Page 6 of The Best Part of Breaking Up

“To be fair, in all my memories, I just remember calling you ‘hey asshole’. As in, ‘Hey asshole, why are you naked in my hallway’?”

“Quentin,” he says. “And I assume you go by something other than Pizza Bagel Girl?”

“I dunno, that does have a nice ring to it,” I smile. “I’m Heidi.”

“Heidi,” he nods, seemingly feeling out my name on his tongue. “I’m glad we could reconnect.”

“Sir,” the hostess interrupts. “Your table is ready.”

“Thank you. I’ll be right there,” he tells her. I catch that hopeful glimmer in his eyes again. “Any chance you want to join an old friend for dinner?”

I give him another once over. There’s no denying if I had a type, he’d probably be it. Charming and clever, with an easy smile and the kind of eyes that tug straight through my center. It’s not just my stomach that wants me to say yes; it’s also the warm, tingly feeling in a long-neglected, elemental part of my very being.

But it is also inevitably at this moment that I glance across the restaurant to see Paolo ushering Teddy out. Actually, he’s not ushering him – he’s following him. And since the table with the birthday celebration is now half-empty, I am safe to assume that Teddy is trailing Gigi. Alarm bells go off in my brain. I probably don’t need to follow them out, but I will.

“I’d love to, but I need to run,” I say, slipping out of his arms. “Thanks for the drink.”

He follows me for a few steps, laughing. “You’re leaving?”

“I haven’t seen your stepmom stalker in a good five minutes, so I think I’ve sufficiently saved you. What more did you want?”

“I feel like this is the part where you’re supposed to leave behind a glass slipper,” he says. “Or maybe give me your number?”

I give him a look. Paolo and Teddy are arguing in the entryway, the maitre d is opening the front doors to encourage them outside, and I’ve got exactly two seconds to make a decision.

Oh, what the hell?

I reach into his back pocket and snag his phone, reluctantly adding my number and labeling it as Pizza Bagel Girl. I pass it back to him with finality.

“No dick pics. No booty calls. Don’t text me after ten o’clock.”

He laughs. “You’ve got a lot of rules.”

I smirk. “If you want to see me again, you’ll follow them.”

I say this even though I really don’t expect to see Quentin again, but it feels good to remember what this feels like. To feel young. To feel wanted. To win.

2.

In another life, maybe I would’ve responded to Quentin’s advances. I would’ve stayed for dinner, for another dance, until the staff was sweeping up and the bartender signaled last call. I might have even invited him back to my place, reveled in his late-night summertime smell, and given him that perfect opportunity to take off his shirt. I certainly would’ve done more than roll my eyes when I saw the text from him on my way to spin class Saturday morning.

Q: Morning, PBG. Any chance you’re free tonight?

H: Define free.

Q: Adjective. Able to act or do as one wishes. As in, “Heidi is free for dinner.”

H: You think you’re cute.

Q: I know I’m cute. *emoji of a sassy girl tipping her hand*

H: Well, Merriam-Webster, you should also know that I always act and do as I wish. But I’m not free for dinner. In all honesty, I’m probably not free until September.

Q: Perfect. I’ll make us a reservation.

Reservation Confirmation Noreply: The High Limit. 2 guests. Rooftop dining. 7:30pm. September 1st.

H: You do realize this is months away, right?

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