There’s the sound effect of a picture being taken from an iPhone camera and the noise makes everything click at once.
“Ethan, are you breaking up with me?” I ask with what I intended to be a light laugh. But the desperation in the sound makes me cringe.
“It’s a break. Not a break-up. We just need some time to be—independent. To get the lay of the land—”
“The lay of what? You want to spend these four weeks getting laid?” My calm has slipped. I need to lower my voice. Breathe. The last thing I want is some random footage of me losing my mind as Ethan Bennington basically hands me a going-away box of condoms.
He takes my elbow and pulls me closer so I can smell the orange juice and mint on his breath.
“Of course not, Ava. I’m not looking for that—but if you have oats to sow—I want them sown before we”—he gestures between us—“move forward. I want us both to be sure. And this seems like the perfect time to do that.”
He’s barely even breathing hard as he rips my heart out of my chest.
I have no oats. I hate oats.
“I am sure,” I whisper.
He tilts his forehead against mine.
“Then these four weeks will just make that certainty even deeper.”
“So you’re testing me?”
He shakes his head as he straightens.
“We. We are taking this time to remind ourselves of what we want,” he says with such solid assuredness that I almost find myself nodding. That’s his superpower. Conviction.
“Alright, Ethan. I hate this—”
“So do I,” he interrupts.
“But I’ll go along with it. For you.”
“For us,” he corrects.
I almost roll my eyes and saywhatever. But this is Ethan, not my dad. He’s my partner. My equal.
“One call,” he reminds me, closing my fingers around the stupid card in my hand. The plastic feels heavier than the diamond Ithought I’d be carrying across the Atlantic—the diamond that was meant to be a symbol of our future. Wrong symbol, universe. I was manifesting the shiny rock, not an obsolete piece of PVC. If I put a little pressure on it, maybe it’ll turn into a diam—
Ethan reaches out and stops me just before I snap the card like a toddler.
“Right,” I say, straightening myself and staring up at him. So much for the exorbitant daily fee I’m paying for international cell service. I’ll have to use it all on phone calls to Tammy. He presses his lips together and suppresses a smile when he meets my narrowed gaze—sees the tight set of my molars at the corner of my jaw. He calls it my ball-kicking look.
“I’ll miss that look,” he chuckles, but doesn’t cover his crotch like he normally does. I let out a measured breath, then lift onto my toes and kiss him. I put everything I have into the kiss.
It’s a reminder.
A promise.
A fuck you.
And when he pulls away and sucks in a breath, his blue eyes three shades darker than they were before my lips hit his, I nod once and turn my back on him—equal parts punishment and assurance that he doesn’t see my careful composure slipping like a scoop of ice cream from a melting cone. I turn and walk away, shoulders back and chin as high as it can reach without pinching a nerve.
A break? A four-week, oat-sowing, transatlantic break. This is Ross and Rachel on steroids.
I reach into my purse and find the tiny pill bottle Tammy gave me “just for emergencies.” I believe the calling card/hall pass cutting into my palm constitutes an emergency. I’m tempted to call Tammy and check—no, to call Olivia and ask for her help—but I remind myself she’s not my mother. She’s his. The realization sendsa pang of sharp, cutting grief beneath my sternum and I toss back the pill, dry-swallowing even though my throat has already closed up with the oncoming tears.
Four short weeks.
