Miles snorts. “Smug little prick.”

“He’s six four,” I say.

“Smug giant douche,” he amends. Then, after a minute, “Or, I don’t know, maybe he genuinely thought he was being nice?”

“No, you were right the first time.”

Miles unwraps my breakfast sandwich partway and shoves it toward my face. I take a bite, and then he sets it down in front of my chin.

“Wait!” He braces his hands against the counter, face brightening. “So he called to try to make you feel so pathetic you wouldn’t come ruin his special day, and you told him we were dating?”

“I’m sorry,” I say again.

“That fucking rules,” he says. “How’d he take it?”

“Some silence, some scoffs of disbelief,” I say. “A gentle reminder that the wedding’s not for three months, and there’s no way you and I will still be dating by then. Pretty perceptive of him, given that we’re not dating now.” I drop my face, groaning anew at the fresh round of hammering inside my brain.

“Eat something,” Miles says. “It will help.”

I pitch myself onto one of the mismatched wooden stools at the counter and slide the sandwich toward me, taking a forceful bite.

“Maybe we should date,” Miles says.

I choke. He watches me coughing, an impish grin forming on his impish mouth. “Yes,” I finally manage. “A shared cuckolding is the most fertile ground from which love could ever spring.”

“Yeah, that,” he says, “and it would piss them off.”

“As you pointed out,” I say. “They don’t care. They’re getting married, Miles.”

“And six weeks ago, you were getting married,” he says.

“Hey, if you’re willing to keep reminding me of that daily, I can go ahead and rename my morning alarm something other than WAKE UP, YOU’VE BEEN JILTED, BITCH.”

“No, I mean, a few weeks ago, you and Peter were engaged. And yet, he was jealous of me, and you were jealous of Petra.”

“Excuse you,” I say.

“I’m quoting you,” he says.

“From when?” I say.

“Halfway through the third time you put on ‘Witchy Woman’ last night.”

I narrow my gaze.

“You don’t remember anything that happened, do you?” He seems tickled at the thought.

“I remember Glenn,” I say.

“Gill,” he says.

“Right.”

“My point is, just because they’re engaged, it doesn’t mean they’re above jealousy.” He takes another sip of coffee. I reach feebly toward the maple syrup jar, and he nudges it closer to me.

I spoon some into my mug and take a sip.

“What do you think?” he asks, leaning forward.

“Pretty good,” I say. “Where’d it come from?”

“Oh, just one of my countless odd jobs,” he says.

My cheeks heat.

He laughs into another huge bite of his sandwich, which reminds me to eat mine. “We’re not going to their wedding as a fake couple,” I say.

He shrugs. “Okay.”

“You’re not going to convince me.”

“Fine,” he says.

“I’m serious,” I say.

“Does he still follow you on social media or did you block him?” he asks.

I squirm on the stool and busy myself with another sip. “I unfollowed him, but I didn’t block him.” Some very pathetic part of me didn’t want to close the door entirely. I wanted him to miss me, even a tiny fraction of the amount I missed him. I wanted him to regret losing me.

I have not made a single post since we broke up.

I go on: “I don’t know if he still follows me or not.”

“Yes, you do,” Miles says.

“Okay, fine, as of yesterday, he did.”

“Can I see your phone?” Miles asks.

“I don’t want to block him,” I say.

“I’m not going to,” he promises.

I hand my phone over, and he sets down his sandwich, chewing as he taps around on the screen. Then he rounds the counter to stand behind me, holding the phone out in front of us, the selfie camera on. He hunches over, hooking his free arm around my collarbones and flashing a dimpled grin.

“What are you doing?” I ask, turning toward him, my nose grazing his cheekbone.

“Got it,” he says, straightening up and pushing my phone back into my hand.