Page 26 of The Best Part of Breaking Up

“Not quite. It’s a youth mentorship program. Pretty straightforward.”

“Ah. Right. I guess I should’ve known, since you don’t do ‘complicated’,” he says, using finger quotes for emphasis. “Tell me, Heidi. Do all of your relationships come with contracts?”

Most days, I might wear this teasing accusation like a badge of pride, but it stings when he says it, like trying to adjust an honorary pin and getting pricked, right over the heart. I’ve never thought of Kamille in those terms.

“Only the good ones,” I retort. I turn my back to him so he can’t see whatever my face might be trying to give away. I attempt to gather myself along with my belongings. “By the way, ogling my ass? Not exactly professional.”

He chokes out a laugh, running a hand up the back of his hair self-consciously. It somehow makes him look even sexier and beachier, and it annoys the fuck out of me.

“I wasn’t… ogling. I was observing. Accidentally.”

I sling my bag over my shoulder and strut past him. There’s enough room that we don’t have to make contact, but I pass close enough that our shoulders touch. In one strategic movement, I shift my weight into him. I don’t care if it’s juvenile; the moment he begins to fall, I feel delightfully avenged. In a slow-motion, arms-flailing instant, Quentin gracelessly crashes into the water.

The wake from his near-belly flop splashes up over the sides of the pool, soaking the concrete with a satisfying sizzle. He resurfaces with a sputtering gasp.

“What the hell was that?” he asks, swiping water from his bewildered expression.

I give him the world’s smirkiest shrug – (shirk?) – and head for the changing room.

“Sorry,” I call over my shoulder. “Accident.”

7.

“I think he likes you,” Kamille says around a mouthful of bacon-pineapple pizza.

I squeeze lemon slices into my water until they’re nothing but spent, yellow husks and discard them on the tiny corner of unused space on our sticky table. I rattle the stevia packet against my palm before tearing it open.

This is why I stopped dating.

Not this in particular – sitting at a booth by the window in a little garlic-scented cafe downtown – but this feeling. I’m not sure how to describe it. Inconvenience, maybe? Or possibly encroachment. Something that’s infiltrating every aspect of my life.

My last serious boyfriend, Callum, would tell you I’m an emotionally unavailable control freak who’s only happy when I’m convincing people that my truth is the whole truth, and nothing but. The truth is that Callum and I were good for almost two years.

We met at a charity fundraiser, during one of those ill-advised relay races where each team member has to periodically stop and chug a red solo cup full of lukewarm beer. We were paired against each other, and in our mutual determination to make it to our next assigned station, we ran smack into each other. Like, hard. Callum was briefly knocked unconscious. He woke up lying flat in the grass with me cradling his head between my knees, and he promptly gave me a grin and mumbled a ridiculous line about how he hadn’t realized I was such a knockout. It was one of our favorite stories. He got knocked out, and I fell.

Albeit, my falling happened much more slowly than his being temporarily relieved of consciousness. But still. Over the next few weeks, our lives started to overlap, until we were a venn diagram that had more things in the middle than not. We both worked long hours, both had our favorite date-night restaurants, both enjoyed the same binge-worthy reality TV shows. He was one of the cofounders of a start-up micro-brewery (the one that had supplied the booze for the charity event where we collided), and he would drop by my place smelling of hops and enthusiastically pouring me “test beers” while I caught up on case notes. We had fallen into a comfortable routine. He stayed over three nights a week, joined my running group, even talked with Meg about the possibility of pairing some of their most popular brews with complementary baked goods. They were brainstorming pairings for the holidays. We were planning to visit his parents for Christmas in North Carolina. Things were good.

Then I found the little velvet box hiding in the top drawer of my dresser.

It was his drawer, technically, the one designated for those of his clothes that had made their way to my place. I was adding a clean t-shirt that had gotten mixed in with my laundry when I saw it. I flipped it open without hesitation, and a large diamond ring stared up at me. I wasn’t sure what else I thought would be inside, but I was hopeful that I was wrong.

I wasn’t.

It was a serious diamond, the kind that could really do some damage if you were wearing it when you happened to punch someone in the face. Do most women think about punching people in the face when they discover their significant other is planning an engagement?

Probably not.

I sank onto the end of the bed, staring at it for a few shapeless minutes until I heard his keys in the door. He called out hello, and I could hear him going through his usual routine: dropping his things on the coffee table, opening the fridge to deposit a six-pack of beer, pulling a pint glass out of the freezer. I made my way to the kitchen with the numb movements of someone in shock.

“What’s this?” I asked, sliding the ring box across the bar that separates the living room from the kitchen.

It might as well have been some other woman’s underwear, given the amount of accusation in my tone. His eyes went wide with surprise, then anguish, before melting into a sheepish laugh.

“Um,” he stammered, readjusting his glasses. “Fuck. Okay. I guess I should’ve picked a better hiding place?”

I swallowed past the way my mouth felt all dry and clumsy, like I’d just been to the dentist.

“Are you trying to marry me?” I asked.

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