“And you’re just going to let that haunt you for the rest of your life?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Do you …” I swallow harder than I mean to. “Do you still have feelings for her?”
“Honestly, I’m not sure. You know how sometimes the line between longing and lack of closure is hard to define?”
I scoff. “Have you not heard ‘Outdated’? I wrote a song about exactly that.”
“Is it from yourNebulousalbum? I’m not as familiar with that one.”
“It is.”
“If I’ve learned anything about you, I’m going to guess the song is a play on words because it’s about someone you’ve dated while also being about poorly timed lingering feelings that were, in a metaphorical sense, out of style.”
“‘Loving you is so last year,’” I quote myself in response. “‘Why can’t I just be more cavalier … about you? Yet I’m unclear … without you.’”
“I’ll have to pull that one up on Spotify later.” He watches Mikayla for a moment as she sips a martini and sits at one of the card tables.
I chew the inside of my cheek and sigh. Am I really about to say what I’m going to say? “You should … go talk to her.”
He furrows his brows. “Why would I do that?”
“Because you’ve left things unsaid. Maybe she really doesn’t know how you felt; maybe if she did, she’d like the chance to respond. ‘I lie awake in bed, and all the things that go unsaid are hanging over my head.’ ‘Parsing every unsaid word, my face unseen, my voice unheard, we don’t speak and it’s absurd, keeping all the lines blurred.’”
Riff gapes at me for several seconds.
“It’s called ‘Unsaid,’” I tell him, “and yes, it’s from theNebulousalbum too. Anyway, you get the point. So if not knowing is going to bother you forever, you should say what you didn’t say when things ended, and see what happens. Or,” I add offhandedly, “you can be immature and parade me around in front of her and try to figure out whether she seems jealous.”
Dammit—why did I just say that?
Besides, how could she be jealous? She’s stunning—and she doesn’t even have all the extra help like I do (wardrobe stylist, glam squad, dermatologist on call, personal trainer that I really should take better advantage of).
“Not sure that would work,” he says, and his tone tells me he doesn’t think I’m serious anyway. “I was just reading comments online a few hours ago and people are throwing around the word ‘showmance.’ Some say the timing doesn’t make sense or that we don’t seem that into each other. Plus, Mikayla’s worked around lots of famous artists, so she knows people like us will sometimes play along with dating rumors if they’re doing a song together or whatever.”
“Well,” I say, “maybe we could … try harder to sell it.”
He looks me dead in the eyes. “What?”
“I know I’ve been … less than cooperative and … I’m sorry.”
There’s not much I can do about the dating ruse now that things are in motion, but I don’t have to resist strategies that might help make it more believable. And it was a lot harder to play pretend when I thought Riff was an asshole, but having had a glimpse of what he’s really like, the thought of touching him is onlyawkwardrather than repulsive.
Not that I ever found him completely repulsive.
“Um.” His expression implies he’s fighting the urge to check my forehead temperature. “How do I even respond to that?”
“You were right; I started this whole thing. The least I can do is make it easier to follow through with it until we can … go our separate ways.” Saying “break up” sounds wrong when we’re not actually dating.
“That’s good of you, I guess,” he replies. “What does that entail, exactly?”
“Whatever you think it will take.”
He huffs a laugh. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do.” To demonstrate, I brush my fingertips along his upper arm.
He looks sidelong at my movement, then back at my face, and grabs my wrist. “Why the sudden change of attitude?”
