TUESDAY, AUGUST 6TH

1 1 DAYS

MILES DOESN’T COME home that night.

I know because I don’t sleep.

I’m not waiting for him, though. I’m thinking about Ashleigh. Mentally drafting and revising apologies. Wondering how I managed to do to her the exact thing I hate most. I always identified with my mom, but in this situation, I know who I’ve acted like, and it’s not Holly Vincent.

I want to hide at home, skip work Tuesday, but there’s too much going on, and I can’t leave Ashleigh or Harvey in the lurch.

So I arrive a full twenty minutes before my shift starts, having ordered full-blown espresso from Fika, which has me moving at warp speed.

“You buy me a three-piece suit?” Harvey asks as he moseys through the fog to meet me at the locked front doors. He tips his head toward the oversize paper box in my arms.

“Pastéis de nata,” I explain. “Portuguese custard tarts. For Ashleigh’s birthday.”

The idea came to me around two a.m. By four, I’d found a bakery that had them, forty minutes south of here. At five, I was on my way.

Harvey stares at me, concerned. “You do know Ashleigh’s Persian, not Portuguese, right?”

“What? I know,” I say. “She just told me she fantasized about moving to Portugal, so . . .”

He rears back. “What’s in Portugal?”

“Pastéis de nata,” I say. “And beautiful beaches, I think.”

He shrugs to himself and unlocks the doors. “Well, I’m glad you remembered, because I forgot her doughnuts at home yesterday, and the grandkids ate them.”

Inside, I set the box on her side of the desk, then busy myself updating displays so I can miss her arrival.

All day, we manage to dodge each other, the box of pastries gradually emptying as she, Harvey, and a couple of her favorite regulars pick over them.

When I come back from lunch, she’s sitting at her computer, and flicks a glance my way. “Hi,” I say tentatively.

“Hello,” she replies.

I take my seat and try to focus, despite the noxious cloud of awkwardness. Eventually I settle into a rhythm, and then Landon arrives to relieve Ashleigh for the evening shift.

“Sweet! Goodies!” he says, one earbud already in, the other blasting from around his neck as he slips behind the desk.

“Daphne brought them,” Ashleigh says, gathering her things, “for my birthday.”

“A couple people went in on them,” I automatically say.

“Still can’t lie for shit,” she says, without averting her gaze from her computer.

“Can I have one?” Landon asks her.

“Of course,” she says. “I’m leaving them for the night crowd to finish off. Otherwise Mulder will eat all of them and turn into the Mask by bedtime.”

Landon leans over to pluck a pastel de nata from the center. “The Mask?”

“Young people.” Ashleigh grabs her green pleather bag and eyes me. “Thanks. For . . . whatever those things are.”

“Pastéis de nata,” I tell her. “Portugal’s famous breakfast treat.”

I can’t tell if she’s caught off guard in a good way, or just confused.

Maybe she doesn’t even remember our conversation about Portugal.

“And it’s my pleasure,” I add.

She nods, an acknowledgment with no visible emotion attached to it, then jogs her bag higher and leaves.

 

 

AN EMPTY APARTMENT greets me, again.

All my life, this moment, this feeling has been a constant: doing homework at a kitchen table while Mom was at night class, planning programs on the rug while Peter took a client out for drinks, sitting on the bleachers at school while every other kid’s parent showed up to take them home, Dad already halfway to a sound bath that a Trader Joe’s cashier invited him to.

Maybe it’s time to just make peace with it. Maybe certain people are destined to be solitary creatures. Maybe no matter how hard I try, I’ll end up back here.

I drop my bag, kick off my shoes, and shuffle into the dining room. The apartment has been thoroughly cleaned since this morning.

The breakfast table is cleared of junk mail and water glasses and bags from the pharmacy. Now there’s just a small white box wrapped in gold twine, and beside it, a scrap of paper. In extraordinarily messy handwriting: Sorry I missed you.

A wave of déjà vu rocks me.

It was easy to toss Dad’s note in the trash. I knew exactly what to expect.

With this, I can’t help hoping for something more.

I slide the twine off, pop the box open, and start to laugh. Fudge.

A box of fudge. So underwhelming as to border on absurd: Sorry I missed you, here’s some chocolate and condensed milk.

But the funniest part is, I did the exact same thing to Ashleigh.

The hysteric laughter is about to tumble into outright crying, when, miracle of all ill-timed miracles, my phone rings with a call from Dad.

“Is this a joke?” I demand of the universe and/or empty apartment.

I don’t want to talk to him.

I don’t want to talk to anyone—I’d even rejected a call from Mom on the walk home, because I hadn’t decided yet whether to tell her about the Maryland job or not. I told myself I didn’t want to get her hopes up, but the truth is, I don’t want to get mine any higher than they already are.

I just need to get through the interview and the Read-a-thon, and see how everything shakes out.

I send Dad’s call to voice mail and pull up my Read-a-thon checklist, desperate for a distraction, and scan the list of supplies we still need.

Then I start dragging the remaining wedding stuff out of the closet, sorting out what I can repurpose for the fundraiser—napkins, plates, flameless tea lights—and what I should just donate. The rest—the dress and everything else sellable—is still at Ashleigh’s, one more problem I can’t think about right now.

I take a quick break to order dinner, then dive back into sorting and packing until I hear a pounding at the door, the dinner I have no appetite for. “You can leave it there!” I shout, jumping up and sprinting down the hallway. I look around for a sweater I can pull on over my sports bra. “I

already paid and tipped when I ordered!” No answer.

Then the scrape of a throat being cleared. “It’s Peter.”

I honestly almost blurt out Peter who? while pulling my cardigan off the coat hook and onto my body.

Then it clicks, like a bullet into a barrel.

Peter.

I open the door, half expecting to have my only workable theory disproven. There’s no way Peter Collins is here, on my doorstep.

Except he is.

“Hi, Daphne,” he says, with a woeful smile. “Can I come in?” “Um . . .”

“Just for a minute,” he promises, his green eyes glossy and brow furrowed in that contrite-yet-hurt way that used to make my kneecaps melt.

Not that he had much occasion to use it.

Peter had always been reliable. I always knew where he was, when to expect him. Between our synced calendars, our phones’ location sharing, our rigid schedule, our unspoken agreement to send the Leaving the bar now, see you soon and Ran to the store for more milk while you were in the shower text messages, there wasn’t much space for fights.

I never had to ask, When are you coming home? I never had to worry he wouldn’t.

Until, of course, he didn’t.

I’m too shocked to argue. I widen the door and he steps inside, looking around with abject wonder, like I’m leading him into an accursed ancient pyramid and not a small, eclectically decorated apartment inside a renovated meatpacking facility.

“It looks different,” he says, “from the last time I was here.”

I shoot him a look over my shoulder. Bold move, mentioning the last time he was here. To see his then-best-friend-now-fiancée.

I make a noncommittal sound and lead him to the living room.

The whole time, I’m kind of wishing I’d just started laughing in his face, refused to say a single word, and just kept laughing until he slunk away.

I gesture toward the less comfortable of our two chairs and he sits, waits for me to do the same. I don’t.

His eyes wander over the trail of wedding detritus. “You still have so much stuff.”

“Taking another load to the thrift store tomorrow,” I lie. He winces. I stare.

After several awkward seconds, he says, “You look great, Daph.” I do not. “I’m pretty busy, Peter.”

The corners of his mouth twist. I see a question forming on his lips, but he shakes his head, apparently deciding to let it go.

Another few awkward seconds pass. His gaze meets mine, holds, smolders.

I turn to refold a couple of tablecloths. “I’m going to keep packing while you talk.”

“I’m sorry, Daphne,” he says. “Yeah, you told me that,” I say. “No, I mean, I’m sorry.”

The chair scrapes back. I turn to find him marching toward me. I still have an ivory table runner gripped in my hands when he grabs them and holds them between us. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “I was stupid and shortsighted. It was all just about chasing a rush, and honestly . . . I think I was afraid of the commitment. Of marriage.”

I half laugh. “So you got engaged to someone else?”

He shakes his head. “We’re not together. We called it off.” For a moment, I’m speechless.

It feels a little like a low-grade earthquake just rumbled through the room.

“She called it off,” I say.

He huffs. “It was mutual. We both realized how stupid we’d been. I think I knew within a week, honestly, but I’d already made such a wreck of things, I figured I needed to see it through.”

Blood rushes through my ears, dimming his voice.

I feel dizzy. Plenty of physical sensations, but hardly any emotional ones.

“So you knew it was a mistake,” I say, gathering my wits, “and you were going to . . . what? Just marry her anyway? You ripped up my life and then you were going to destroy hers too? For . . . for fucking pride?”

His jaw drops, hurt flooding his features. I’ve never talked to him like this. It’s close to things I’ve screamed, in my darkest late-night fantasy speeches, but it doesn’t actually feel good to say.

It doesn’t feel good to hurt him.

Because truthfully, I don’t feel hurt by him right now.

Wronged? Sure. Hurt? No. He’s not capable of that anymore. I step back. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to be mean to you.”

He shakes his head. “I deserve it.”

“You do,” I say. “But still, I don’t want to treat you like that. I just . . . It’s hard to take any of this seriously. It’s hard to trust what you say now,

after all the lying.”

“Lying?” His brow scrunches. “I told you as soon as anything happened with Petra. I know I acted like scum, but I never lied.”

“You told me there was nothing between you,” I say. “For years. You insisted she was totally wrong for you—”

“She was,” he cuts in. “That’s my point.”

“—and that you could never be with her,” I go on.

“Daphne, that’s what I’m saying,” he counters. “I couldn’t. I can’t.” “And that you’d never seen her like that,” I finish.

“I hadn’t,” he insists. “Not really. When I said all of that to you, I meant it. Every word. And now I know it’s true. It’s just . . . we were barreling toward our wedding, Daph. And I freaked out. And Petra freaked out too, because she knew the relationship between her and me was probably going to change. We got confused. And I know it makes no sense, because I was ready to marry you, so the time for that kind of confusion should have been way past. You have no idea how sorry I am. I’ll spend my whole life making it up to you. Trying to get back to how perfect we were together.”

“Peter, stop,” I say. “We weren’t perfect. Obviously. Or this couldn’t have happened.”

“Fine,” he says. “Maybe we weren’t. But you were. You were perfect for me, and I threw it away. I miss your cute little giggle, and I miss going to visit Cooper and Sadie with you and getting brunch at Hearth, and going to the gym together, and having dinner with my family. God, my family, Daphne. They miss you too.

“I was so deluded, I thought they’d be on board with the whole Petra thing. And her parents were thrilled, but mine . . . they know me better than all this. They knew it was a mistake right away. You’re part of my family, Daphne. You belong with me.”

As he’s saying it, I feel the telltale prickle behind my nose, the heat coursing into my cheeks. Tears are surfacing and I can’t stop them.

Taking this as encouragement, he moves closer. “We can get our life back,” he whispers. “It’s not too late.”

I can’t help but laugh a little as I dab my eyes with the table runner.

It is too late.

The life he’s describing—it isn’t one I want.

It’s right in a general sense, and all wrong in the particulars.

A steady partner. A family. Good friends to take trips and share boozy brunches and throw Halloween parties with. A home.

But I don’t want Peter’s too-big house, whose mortgage doesn’t have my name on it.

And I don’t want Peter’s friends, who don’t care about me.

And as much as I’d dreamed of being a part of Peter’s tight-knit family, I realize now I’d also never cried in front of them, never complained about work or opened up about how hard I found it to trust new people. I’d never even used a curse word in front of them. Their perfection hadn’t drawn me in—it had intimidated me. I spent our whole relationship auditioning, the same way I always feel when I’m with Dad, praying I’m doing enough to make the cut.

And I’m not sure why I wasted all that time and energy, because when I think about family—that thing I’d always longed for—it’s never been a Norman Rockwell painting that I picture.

It’s me and Mom, on the couch, eating microwaved corn dogs while Dial M for Murder plays on TV. It’s running out from the library at night to her car, a greasy box of Little Caesars pizza in the passenger seat, her joking, I thought we’d do Italian.

It’s being pulled away from watching the frost melt on the living room window to make stovetop hot cocoa from a packet, and that last tight hug at the end of the airport security line, and packing up cardboard boxes, knowing I’ll always have what I need, no matter how much I leave behind.

My life, five months ago, was picture perfect, but it wasn’t the picture I wanted.

And I don’t want him. I’m totally over him.

If any part of me had wondered whether this thing with Miles was just a distraction, a rebound, or an act of vengeance, that part is brutally dispelled.

Because even now, in my misery, no part of me jumps at the chance to go back to how things were before.

“I’m sorry, Peter,” I say. “I don’t want that.”

His voice wobbles. “You can’t mean that, Daph.” “I do,” I whisper.

The corners of his mouth twitch downward. I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing I am, that these are ironic last words for our relationship.

It takes him several seconds, several nods and throat-clears to regain control.

Then he starts toward the door. My hosting gene kicks in and I follow, walk him out of my home and life.

He opens the door and steps into the hallway, but he doesn’t leave. Instead he stands there, maybe considering a Hail Mary, or maybe a fuck you.

Finally, he faces me. “If you need someplace to stay, you can come home while you’re looking. I’ll take the couch.”

He reads the blank expression on my face, and I see a flicker of something like smugness in his not-quite-smile.

“They’ll get back together,” he says. “You know that, right?”

I stare at him, determined not to say anything, even as a sinkhole opens in my low belly, everything collapsing as it falls through.

“He already spent all day helping her move her shit out,” he says.

“What?” I don’t mean to give him the satisfaction; it just slips out. And he pounces on it, almost smiling.

“Yesterday,” he says. “Like five minutes after we ended things, he’s there, moving her out. You honestly think they’re done with each other, Daphne?”

I tuck my elbows against my sides to keep from shaking.

To hide that my insides feel like a hurricane. Not the calm eye of a storm, but the vicious edges, tearing everything to shreds.

He’s wrong. He has to be.

Even if he’s not, it doesn’t matter.

That’s not why I’m not getting back with Peter, though I now understand that’s what he thinks.

That I’d never turn him down unless there was someone else. That I’d always rather be with someone than by myself, even if that person is completely wrong for me.

Even in this bleak moment, I feel a spike of something cool and bright. Hope, or relief, or a tiny tendril of joy, the thinnest silver lining of a jet-

black cloud. Because he’s wrong.

I don’t want to be a part of the wrong we. I’d rather be on my own, even if it hurts right now.

Someday I’ll be okay, someday. “Goodbye, Peter.”

I shut the door.