Page 75 of The Perfect Rom-Com

I laugh. “You can’t know the exact minute.”

“You were standing on top of your coffee table, that huge trunk of wood, in your swinging reindeer antlers and pajama pants, singing—horribly, I might add—a bluesy ‘Santa Claus Is Coming to Town,’ when I decided.”

“My character was Rosie, the jazz-singing ex-girlfriend of Rudolf with a chip on her shoulder. I had to be bluesy.”

“And the bluesy did it.” He squeezed my waist. “That’s when everyone else was off the table.” He pauses. “Ah.” He grins at his little joke. “See what I did there? Because you were on it.”

“Why?” I say incredulously. I remember my pajama pants. I remember the horrible singing. “Why then?”

“Because that’s when I saw in your eyes there was a chance.”

And I know, I know we have just kissed. I know his arm is around my waist right now, but it feels exposing realizing he knew the truth about that night. Like he’s opened the very secret medicine cabinet in my bathroom and perused the bottles.

Warmth rises in my cheeks that’s immediately cooled by the July breeze. Even I haven’t fully acknowledged what happened to me that night. I had made some tiny rash decisions, then put the experience and memory behind locked doors and thrown away the key. After all, I was in a relationship. And jealousy was not allowed when you were in a relationship.

My worldview is easy to manage in black and white. I’m a rule follower.

You have a boyfriend and a declared mutual relationship? Stay loyal. Loyal until one or both agree to terminate the relationship.

You have a job? Be there when the clock starts.

You have a deadline? Get it in by midnight.

The world is simple to comprehend when you follow the rules.

But that night was different. I was feeling just so . . . so . . . down that he had deserted us for that beautiful, perky Pilates gym rat. Seeing the empty chair beside me at bowling. Feeling the gaping hole in the evening in his absence. I wanted him there. I wanted to hear his little satirical jokes. I wanted him to show up with two Cokes and slide one over to me without speaking. I wanted to feel the brush of his knee in a casual way against mine as we sat huddled so close together, too many of us on the seats. I wanted to hear about the tiny stuff, the little details of his day. I wanted to tell him about how I broke the letter A on my keyboard and spent two hours writing things like “the glss cndle ws centered on the tble.”

I wanted to live in his nothings and him to live in mine.

And I felt it so strongly, so urgently, that yes, I all but dragged him to my place for an excuse of a party.

And yes, when the inspiration struck and it was time to show off my character, I did use it as an excuse to grab his hand. To pull him—not Chen, not Jose, but him—up on the table with me.

I wasn’t beautifully dressed. The one thing slinky about my outfit were the reindeer antlers that bounced as we danced.

“But you gave me the most stunning smile I’d ever seen,” Jack says.

And I know I did.

Because Marilyn was gone. And he was all mine again.

And I guess the feelings that I thought were so cleverly shrouded by party games and hat tricks were not so cleverly shrouded after all.

I guess . . . even though that night I went to bed and vowed to forget what I did . . . I guess he remembered.

“Oh,” I say, squeezing my eyes shut at the memory, “don’t remind me. I was just terrible that night.”

“No, you weren’t.” He squeezes my hand reassuringly. We’re at the entrance to the parking lot now. The bus and Amelia’s face peeking out in the distance. “You didn’t betray Parker, Bryony. You just . . . couldn’t fool me. There’s a difference.”

Wordlessly our hands break apart as we step onto the parking lot and start toward the bus.

We both know and don’t have to say it.

It’s best if we keep this between us.

At least until we get off this bus tour.

Light emanates from the humming bus as we reach it, and we pause just before getting to the door.