Page 36 of The Best Part of Breaking Up

The first thing I do when he hands me the plastic cup is lick the spicy seasoning off the rim. I do it on instinct. The action seems to register as a momentary flash in his eyes, entirely primal and masculine. It gives me that same surprising feeling in my chest.

Skipping. Like smooth stones across a lake. Like old records in Auntie Lena’s shop. Like a class that you know will post all the notes online.

“My friend couldn’t make it,” I explain.

“I thought you didn’t want people to think you had friends.”

“She’s not that kind of friend,” I say. “And she had a wedding cake emergency.”

“That sounds like something that only happens on Food Network.”

I laugh, and he eases onto the other side of the blanket. I nudge the container of strawberries towards him.

“You want some?” I say. “I mean, we’ve got a few minutes before the winners are announced. It’s probably best to stick together until then. I don’t want you to be off hob-nobbing somewhere when I’m ready to accept the winnings.”

“Hob-nobbing?” he laughs.

“Whatever you Maxwells do at these things,” I say, waving a hand about vaguely. “I’m not taking the chance that they’ll use your absence as a reason to disqualify us. Also, you’re a very effective buffer.”

He eyes the spread warily. “Does this count as ‘sharing a meal’?”

I roll my eyes. “These are technically snacks, not a meal.”

“Look at you, embracing the loopholes.”

I let my smile simmer. We listen to the acoustic set as he nurses a beer. I can tell he’s trying not to look at me as he says, “So did you get everything… situated?”

“You mean did I finally give up on the ill-advised adhesive bra? Yes, yes I did. Maybe if I act normal no one will notice.”

I catch his gaze travel down the V of my top before sliding back up.

“Maybe,” he says, pressing his mouth into a very unconvincing line.

“I don’t know that I can act normal if you sit here and keep checking me out.”

“I’m not checking you out,” he defends, tugging his gaze to the festivities again. “That was a professional courtesy.”

I laugh, doing the same. I spot a few of my coworkers among the crowd, littered across their own respective picnic blankets and fold out chairs. They’re interspersed with plenty of people I don’t know, mostly twenty- and thirty-somethings who probably saw the event advertised online and are now spread across blankets, grinning and taking selfies. It’s a particularly picturesque night for it, despite the lingering heat of the day. This is a part of the city that doesn’t feel like a city: the sky feels bigger, the air smells grassier, the traffic fainter, in favor of nearby frog symphonies. The sun has sunk low, making a silhouette of the faraway tree line with its fading orange glow.

“So, that guy who seems annoyed I’m sitting here,” he says. “Someone you used to date?”

I scoff. “I don’t date. No, we just seem to run into each other a lot at these things.”

“You don’t date… like, ever?” he says.

“I’m busy, okay?” I defend. “Plus, I’ve seen your caseload. You’re telling me you have time for a relationship right now?”

“For the right relationship? Sure. I’m a smart guy, I think I could figure it out.”

“Well, that guy is a conversational leech who makes me feel drained every time he opens his mouth. So I’m going to go out on a limb here and say he’s not ‘the right relationship’ for me. But hey, if you happen to get off on hearing someone tell you excruciatingly in-depth things about the stock market, he’s your man.”

“I think I’ll pass,” he grimaces.

“Right. I guess you prefer women who fall at your feet when you buy them a drink? I can’t imagine how many of those there are.”

“You jealous?” he smirks.

I pop a strawberry into my mouth. “Nope.”

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