Page 128 of The Rom-Commers

Whatever they were.

Maybe I’d take up line dancing for real and astonish us all by getting so good that I went to the Olympics.

Did they have an Olympics for line dancing?

Maybe I’d start one.

Point being: only three more days.

Be strong, I told myself.You’re fine.

But my eyes betrayed me. Every other part of my body was being utterly obedient: my body was neat and composed, my fingers were typing busily—even if only theasdf jkl;keys over and over—and my heart was trudging along numbly but steadily. Only my rebellious eyes were acting out—so much that I had to pretend to sneeze over and over so I could wipe them.

“Allergies,” I told Charlie.

“The worst,” Charlie agreed.

Eyebrows up. Sit tall. Deep breath.

Don’t collapse. Don’t collapse. Don’t collapse.

WE WORKED ALLday, and after a while, in that way that stories can save you—it started tugging me along like a little paper boat in a stream. The pull of that familiar current helped a lot.

Here’s another tip for being okay when trapped in a small space with the man who rejected you: Play loud music in your earbuds like an angry teenager.

Loud,coolmusic—because you are a cool person and no guy who doesn’t appreciate you can touch that.

I had a playlist called “Coolness,” in fact, and I just let it rip. The bands were cool, the songs were cool, I was cool for listening to it—and Charlie Yates could go to hell.

Needless to say, there was not much reading aloud of dialogue today.

No sharing snacks, no chatting, no collaborating.

I never took my headphones out—worked for six straight hours without touching them. Even wore them to the bathroom.

As we worked, I vacillated over whether or not to cancel the dinner I’d promised to cook Charlie—tonight—for his five-year-iversary of being cancer-free.

On the one hand, why on earth should I cook for him? I should leave him alone with his meat bags and go out to a fancy restaurant by myself.

But on the other hand: Iwasa very good cook. Reminding Charlie of all the endless culinary delights he’d given up by having no interest in me seemed like a good idea.

Also: he was officially cured of cancer. That was bigger than my feelings about some petty rejection. Whatever Charlie Yates might mean to me personally in this moment—I could appreciate the bigger picture of what he meant to the world in general.

Yes, I detested him. But I was stillglad he was alive.

Maybe “glad” was a bit strong.

I broadly supported the concept of him continuing to exist.

Also? Sylvie really had FedExed her tropical-print spaghetti-strap maxi dress and her strappy sandals to Charlie Yates’s mansion. The package arrived while we were working, along with a note from Sylvie with no greeting or signature that said, simply: “Make him regret he was ever born.”

I liked the look of those words.

I liked them so much, they answered my question for me.

I’d make Charlie dinner tonight, and I’d wear that crazy tropical dress, and I’d celebrate his good health like a virtuous person, and I’d save face at last by cooking something so delicious, it would haunt him for the rest of his life.

And through it all?

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