“It’s obviously not,” I say. “It’s unbelievably shitty.”
“Seriously, Daphne, don’t worry about it,” she says. “I knew you were a we-girl and now you’ve got a we. As the internet likes to say, when someone tells you who they are, believe them.”
“Ashleigh!” I cry. “What are you talking about?”
“Miles,” she says. “That’s who you blew me off for, right?”
My heart feels like there’s a perforated line forming down its middle, a force tugging at each side. “I’m not a we with Miles. We’re not . . . that.”
“Maybe not,” she says. “But clearly something changed while I was in Sedona, and whatever it is that the two of you are doing now, you don’t need me anymore.”
Her words knock me back.
Is that what I did? Is that who I am?
A person who treats people like loosely penciled-in backup plans, in case nothing better comes along?
I feel sick.
Worse, I’m about to cry.
I try to rein it in, but my voice crackles: “You’re right. I treated you like a fallback, and that’s shitty. I’m sorry. That’s not what you are to me.”
She drops her eyes to the concrete. “Look, I’m trying to be on time to work, so if you don’t mind, I’m going to just . . .”
“Yeah,” I scratch out. “Of course.”
She walks away without looking back.
My heart breaks a little, and I have no one to blame but myself.
After work, I stagger my departure so that Ashleigh—who barely said four words to me all day—isn’t walking out at the same time as me.
Miles isn’t here yet, so I pace along the curb, trying to burn off the cortisol flooding my system.
After a while, I go sit on the sun-hot bench and try to read. For once, I can’t seem to escape into a book. My mind keeps going back to Ashleigh.
A part of me just wants the comfort of being wrapped up in Miles’s arms, everything else temporarily obliterated. But then again, that’s how I got here.
I let myself get absorbed, again.
Still, I’ll feel better when he gets here. I’ll figure out a way to make it up to Ashleigh, to prove I’m not that person. I won’t let myself be.
I check the time. Twenty minutes late and no word yet. With how often Miles forgets his phone or lets it die, that’s not a huge surprise.
I pull my laptop out and angle it against the sun. I’m still connected to the library’s Wi-Fi, so I pull up my Read-a-thon checklist and keep working.
The parking lot empties. The streetlights pop on as the sun begins its slow plod toward sunset.
Forty minutes have passed, and a pit opens in my stomach.
I snap my computer shut and call Miles, trying not to picture him unconscious in a ditch on the side of the road, or in any other of a million worst-case scenarios.
The call rings out to voice mail.
I type everything okay? and hit send, then start pacing again.
You’re being ridiculous, I tell myself. He’s fine.
I check my phone.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Nine times.
Finally, on the tenth, my phone vibrates. I nearly throw it in my hurry to get it eye level.
shit day got away from me sorry but ya all good here u
I take it to mean, All good here, you?
Which begs the question, where is here?
