Page 68 of Destroyed With You

Her brows rise. “A thing,” she repeats, her tone lascivious. “That’s probably TMI.”

“Actually, no.” I draw in a breath and try to get my head on straight. “I did miss you. Truly. Has Winston told you what happened? Why I’m not dead, I mean?”

She nods. The Kelloggs live only a block from the square, and we’ve reached the intersection. Emma points to the bakery in the next block. “Coffee and talk now,” she says. “Kolaches to go.”

I agree, and when we arrive, I take a seat at one of the small sidewalk tables while she goes in to get the coffee. She returns almost immediately, her expression surprised. “I’ve lived in cities too long,” she says. “The coffee’s free with purchase, and they took my word I’d be back for the actual purchasing.”

“It’s nice like that here,” I say. “I always liked Hades, too, even with the shit storm brewing.”

“Well, you had Winston.”

I sigh, wondering how badly I screwed up earlier. “I did. Or at least the illusion of Winston.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

“No,” I say, then immediately add, “He kissed you earlier.”

“Yeah. One of those pecks on the forehead that hide wild, passionate abandon.”

I almost spit the coffee I’ve just sipped. “I’d forgotten how much I like you.”

Her smile widens. “Mutual. And maybe I kissed him to get a rise out of you. I’m brassy as hell, after all.”

I sit up, surprised. “Did you?”

“No. Honestly, I didn’t even think about the fact that you might be watching. But I talked with Winston. Would’ve served you right to try and make you a little jealous.”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, come on, Lin. I saw you two together in Hades, remember? And I saw the way he talked about you this morning. And I can see the jealousy on your face right now.”

I sit back. “So?”

“You love him. He loves you. Why is the math so difficult?”

“It’s not love,” I say. “It’s attraction.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. But back then it was love.”

“It wasn’t. It was only the illusion of love. We were living a lie.”

“Not a lie. An inconvenient foundation.”

“No, that’s not—”

“Just listen,” she interrupts. “I’ve lived a lot of roles. I think you have, too. But somewhere in all of them, it’s still you, right?”

I want to argue, but I can’t. “Yeah. But that doesn’t mean—”

“Will you let me finish? It’s like you go see a movie. And you end up bawling at the end. I don’t know. An Affair to Remember. Or that press conference scene in Notting Hill. You’re all beat up inside, right?”

“My life isn’t a movie.”

“I’m not saying it is. I’m saying that those emotions you felt are real, right?”

“It’s not the same,” I protest.

“Maybe not, but I’m still right.”