Page 13 of The Best Part of Breaking Up

“Yeah. I’m not worried about the music part. But… you know I’m not going to get to go on the water slides if I can’t swim. And if I can’t do the water slides, I’ll be stuck in the kiddie pool with the little kids. And you know they pee in there. It’s basically a public toilet.”

“Hey, you won’t be sitting in the public toilet. You’ll be able to swim. Didn’t we set our goal?”

She nods reluctantly. “Yeah.”

“We’re going to work on it every week. We’ve got a plan. But attitude is half the battle,” I remind her.

She slides on a pair of ridiculously oversized sunglasses. The round, purple, rhinestone-crusted frames make her look like Hermione Granger trying to impersonate Elton John.

“This kind of attitude?”

I laugh. “Exactly that kind of attitude.”

She keeps them on, along with the shoes, as I spin the rack. It’s high on my list of guilty pleasures, perusing accessories and artwork for something that pops. Almost all of my favorite pieces were things I fell in love with at estate sales and thrift shops – including the vintage Tiffany lamp in my living room, which is still my proudest find to date – but the truth is I don’t fall in love easily, and I inevitably spend a lot more time browsing than buying. This doesn’t stop me from trying on a pair of rose pink 70s square sunglasses and assessing myself in the mirror.

“You really think he lied to you?” Auntie Lena says incredulously, slipping into the corner of the reflection so that I can see her staring at me over my shoulder.

“Who lied to you?” Kamille asks.

“No one,” I say, removing the glasses so I can give my aunt and best friend a withering stare. With Kamille looking at me expectantly, I amend for the sake of honesty, “A coworker.”

“A guy who likes her,” Meg offers.

I shoot her a look that says, Really? at the same time Kamille says, “Oooooh”, like a chorus of little kids during a kiss scene in a movie.

“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter. “So what, a guy likes me? Boys don’t make the world go ‘round.”

“I mean, obviously. That’s the sun. Gravity. Science.”

Meg snorts. “She’s definitely your mini-me.”

“But I still want to know who he is,” Kamille adds, smiling coyly.

“His name is… Quentin.” I hate even saying it out loud, as if the syllables themselves might summon him like Beetlejuice. “We work together. But he’s being a jerk. And contrary to what some people may tell you, guys aren’t mean to girls because they like them. At least, not the kind of guys you want to date.”

“Ohmigosh, that’s always what my friend Amaya says. She’s all like, ‘I think Jaxon likes you because he kicked the ball at your face in gym.’ And I’m always like, ‘Okay, but I don’t like him like that.’”

I smile. I never tire of middle school logic. Seriously. Stories that rarely go anywhere? Characters showing up with little to no background or introduction? Sign me up.

“Exactly,” I tell her.

Auntie Lena laughs, unconvinced. “Not everyone has a secret evil plan, Heidi. Maybe it was a coincidence.”

“It doesn’t matter. Coincidence or not, I deserve that job. I’m going to get that job. And when I do, Quentin Maxwell will no longer be my problem.”

We change the subject. Another half hour passes as we sift through bins of records, periodically selecting one to place on the turntable to serenade us as we chit-chat and consider if the items that catch our interest are passing delights or things we can’t live without. On our way out the door, with a set of vintage teacups that would look perfect in Meg’s dream bakeshop and Kamille’s sandals in tow, Auntie Lena brushes my hair over my shoulder before giving it a squeeze.

“No matter what happens with the job, I’m proud of you, Dee.”

I wonder, when she says it, why my smile can’t quite reach my eyes, the way that feeling can’t quite reach my chest, how those words seem to float on the surface, never quite sinking in. I squeeze her hand in return anyway, giving the side of her face a quick kiss before following Meg and Kamille’s laughter into the parking lot. I slide my sunglasses securely into place, settling into my confident stride as I step out the door.

4.

They give him Erving’s corner office. I tell myself I’m not jealous, and I’m not – not of the stocked mini fridge, the great view, or the enviable proximity to the lowest ranking of the pre-law interns who grab afternoon coffee orders – but every time I hear him laughing in the hall with Victor Freeman, I’ll admit, I kind of want to punch both of them in the face.

“It’s temporary,” Henry assures me.

“I can win this case on my own,” I say uselessly.

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