“I don’t think us spending time together is a good idea.” There goes my emotional high from earlier. I hate talking about feelings when it’s not necessary. “I think you’re nice, Kieran.”
“But you don’t see this going anywhere.”
Well. He said it.
“Dinner was enjoyable—”
“Please don’t tell me you went because of charity. I thought we were past that.”
Had Kieran not bid on himself, we never would’ve gone out a second time. I wasn’t obligated to go in the first place, but I don’t believe in wasting money. If he thought he could buy his way into a relationship, it was a miscalculation on his part. I’ll miss the lab, but I’m not about to end up in something I don’t want, or in the trunk of his car because he can’t deal with rejection. Those Netflix documentaries are terrifying.
Kieran’s low chuckle has me checking my back seat. His tongue kisses his teeth. “I’m disappointed, Miriam. I don’t like to waste my time.”
Is this where people usually say, “It’s not you, it’s me,” and “We can still be friends”? Small talk is so pointless.
“Good luck with your projects,” I add, so I don’t come off a complete jerk.
Click.
Okay, then.
I wave at my neighbor, who’s rescuing the sidewalk from pounds of snow when I pull up to my house. Another storm blew through, dumping inches and trauma over the region.
Heat and the scent of vanilla greet me when I step through the front door. Inside is my daily reminder of Antonio.
The sofa we ate on.
The bookshelves he built.
The shower curtain he annihilated.
My bedroom he helped paint.
That damn kitchen table.
I drop my coat on the rack and fish out my phone. Antonio picks up on the second ring.
“Hi, Doe.” His voice is a steady calm over the clang of dishes and chatter on the other end of the line.
“You’re out.” Of course he is. It’s four thirty in the afternoon in Utah, two hours behind. “I’ll talk to you later.”
“It’s okay,” he says in a rush. “I can talk. One sec.”
The noise dissolves.
“Hi.”
I smile. “Hi.”
A beat passes before we speak.
“I miss you,” we say at the same time.
The strength in my breath crumbles at the distance between us and his three words. We’ve said them to each other before, within the security of our friendship, when they didn’t mean more. When I didn’t want more.
“How was your trip?” My throat tightens at the sting of tears.
“Cramped,” he says. “I had the middle seat between Bread and Shins for the flight from Chicago.”
