Page 119 of The Best Part of Breaking Up

Quentin clears his throat. “Yeah, we’re good.”

“We got an alert,” the crackly voice continues. “Did you hit the emergency stop button?”

Quentin tips my chin up, kissing me again.

“Yeah, sorry. Accident.”

“No problem. Happens all the time,” the voice says. “Give me a second and I’ll get you moving.”

The crackle cuts to silence. We’re still holding each other close, seemingly wondering what happens next. I mean, we can’t make out in this elevator forever. At some point the doors will open, and decisions will have to be made. Quentin’s gaze is lusty and hopeful as it maps the contours of my face.

“Do you want to go back upstairs?” he asks. “Have dinner with me?”

“No,” I say. There’s a flash of disappointment in his eyes, and I brush my nose against his. “I don’t just want to have dinner with you. I want to have everything with you. If that’s okay.”

I realize belatedly that the alarm has stopped and the elevator is moving again. This moment is on a timer. Like a little kid without a chaperone, I hit the button for every floor. The likelihood that anyone will be waiting on most of them is slim to none.

“That’s… Yeah. That’s more than okay,” he smiles, kissing me again.

I snake my arms inside his jacket, brushing a thick packet in his inner pocket. I pluck the papers out with a slow smile.

“Did you bring legal documents to our date or are you just happy to see me?”

He scrubs a hand sheepishly through his hair. “So, um, I may have drafted a new relationship agreement? On the off chance you showed up.”

The elevator doors slide open on a random floor, and we both glance to make sure it’s empty before continuing.

“You’re serious,” I say, thumbing through the pages.

There’s so much in here that I want to read. At first glance, it’s part explanation, part apology, and full of promises. So many promises. If they’re anything like Quentin’s other work, I know that they’re all written in that concise, clever way of his, and thorough to a fault.

“There’s just a lot I needed to say,” he says. “And I know there’s probably a lot we need to figure out.”

My chest swells with emotion at the sight of him, standing in front of me, absolutely, unapologetically in love. I bite my bottom lip, re-folding the papers and tucking them back into his jacket pocket. He furrows his brow, peering at me nervously.

“Is that a no? Because we can make revisions. We can –”

I interrupt him with a kiss. “No.”

“No?”

I laugh in spite of myself. “No contracts.”

He gives me an incredulous look. I think about explaining to him about my own revelations from this summer. Like how I figured out that no amount of written guidelines can guarantee I won’t get hurt. Or how I finally had to admit to myself that saying I was better off on my own could get very, very lonely. But most of all, I figured out those cliche sayings you come across in self-help books and post-breakup corners of Instagram carry some truth. Real strength is knowing that you’re strong enough to be vulnerable. To take chances. To let people in.

Maybe, to my surprise, when Quentin broke my heart, he didn’t actually break me. My world didn’t actually fall apart. I didn’t lose everything. I found out how resilient I am. I remembered how strong my support system is. I realized I’m no longer that kid who’s terrified of losing herself in a breakup. Because I didn’t lose myself. Maybe – cliche of all cliches – I actually found myself.

Yeah. Put that on a billboard.

I peel myself away from him and adjust my dress in time for the doors to open on the ground floor. I thread my fingers through his.

“Really,” I say. “I trust you.”

He follows me out onto the busy sidewalk. Early evening wraps around us, and the last of the warm breezes of summer kiss our skin. Though everything is winding down – my job at FML, this part of my story, the season itself – somehow it doesn’t feel like the end.

“You know if we’re going to reconcile properly, I have to feed you first,” he says.

“I might know a place,” I muse. “Intimate. Exclusive. Best sandwiches this side of the Mississippi. But we might be overdressed.”

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