Page 64 of The Best Part of Breaking Up

“Ended up half-naked in a dorm, eating microwave pizza snacks with a bangin’ hot girl who was super out of your league?”

He has the decency to look mock-offended.

“I mean, she wasn’t that out of my league,” he laughs. “I may have been a fuckup, but I’ll have you know I’ve always been charming as hell.”

“Of course, how could I forget,” I nod, giving him a playful roll of my eyes. “So what happened?”

“Eventually I ended up with no money, no plans – no girl – and a cracked rib from falling off the fraternity house’s roof holding a half-empty bottle of Captain Morgan and wearing nothing but a Hawaiian lei.”

“I love how many of these stories you’re naked in.”

“You would,” he says, attempting to poke my side while I laugh, swatting him away. “The point is I knew I wasn’t that guy, but I sure as shit wasted a lot of time trying to be. Sometimes it feels easier to live up to everyone’s expectations than fight to prove them wrong. But I can assure you that easier doesn’t necessarily feel good. Just because today wasn’t easy, and just because you don’t feel great about it right now, doesn’t mean it was the wrong thing to do.”

I let this sink in. For a second, I think I might start crying again out of sheer emotional exhaustion. To say that the afternoon has left me wrecked would be the understatement of the century. And yet, he’s got a point.

“I have to go back to the office,” I lament. “I’ve got so much work to do.”

“You’ve got all night to catch up on work. Tomorrow, even. Do you really think this,” he says, motioning me up and down, “is a productive state?”

I sigh, folding my arms across my torso. “No.”

“We left the office because you looked like you needed to punch something. You’ve punched something. So – if you eliminate the possibility of going back to the office – what do you need right now? Like, really need?”

I close my eyes, trying to tap into this moment. I let the warm breeze tease my skin, let sweat prick the bridge of my nose.

“Food,” I admit. “I totally missed lunch.”

“Then let’s get lunch,” he says. When I hesitate, he adds, “It’s only a violation of our agreement if we share a meal. Fortunately for you, I am not on a billboard and am nowhere near as high in demand as you, so I already had lunch. But I make pretty decent company.”

My wary gaze slides over to him. I cannot say yes to this.

“What if someone sees us out together? You know the interns are already gossiping about us, right?”

“You know there’s not an actual rule about us eating lunch together, right?”

When I give him a weak grimace of dissatisfaction, he gives me a look that can only be described as surreptitious.

“All right, all right,” he sighs, peeling himself off the bench. “I might know a place.”

17.

I follow Quentin all the way back to our apartment building, across the squeaky marble tile in the lobby, and onto the elevator with the accordion cage door. He presses the button for his floor, and I give him a look.

“I thought you were going to feed me lunch,” I argue.

“Best sandwiches this side of the Mississippi,” he says.

I cough out a disbelieving laugh, but I don’t bother to select my floor. I follow him down the hallway of ten, which looks exactly like my hallway, all the way to the dark blue paint and gold number of his door, which looks exactly like my door, save for the digits.

I try not to think too much about this – me, following Quentin to his apartment. Everything that’s happened since we left the office has felt like some inevitable kind of autopilot – if autopilot could make my pulse faintly flutter in my throat. Before I can rethink it, he lets us into the cool, clean space and tosses his keys on the table by the door.

I take in the details the way one gulps down a much-needed glass of water. He’s got the requisite oversized TV. A well-loved couch that looks perfect for napping. A pull-up bar hanging over the doorframe to his bedroom. The layout is similar to mine, but the vibe is totally different. Where I’ve got potted plants, he’s got a corner desk with a fancy ergonomic chair. Where I have my vintage Tiffany lamp, he’s got crisp, functional lighting that looks like it came from Ikea. Just like his office attire, his apartment is filled with lots of blacks, grays, whites, and blues. And everything smells like him: like the embers of a bonfire, and late night summer breezes, and clean beachy clothes that have been left to dry over the edge of a balcony.

He reaches into the fridge and tosses me a Mexican lager. It’s only three o’clock, but I crack it open anyway.

“This feels unprofessional,” I say, tipping the bottle to my mouth. “Especially since I’m not even wearing a shirt.”

He disappears into his bedroom, and returns with a t-shirt, which he tosses to me on his way past. When I catch it, I tell myself it’s more to keep it from falling to the floor than anything. It’s made of soft, blue, over-washed cotton, with a white water rafting logo splashed across the front, and it will absolutely swallow me.

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