Page 45 of Take 2
“That means you’re smarter. Anyway, yay for sad impulse choices working out.”
“Glad one did.” I tuck my hair behind my ear, but it falls back into my face.
“Your hair looks great.”
“Then I need you to snap a picture before this”—I wave at my face—“all falls apart.”
“It’s not going to fall apart, but okay!” He goes to the kitchen and comes back with a flute. “Offer is still on the table to fill this properly.”
“No thank you. I cannot do bubbly today.”
James’ eyes narrow into a schemey expression, but he hands me the empty glass. I put my lips to the rim to get some lipstick on it and pose for a few pictures like I’ve already finished drinking it.
“Thank you.” I take my phone from him and take a very deep breath. Turning off airplane mode is going to be rough. “Um. I need a real drink before I can do this.”
“Vodka?”
“Sure.”
“You know it goes wellinchampagne. Splash of lemon juice, and you’ve got a French 75.”
“James, the only bubbliness I can handle today is you.”
“I’m honored.” He goes back to the kitchen and returns with two rocks glasses. “Cheers.”
The sip burns my throat, but that works today. “Okay, here I go.” I sit on his couch and turn off airplane mode. The notifications make me want to vomit. I try to clear them without looking, but I’m pretty sure I’d notice if ‘Ex-husband Ryan’was in there.
Air burns my chest as much as the cheap vodka. I put the glass and phone down and lean my eyes onto the heels of my hands.No crying, no betting. No crying, no betting.But the tears are unrelenting, and I’dbetthey’re going to keep up until tomorrow.
“Mirage,”—James sits next to me and lays a hand on my knee—“we don’t have to do all this.”
“I do. If they don’t see me okay today, there’s going to be a fucking Midwesterner invasion here tomorrow, and I can’t deal with that.”
“Oof. Thank you for your sacrifice of taking some hot pictures.”
A laugh slips through my lips as I sniffle. “It would have been five years today.”
“The timing of that landing on the Oscars is so unfortunate.”
“No, it’s not the date. It’s the Academy Awards. No matter the date, the Oscars are—were our anniversary.”
“All right, honey, pro tip. Never align a romantic milestone with one that has personal significance. You cannot have a first date, or get engaged or married, on your birthday, a holiday, or the fucking Oscars.”
I turn my face toward him and lean my cheek on my fist. “We also met on my birthday.”
“Jesus! Did you get married on Christmas?”
“No.”
“Okay!” He brushes imagined sweat from his brow. “We’re safe to enjoy that then.”
“I can’t make any promises on being particularly festive this year.”
“Oh, you haven’t seen me Christmas. You know how Buddy decorates the department store inElf?”
“Yeah.”
“So, it’s like that, times four. We’re going to put the tree here…” He continues to explain his Christmas decor plan, but it washes over me.We’redoing this. Because this isourapartment now.
