Page 65 of The First Love Myth

“Does Claire know that?” I ask because I can’t let myself empathize with him right now.

“Yeah, pretty sure my behavior at Mack’s gave me away.” He shrugs. “We didn’t even make it to Wildwood.”

I try not to feel smug. I want to be above such a feeling, but it’s hard. A part of me relishes this information. After he purposely dismantled our relationship, he’s not with Claire because he can’t get over me. The rest of me is saddened by all of it. Any way you look at it, the situation sucks for every person involved. There are no winners here.

“Reid!” the cashier at the front of the shop calls above the din. The crowd cleared as we talked, and my pies sit waiting for me.

I stand and drop my hand lightly onto Andrew’s shoulder for the smallest of moments. A touch like this would’ve sent a jolt of love through me any other time, but now there’s only melancholy and a sense of what might’ve been. “Good luck at Drexel.”

Chapter 48

Cecilia

I’ve never been a wallower. Not really. But it’s a Reid trait. I wonder if it’s from my father, because my mother turned to work and remodeling, with the exception of those weekends in my dorm. But Liz? It’s like all the melodramatic genes were saved for her. She cried for days after each breakup with Julian. She came home from prom, mascara running down her cheeks, her hair askew, barely breathing between sobs. Jane brought her home. And then built her back up, which I can’t even comprehend. To be connected so wholly to twins. And Zoey went crazy this summer trying to out-sex her former best friend for a guy I’m not entirely sure she ever actually wanted back.

There have been very few who made me want to wallow, however. It’s not my nature. But Evie makes me want to curl up and cry and eat ice cream and do all those ridiculous things. I gave in. Once. Then I cleaned and bought a new wardrobe and organized incessantly. Like mother, like daughter. I rid every room in my apartment of any vestige of Evie, down to the hot sauce brand she likes. Now, whatever is left sits in a box in my hall closet. None of it seems overly important. It’s the stuff I would sacrifice to never see my ex again—a sweater, pajama pants, a book or three. But I can’t bring myself to throw it away. Maybe I’ll drop it off one morning. Leave it on the doorstep like she left my key in that bowl.

I sit at the kitchen table with a glass of wine and open the Zoom meeting on my laptop. While I wouldn’t say I’ve fully forgiven either my mom or Liz, I couldn’t stay angry after the baby bomb. That doesn’t mean I know how to get past what happened. In each conversation, it feels like there’s a Zoey-shaped barrier between us. But Liz is trying, so when she suggested thesefamily dinnersvia Zoom, I agreed, even though I have total Zoom fatigue.

“How clean is your apartment?” Liz asks by way of greeting.

“Quite,” I say with chagrin.

She frowns. “I’m sorry, Cee.”

“I’m fine,” I say. “Stand up. I want to see the bump.”

The smallest of bumps is visible under Liz’s shirt, and the sight is so unexpected, a tremor runs through me. Her normal preppy look has been replaced by jeans and a summer sweater. She looks happy. Motherly. I wish our détente on the Zoey situation could be a full-on treaty, but we’ve been waging the war for seventeen years, and there’s no resolution. Liz will not step away from Zoey and our dad, and I refuse to capitulate.

My mom comes into view and waves with the wine she’s holding. A whole bottle, for herself.

“Thirsty, Mom?” I ask.

“I sold a one-point-eight-million-dollar home today. I deserve some wine.”

“Oh my god!” Liz says, pulling Mom into a hug. It’s endearing to watch, but I also wish I could hug her too. That my toast didn’t have to be to a screen.

“Congratulations,” I say.

“Thank you, girls. Now”—she opens up the takeout bag—“I brought the naan for us. Do you have yours?”

Naan fixes everything. That’s been a Reid women mantra since my first heartbreak back in high school. I hold up my slice. “Naan is accounted for.”

Liz’s eyes meet mine. “How are you? And do not say fine.”

“I’m coping.” I pick at my masala. “I miss her.”

It’s the most I’ve said on the topic of Evie to anyone. Even to myself, if I’m honest. I don’t want to look at it too closely because there’s too much to unpack. Too much that squarely falls on me. I do miss her. But Evie was clear. There wasn’t a test hidden in her breakup monologue. She didn’t simply need to know I loved her and needed her. I hurt her.

“Do you think—”

I shake my head at Liz’s inquiry. “She wanted to end it for a while. It’s like when you play hard to get because once they have you, they don’t want you? Well, she finally had me, and she didn’t like me.”

“She said that?” Liz asks quietly.

I shrug. “Essentially.”

“What a bitch.”

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