Page 73 of The Best Part of Breaking Up

I swell with a breath. She gives me a wistful look. Eventually, I can only tug my gaze away. We both distract ourselves with Kamille clapping as the dogs semi-successfully execute retrieving the ball with their tiny mouths. One of them drops it. The other briefly tries to snatch it, but by then they’re engaged in a galloping zoomies race, with the ball long forgotten. We all laugh, watching this scene that’s so hilarious it should have circus music playing while it happens.

Meg doesn’t say anything else, but the unanswered question crawls up the back of my neck like a whisper. Right now – in the middle of trying so hard to achieve everything and fiercely protect this life I have built – am I happy?

***

Quentin, Teddy, and I are sitting around the small round table in the kitchen at Avid Records, paperwork spread on the table between us. We’re attempting, fruitlessly, to prepare Teddy for trial. He’s half-listening in favor of strumming a guitar that probably costs more than my car. Periodically, he meanders to the cabinet and pours himself another two fingers of whiskey. We’re not getting anywhere fast.

At one point, Farkas hacked up a slimy hairball, right in the middle of things, which was pretty impressive for a cat with hardly any fur. Since then, he’s been curled up like a half-naked, yellow-eyed goblin in Quentin’s lap. I’m doing my best to ignore both of them.

“Let’s talk about your statement,” I tell Teddy. “Since you haven’t submitted one, we have drafted some options for you to consider.”

“I wrote a statement,” he says.

This is news.

“Great,” I say. “Do you have a copy we can take a look at?”

He rummages around the kitchen for a while before yelling down the hall for Zelda. She appears like a disgruntled mother, who might be a billionaire if she had a dollar for every time someone asked her to find something around here.

“Where did you last have it?” she questions.

“It was right here, Zel. Did you throw it away?”

“Did it look like trash?” she reasons.

Finally, he plucks it from the top of the actual garbage can and slaps it on the table, victorious. Quentin and I peer at it simultaneously, and though it doesn’t look like something I would normally touch, I’m still feeling petty and would prefer to pretend he isn’t here. I snag the edge and slide it towards me, scanning the uneven handwriting.

“Teddy, this isn’t a statement. It’s a love letter. In… song format. Written on a used beverage napkin.”

Zelda snorts before wandering out. “Like I said: trash.”

“I don’t know how many ways I can tell you this,” he sighs, “but I don’t want to testify against her. I don’t know how it’s come to this.”

“Do you want to concede guilt and give her everything?” I question.

“I mean, no?” he sighs. When he sees the look I’m giving him, he adds with more certainty, “No.”

“Then we’ve got more work to do.”

“You don’t know Gigi like I do,” he says. “She gets like this. Sometimes she’s sweet, silly, just happy to be anywhere, and other times she’s… someone else entirely. But she doesn’t mean it.”

Quentin gives Teddy a sympathetic look. “Hey man. We get it,” he says, playing Good Cop.

“See,” Teddy says, pointing. “He gets it.”

I struggle to keep my face impassive, while I’m internally seething about boys’ clubs and wondering how the hell this has gotten so far away from me. I almost wish Zelda would come back, maybe take my side. Meanwhile, Farkas blinks at me, as if to say, Three against one.

“Of course I get it,” Quentin continues. “I mean, we know how it goes. Sometimes these women get emotional. What can you do, right?”

“Dude,” Teddy laughs, dragging a beleaguered hand through his hair. “You don’t know the half of it.”

“We’ve all been there. We’ve all made a few threats to keep them around. It’s for their own good, right?”

“Yeah,” Teddy says absently, tipping his glass to his mouth. “Wait,” he chortles. “What?”

The same chain reaction is happening in my brain. I blink. Once. Twice. I’m watching Quentin in disbelief, but somehow, before I can think to intervene, he continues talking.

“C’mon,” Quentin laughs. “Telling her you’d kill the cat if she left? Leaving her ass high and dry when she fucked around and got VD? Priceless. Nobody could blame you.”

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