“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.
The picture he took is still onscreen. I’m midword, my lips practically on his face, and he’s smiling, a slew of his disjointed sailor-style forearm tattoos draped across my chest in an easy yet vaguely suggestive way.
We look very much like a couple, if you ignore the fact that we also look like two people who’d have exactly nothing in common. Then again, I guess that’s how straitlaced Peter and free-spirited Petra look side by side.
It’s just that Petra wears the aesthetic like an edgy pop starlet, and Miles looks kind of like the guy from high school who intentionally failed his senior year to stick around for a while, then started selling bootleg cologne out of the trunk of his car in the mall parking lot.
Not that I look much better. There’s a smear of avocado on my chin.
“What am I supposed to do with this,” I say.
“Whatever you want.” Miles crumples the paper sandwich sheath and tosses it into the trash.
“Meaning?”
“Daphne.” He slumps forward on his elbows, raking a hand up through his hair. It stays put, defying gravity. His beard is likewise sticking out in dark tufts like he’s a bedraggled and hungover young Wolverine. “You know what I’m getting at.”
“You want me to post this so he’ll think we’re dating,” I say.
“No,” he says, bemused. “I personally want you to post it so Petra thinks we’re dating.”
“Why can’t you post it,” I say.
“Because I don’t have any social media,” he says.
“Right.” I remember Peter telling me this. I’d been scrolling through Petra’s—frankly, professional-grade influencer—feed and not only was Miles not tagged in any pictures, but his face wasn’t even in any. When I asked Peter about it, he rolled his eyes and said something cranky about Miles being too good for social media.
Just the thought of it now is enough to tip me over the edge.
I don’t write a caption. I just post the picture.
Miles grins and high-fives me.
“Are we evil or just immature?” he says.
“I think maybe just bitter,” I reply. “Hey, thanks for the breakfast sandwich, by the way.”
“Thanks for the pep talk last night,” he says.
“When did that happen?” I ask.
