Page 5 of The Best Part of Breaking Up

His hand finds my mid-back, following close through the crowd.

“Perfect.”

The dance floor isn’t crowded yet, and I acknowledge it’s the perfect place to avoid being accosted by someone you’re trying to avoid. I hook my arm around his neck once we’re safely in the middle. Up close, this guy smells like stepping outside on an early summer evening and catching the faint aroma of a nearby fire, as if his very essence is woodsy and blooming and warm. It’s a scent that begs comfortable conversation. Despite my best efforts, I can’t help but indulge.

“So, as your long lost best friend,” I say, “aren’t you going to tell me what brings you here?”

“I came for the… bachelorette party?” he guesses, glancing up at the group of women now cheering from the balcony. The pop of a champagne bottle echoes off the high ceilings. A few people in the dining room join in with an appreciative woop.

“Nice try,” I smirk. “That’s a divorce party.”

“Wow. Okay. I didn’t realize that was a thing people usually celebrated,” he says, allowing his gaze to drift upward again, as if hoping to prove me wrong. “How do you even know this?”

It’s obvious to me that this guy has no idea how many divorce parties I’ve been invited to, let alone made possible, and honestly, I’d like to keep it that way. Nothing kills a flirty buzz like guys finding out I’ve built my career on breakups. Even if they aren’t serious about a relationship, I’ve found that men still like to imagine women as people with soft, delicate feelings. The kind who believe in love, or at least don’t make their livelihood picking it apart.

“Didn’t you see the banner?” I nod to the one strung up over the door to the stairs that reads: I do, I did, I’m done!

“I do now,” he laughs. “It’s a little weird, though, right? Celebrating the end of something that was supposed to last forever?”

“Nothing lasts forever,” I say easily.

“Wow. I never knew you were such a romantic,” he teases.

“And you are?”

“I must be,” he counters, “given that I’ve apparently been lusting after you for the past fifteen years.”

I laugh. “Well, how could you not? Especially after the time I found you locked out of your dorm. Naked.”

“Naked? Why was I naked?” he laughs.

“Because you were drunk, obviously.”

“Obviously,” he nods.

“Because you were a hopeless frat boy. Also, did I mention this happened at eight o’clock in the morning?”

“Oh god. The only thing worse than a naked drunk frat boy is a naked drunk frat boy in broad daylight,” he grimaces. “Am I really that cliche?”

“Yes. But lucky for you, I chastely offered you refuge in my room, where I lent you my fuzziest pink robe and fed you my last tray of tiny pizza bagels.”

“Of course, how could I forget? Tiny pizza bagels are very sexy. They scream unrequited love.”

“When they’re someone’s last tray, they obviously do. But unfortunately you were too nervous to make a move. Given that I’d seen your butt and all.”

“Hey. I’ve got a great butt.”

“And yet, not enough courage to take a chance and tell me how you really felt,” I shrug.

I don’t think I imagine the way his steps falter. He recovers with a smile.

“Maybe I was nervous,” he counters, “because you always seemed so smart, and confident, and fine being alone.”

This shivers through me, that feeling of a stranger edging close to something that’s too true. I become more aware now of the warm pressure of his hand on my hip and the way his gaze is dancing across my face. I meet his intrigued stare with one of my own.

“I don’t remember your name,” I muse.

“Ouch. After all these years?”

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