She takes a beat. “Actually, it’s just you. You just smell really good, Ollie.”
Then she draws a shaky breath and pulls back. “But if we keep doing that, we’ll get all caught up again, and we said we wouldn’t.”
“Right. Right. We did say that.” Part of me loves that she feels the same slippery slope I do.
Another part wants to send us both tumbling down that hill.
We start walking again along the block and spot a couple staring at us. One of the pair, a woman with dark hair and gray eyes, offers me a tentative smile and seems embarrassed. “America’s Best Boyfriend?”
Summer chimes in, “This is him.”
“Can we take a pic?”
“Sure,” she says, snuggling up against me.
The woman snaps a picture, then her eyes drift down to Summer’s left hand. “Gorgeous ring.”
“Thanks so much,” Summer says, and the couple turns to leave, saying they’ll hashtag us.
I look forward to the day I’m not a hashtag.
A little later, we reach Geneva’s block.
“I feel a little guilty going in there,” Summer says softly.
“Because it’s a charade?”
She smiles softly. “Yes, to be honest.”
“Same here. I guess I’m not as Machiavellian as I thought.”
“Did you think you were?”
“I’m a lawyer. I have to be a little Machiavellian. The ends justify the means and all.” I puff up my chest and put on my best dickhead voice. “I’m an asshole. I can do this.”
She laughs, then her laughter fades. “But in this case, I do think the end justifies the means. Maybe I’m Machiavellian.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Because I think it’s stupid that you were judged for what I said. I think it’s stupid, too, that I judged you for being”—she waves her hand at me—“for being pretty.”
I flutter my hand across my chest. “I’ve always wanted to be pretty.”
“You know what I mean. It’s ridiculous. Society judges women based on looks, and, frankly, on a million other things too. And then we turn around and judge other people. The internet judged you. Your client judged you for a letter I wrote about how awesome you are.” She’s winding herself up, building a head of steam. “It’s insane. I mean, so what if you had truly broken my heart. Does that mean you’re a bad lawyer?”
“Probably means I’m a good lawyer.”
“But see, that’s the thing—the letter was supposed to be a thank you,” she says, turning to me, touching my arm. “It was supposed to be between us.”
I take a breath, thinking carefully before I say the next thing. “Then why didn’t you just tell me?”
She’s quiet, the cogs in her brain whirring. “Because I don’t think I realized what it was at the time. I wrote it from the heart, and it felt like a secret, something only we would know.”
Her confession feels like the true secret. She’s telling me something private, something meaningful.
I stroke her hair, tucking some strands behind her ear. “Then next time, just tell me.”
She raises her hand to clutch my wrist, but not like she’s stopping me—more like she’s clinging to me. “I’ll do that. I promise. And I’m glad you’re not mad at me.”
I lean in closer, press my forehead to hers. “Do you want me to pretend I am? To fake being mad?”
She laughs. “Don’t fake that. I’m sorry you have to play this game because of me.”
But maybe I don’t mind the game after all. I slide my hand down her hair, savoring the softness, and consider saying fuck the world and kissing her.
Instead, I let go.
“Don’t be sorry. I’m having a blast with you. Let’s go inside and fake it—and give her this infernal cookie-batter hostess gift.”
Once inside, we give Geneva the batter, which delights her.
“I’ve never had someone bring me cookie batter,” she says, her eyes shifting from Summer to me. “I suspect this is your fiancée’s doing.”
“It absolutely is.”
We mingle with her guests, as well as Jane, and I feel nothing but honest as I take Summer’s hand, thread my fingers through hers, and introduce her as my fiancée.
