you think otherwise.”

“I don’t think that.”

It’s technically the truth. It has nothing to do with deserving love or not. My father wrecked my mother after decades together. I saw the fallout, and I’m not willing to risk that level of heartbreak. I honestly don’t know if I can survive it. But this isn’t something Liz has ever understood.

“What happened with Mom and Dad,” Liz says as if she can read my thoughts, “shouldn’t define your future. Hiding from love will not keep you from getting hurt.”

Okay, maybe she understands more than I think. But Liz is the hopeless romantic, and I am who I am—not hopeless or romantic.

Liz’s cell phone springs to life. She glances at the screen, surprise coloring her expression. When I see Zoey’s name on the screen, I understand why. It’s Saturday night, and Zoey is a college student with an active social life, but she is also a girl with a debilitating attraction to her ex-boyfriend.

“Zoey?” Liz asks, picking up the phone.

She doesn’t walk out of the room, but she also doesn’t put it on speaker. I watch her, her expression turning to annoyed concern. After a moment, she steps farther away, though I can still hear her half of the conversation. An inkling of disquiet gnaws at me. There’s always been a wall between me and anything having to do with Zoey, but I don’t like the worry lines on Liz’s face.

Liz’s voice cuts through the quiet, shrill and nervous. Her eyes meet mine over the back of the couch. “Zoey, what’s happening?”

Chapter 23

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