Page 45 of The First Love Myth

I giggle and ignore the fact that something less than kosherhadbeen going on while I was with Andrew. Wewererepulsively in love, particularly in high school. Claire shared the same feelings as Haley on the matter more than once. An ache flares deep inside me. I don’t want my relationship back, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt or that I don’t miss it. Because I do miss a lot about my life, myself, before I walked into that dorm room. But grief is a process, and my therapist advised me to allow myself to feel whatever I feel, accept it, and carry on. There’s no guilt in missing someone you loved. There’s also no guilt in moving on.

“But seriously, if you like him...” She trails off as Liz and Spencer return, carrying not one but two funnel cakes and a basket of fried Oreos.

My sister hands me the fried Oreos with a knowing look. Liz does not share funnel cake; Spencer’s lucky he got a bite in. I pick up an Oreo and reach for the other funnel cake, but it hasmagically moved from the towel to Haley’s lap. She doesn’t like to share, either.

“See!” Liz points at her plate and the pile of powdered sugar coating their towel. “I told you we would have to share if we only came back with one.”

Spencer laughs and pulls Liz into his lap. His hands linger at the bare skin of Liz’s waist. She smiles and wraps her arms around him, wiping powdered sugar off his face. I look away, a different ache building in my chest. This isn’t the sister I’ve always known—reserved because a little kid was around, and then comfortable in a long-term relationship, and then married. Yes, Julian would come into a room and have only eyes for his wife. Or Liz would plant a kiss on him when she passed between rooms, but this is unlike anything I’ve ever seen from Liz. It’s like she’s coming alive right in front of me. It’s exhilarating to watch but also such a deviation from what I know. It gives me hope for the future but crushes the idea that first love can conquer all.

Haley bumps me with her shoulder, and the smell of sugar overpowers the saltiness of the ocean air for a moment. She grins and leans in close. “Totally did it.”

I stifle a laugh by shoveling fried dough into my mouth.

“So,” Liz says, eyeing me suspiciously, “what do you two have planned for the next few days?”

“Work,” I say, grateful that she’s back on the blanket. “Hanging out with Becca, maybe Grounds for Sculpture one night.”

“Make sure you make a reservation at Rat’s if you go to Grounds for Sculpture,” Spencer says. “Best food around and beautiful at night.”

Haley nods along to all of this, absently playing with her food. She glances at me, a small smile forming on her lips. “And then on my last night,” she says, and I cringe because my Big hasno filter, “we’re burning everything Zoey still has from Andrew in effigy.” The statement is met by silence. “It’s cleansing. Dr. Goodwin agrees.”

Liz’s face registers surprise at the name of my therapist out of my roommate’s mouth. But Haley knows pretty much everything about me. We’re not friends but sisters. Big and Little. We’re bonded in a way that it would be weird if she didn’t know the name of my therapist.

“Okay.” Liz shrugs. “Don’t leave any burn marks that would negate my safety deposit.”

“We’re doing it at Dad’s. Outside.”

“And don’t worry,” Haley says around a bite of funnel cake, “we’ve done this before.”

Chapter 37

Zoey

The days pass quickly. Between working and entertaining, there’s time for little else. Knowing my friend, this was Haley’s intention all along. She dutifully sits through my workday, sometimes exploring Ardena or spending a few alone hours at the townhouse but mostly pestering Max with questions. Max, for his part, acts completely normal. He grins at us, sunburned and exhausted, on Monday morning, and it’s like the party never happened. Except it did, and I feel the subtle distance between us that wasn’t there before. Maybe I’m imagining it. Maybe I put it there. I don’t know.

Now as the week comes to a close and Haley’s due to leave for home in an hour, the three of us sit on the bleachers, watching the campers enjoy the midsummer BBQ. It’s a camp tradition celebrating the end of the first session. Many of the older campers will be back on Monday for the second session, but for the younger ones, this is the last day of camp. And even though we’re an intensive sports camp, the last day still means fun. There’s an inflatable obstacle course on the football field, a DJ, a few food trucks with specialty desserts, and way too much barbecue.

“Now,” Max says, spearing a piece of watermelon off my plate, “will you please explain to me why you two smell like a smokehouse?”

My cheeks burn. The last thing I want to do is tell Max I spent last night standing over a small fire, burning photographs, letters, and emails that I had meticulously printed and scrapbooked the first year of my relationship. After that, Andrew and I were so inseparable that the need for romantic missives decreased, but from the sheer number of photos I have—had—from our time together, you would never know we had extracurricular activities or friends. We really were repulsive.

Watching my memories burn last night, I was stoic. That girl with the wide smile and the gleam in her eye didn’t feel like me anymore. At the very end of the burning, standing shoulder to shoulder with one of my best friends, the tears came but not for Andrew or Claire or any of it. They came for that girl who loved so completely, so innocently. Will I ever love like that again?

“We had a ceremonial burning,” Haley says, her eyes staying on the field, her tone completely nonchalant, as if this is a normal occurrence. Though for us, I suppose it is.

Max chokes on his soda, not expecting that answer. “A what?”

I feel both of them watching me. Because clearly the question is directed at me. It’s my story to tell, and Haley’s not going to let me lie about it. “We weredisposingof some things I still had... of Andrew’s.”

His name sticks in my throat. I avoid saying it as a general rule, but saying it to Max feels wrong. I’m not sure I’ve ever initiated a conversation about Andrew with him, which is silly. Andrew was a huge part of my life, and as much as I hate it, he’ll always be part of my story—that memory I dredge up when people post those silly surveys on social media or whenever first loves come up, or losing your virginity, or any number of firsts I shared with Andrew. And I don’t need to feel bad about that or about whatever I need to do to move on. Because last night wasn’t about Andrew. It was about me.

“It’s a Delta Sig tradition.” I meet Max’s gaze head-on. I can’t expect him to want to talk about an almost kiss if I can’t even talk about my ex-boyfriend. “It’s a way to cleanse yourself of bad mojo that assholes bring. Haley added that last part.”

He holds a hand to his heart, as if I’ve shot him. “I’m wounded on behalf of my gender.”

“Asshole is not a gendered term,” Haley says, sparing him a glance. “I call ’em like I see ’em.”

“And we’ve seen ’em,” I add with a knowing nod.

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