Page 153 of Finance Bros

“Anyway,” he says, “My point is, whether it’s weird for your families or whatever, it doesn’t matter what you start out as—just where you end up. Because that’s what was meant to be, you know? You can’t help how you met.”

I take a deep breath and consider the whole of it. I get where he’s coming from—what he’s trying to say. It’s different than meeting the love of your life on a bus in fourth grade, but how Ryan and I know each other seems a lot less important than what wemeanto each other. And obviously, it hasn’t stopped me. Or him.

Do I want to advertise it? No. But I can’t change it either. Nor would I want to. “Yeah,” I say. “I can own it.”

“Good.”

“Is this where you tell me love is love?”

He scoffs. “No. It absolutely is not. But it is where I tell you love is fabulous when it’s not the worst fucking thing ever.”

I laugh. “Yeah, no I get that.”

Ryan and Bailey reappear. Bailey doesn’t say anything, but Ryan locks eyes with me and asks, “You ready?”

“Yeah.”

“Let’s go.”

Yes, sir.

Once we’ve been silent for half a block, I ask, “What did you need to say to Bailey that you couldn’t say in front of me? I realize what I’m asking.”

He exhales a harsh breath. “I just reminded her that you have a girlfriend.”

My thoughts about protectiveness and us being meant to be screech to a halt. I stop walking. “Seriously?”

He faces me. “What?”

This is so fucking frustrating. Why is he like this? Why can’t he just be with me without trying to find some major impediment to it? “I mean, I appreciate you thinking about that and everything, but I’m just surprised, I guess. You haven’t said a word about her in a while.”

“She’s coming home tomorrow.”

“Yeah, and I’m gonna talk to her on Thursday when she comes to get Stephanie.”

“Talk to her?”

“Break up,” I specify because obviously I need to state it for the damn record.

“Yeah, okay.”

“Are you worried I’m gonna see her and all of a sudden forget that I’m in love with you?”

He looks down at the sidewalk, his hair falling to cover whatever view I might have had of his face. “I don’t know what’s gonna happen, Mal. I’m doing my best, okay?”

“Doing your best?”

“To trust you.”

“Have I given you a reason not to?” I ask. I’ve barely let him out of my sight.

“No,” he whispers, sounding choked. “But I don’t want…”

I wait, not the world’s best at being patient, but trying.

“I don’t want you to feel like you’ve got something to prove or you’re—whatever—trying to make up for something.”

“You think I’m doing you some kind of favor?” I could almost laugh if he didn’t seem so twisted up.

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