Penelope says softly, “If you take too long to answer, it implies that you don’t want to be with him.”
I look at Mila. She knows. She already knows. We’ve had a hundred conversations over the past two years. It’s so dumb to know almost right away that someone isn’t for you and stay with them anyway.
Mila turns to Penelope. “She doesn’t have the guts to break up with him.”
The words slap, and my appetite — what was left of it, what survived the hangover — vanishes in a single, clean cut. I push the plate two inches away from me on the counter, and I glare at her. I want to argue so badly that for a moment, my mouth is open, but nothing is coming out.
She makes it sound so easy, like I am simplyunwilling, the way a child is unwilling to eat a vegetable, and not — not — not the deeper, uglier truth, which is that I am terrified.
I’m not the girl who looks a good man in the eye and tells him that what he is offering is not enough. I would probably stay with him until the day I die because that is the kind of girl I’ve turned into. I let people take care of me because being taken care of is somuch easier than not getting what I want. He’s such agood guy,and that is the part I cannot make either of them understand.
Penelope looks at me with empathy. “If you don’t want to be with someone, it’s not fair for them if you stay.”
It’s a simple concept, and it’s the one that cuts deep. Because there’s no edge to it, no anger, no impatience, or accusations. It’s just a piece of information, laid down on the counter between us, like she’s showing me a recipe.
It’s not fair to them.
To them. Tohim.
Mila lifts her eyebrows and nods along with Penelope’s words.
“You should’ve done it over summer, Melly,” Mila says.
“But I was living with him,” I argue.
“Yeah,” Mila says quietly, “but…”
She doesn’t finish. She lets thebuthang in the air between the three of us until it is so heavy it nearly falls into the fruit bowl.
I lean over the counter and fold forward at the waist. I bury my face in my hands and just stay there, for a moment, in the dark of my own palms.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I say into my hands.
“Well,” Penelope says, gently, “you’re not living with him anymore. So —”
“You have freedom,” Mila cuts in, and her voice has changed. It’s softer now. Coaxing. “You have freedom, Melly. You have your own room.You have your own bed.You have a door you can close. You’re out of there. You did it! Do you understand how big that is?”
I don’t answer.
“And, also.” Mila pauses. “And also — I slept in your bed last night, girlie. Remember that?”
I peek at her through my fingers.
She is grinning a small, devious grin. “Wait, do you actually remember what you told me last night?”
The heat is up my neck. Oh, God. What did I tell her? My memory of last night is a black hole with little flashes of headlights at the edges. I have no idea what I said to her.
She grins wider. “You told me,” she says, “that you didn’t want to hump him anymore.”
I make a noise. It’s a horrified squeak as I bury my face back into my hands. I’m laughing now, silently, my shoulders shaking, and I cannot look up at either of them because I know if I look up at Mila, I’m going to die on the spot.
“Did he hear me?” I ask.
“No, he didn’t hear that part. He was already snoring.”
“Oh, thank God.”
“But,” she adds, slowly, “you wouldn’t stop talking about a certain color of the rainbow.”
