Page 87 of The Do-Over

He straightened and put his hands in the pockets of his coat, his face unreadable.

“That day, with you, was incredible. I know you don’t ‘have time’ or want a relationship, and I’m cool with waiting or just being friends. But the DONC was—”

“A fantasy,” Nick said. “It was a mirage, Emilie.”

“So… what? You’re going to avoid happiness completely because it might float away?”

He looked at me for moment before he turned away and said, “I’m just not interested in you that way, okay?”

My brain immediately went toI must have misunderstood—I’m so sorry.

My mouth actually opened to say it.

But I hadn’t misunderstood.

And I wasn’t sorry.

“You can insist on that, Nick,” I said, angry and disappointed that he would rather be a dick to me than be honest with himself. “But I’m not imagining what that day was. Days like that don’t happen, Nick—they don’t. I get why you’re scared to put yourself out there after Eric, but—”

“Please don’t bring my brother into this.”

I pressed my lips together and looked away, frustrated.

He dragged a hand over the top of his head and said, “You don’t know shit about my brother, and you’re using what I told you to convince me—and yourself—that there was more to our skip day than there actually was. I’m sorry to break it to you, Emilie, but the DONC was just a playdate. A day where two people blew off school and screwed around downtown. That’s it.”

“Um, okay, then.” I blinked back big, fat tears of humiliation.

“I don’t want to hurt your feelings, Em, but that’s all it wa—”

“Got it.” I thrust his jacket at him and went back to the car, where Chris and Rox were sitting inside with the windows down,witnessing the entire mortifying rejection. I squeezed into the front seat, and my friends didn’t ask me a single question. Rox put her arm around me, and Chris handed me one of the Kleenex pouches he always kept in his center console.

Just a playdate.

CONFESSION #20

In sixth grade, when I ding-dong-ditched Finn Parker across the street, I fell down his steps and broke my wrist. To this day, my parents think I broke it roller-skating.

After I got home, I finally let myself cry. I felt an aching emptiness where Nick had been, which was weird when I’d only ever known him on February 14. But I felt like he somehow saw me—all of me—and understood me. None of it would ever make sense, but I felt a huge sense of loss over Nick.

I heard my mom come home, and I didnotwant to deal with her anger. I was certain she was probably still pissed, especially since I’d hidden in my room last night, but I just didn’t feel emotionally equipped to deal with any more conflict.

I started on my homework—I didn’t know what else to do with myself—and my stomach dropped when I heard her yell, “Em! Dinner!”

I took a deep breath and ran downstairs. I could smell spaghetti and meatballs—my favorite meal—but something about the scent added to my melancholy. It brought back memories of spaghetti at the old house, when it was just my mom, my dad, and me in that old yellow dining room. Then it made me thinkof meals in my dad’s tiny apartment, when it’d just been the two of us, and it brought back sneaky memories of both of them feeding me spaghetti and introducing me to the new loves of their lives.

I knew Nick had made me soft when spaghetti was making me sad.

I sat down, and I could feel my mom looking at me. I steeled myself for a lecture.

“Are you okay, Emilie?”

Todd, my mom’s husband, was nice, a harmless salesman who always seemed like he had an opinion to share on everything, including things that had nothing to do with him and everything to do with me and my dad.

So his question made me nervous.

“I’m fine.” I looked down at my spaghetti and put my napkin on my lap. “Why?”

“You just look…” He gestured toward my face with his fork.

---