Page 20 of The Best Part of Breaking Up

“I think you just did,” he retorts. His response gives me the impression that he’s heard this spiel a time or two.

I give her an even smile. “Not a fan?”

Zelda retrieves a yogurt cup from the fridge. “Of the girl whose musical opinion cites Tommy Gun Taylor as the greatest rap artist of our time? Not quite.”

“C’mon, Zel,” Teddy says. “She’s young.”

“Too young for you.”

“Don’t give me that. She’s an old soul.”

“That’s just something she tells people because she hates that she missed an opportunity to be photographed in a crochet bikini at the first Woodstock.”

Zelda turns to us now, giving us another once over, the way a mother does when she realizes her kids have brought home a puppy that’s probably going to piss all over the place but is inevitably going to stay. She’s a bit softer, regardless.

“Anyway, yeah,” she says. “I can help. Just let me know what you need.”

“I’d love for us to set up a time to discuss a few things about the studio,” I tell her. “Or if you’ve got some time now?”

“Now’s good,” she nods.

I begin to follow, but not before remembering I need to deal with Teddy. Then, I see Quentin standing there, rocks glass in hand. He seems to be waiting for this very moment, anticipating the questioning raise of my eyebrows. He gives me a quick, affirmative nod that agrees that we can divide and conquer.

The realization hits me unexpectedly: I’m grateful to have him here. Someone to help me wrangle Teddy. Someone who’s on my team, sans air quotes. Someone who seemingly understands the innate value of nonverbal communication. Maybe I underestimated how much of an asset he could be, in the grand scheme of things.

Zelda sweeps by and snags the rocks glass out of Teddy’s hand on her way past.

“And it’s too early for you to be drinking,” she tells him.

She tips the glass to her mouth on her way out the door.

***

“So,” Quentin says as we step out into the heat of early afternoon. “When were you going to tell me that you were using me?”

I blink at him in confusion. “What?”

“That night at the restaurant. Maestoso.” As he continues to talk, my stomach begins to sink. “Because I thought you were just there for a casual happy hour, but Teddy seemed to think you were there meeting me.”

I meet his amused expression with a defiant stare. His dark blue eyes bear into mine, as if this is a middle school contest. I’ve never backed down from a challenge before, and I don’t stop now.

“So?” I say, matching his intensity.

“So,” he smirks. “You got caught spying on your client. And I saved your ass.”

I narrow my gaze. “Do you always start drinking before noon, or was this a special occasion?”

“I was being sociable. Breaking the ice. And you’d be surprised how long you can walk around with a drink before anyone realizes you aren’t actually drinking it. The point is to make them feel like they’re not drinking alone.”

“How magnanimous of you."

“You were using me,” he continues. “And that was a shameless red herring. Admit it.”

He’s right, of course. I just don’t want him to be right. Not about the drink or the dancing or my failed attempt at a logical fallacy.

“You were using me first,” I say. “And, moreover, you didn’t even attempt to refute his idea that we’ve got a clandestine office romance going on. So you’re clearly guiltier than I am.”

Nothing about this defense would hold up in court. It’s so childish, in fact, that I actually wince, an action that leaves me losing whatever ridiculous staring contest we were waging.

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