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.
32
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 7TH
10 DAYS
I should’ve checked the weather before I left for work on Wednesday. But when I heard Miles moving around his room, I ran for the front door.
I didn’t have the time or energy for a serious conversation.
So I left. Without car keys, or a jacket, or an umbrella.
At the library, things were a bit less frosty between me and Ashleigh. Her curt politeness feels even worse. We’ve fully reverted to coworkers.
And now I’m walking home in pouring rain, even though she offered me a ride, because I didn’t want her to feel obligated.
I stop at an intersection, and a soft-top Jeep flashes its lights, signaling that I can cross.
I dart to the far side of the street, managing to stomp through three oily puddles in the process.
As I’m passing the car, it honks, and I jump, readying myself for a debaucherous catcall.
The window slides down and the driver leans across the passenger seat.
A messy head of dark hair. An upturned nose. A scruffy face that makes my heart feel like it’s been double-bounced on a trampoline.
“Thought you might need a ride,” Miles says.
All I can think to say is, “Did you get a new car?”
“Long story,” he murmurs. “Tell you on the way?”
I don’t want to be furious and devastated. I want to be indifferent and dignified. It’s hard to be either with sewer rat hair and mascara streaks to your jaw.
“You can just take me to Cherry Hill and I’ll get a cab,” I say awkwardly, climbing in. “No need for you to be late to work.”
My teeth instantly start chattering from the AC. Miles turns the heat knob all the way up, the windshield fogging at the edges where the wipers can’t reach.
“They won’t be slammed yet,” he says. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not worth getting in trouble,” I say.
At a red light, he looks over at me. “I was trying to meet you at the library, but there was an accident on Tremaine.”
I focus on the world of blue, green, gray outside the windows, keeping him safely in my periphery. “Thanks anyway.”
“Daphne?”
“Hm?”
He pulls to the curb. “Can we talk for a minute?”
Our eyes tentatively meet. I look away, stomach dropping when I spot the taffy-green cottage two houses down, like a cruel joke: You thought you could be different, want something different, but you’re you.
“Daphne,” he says quietly. “Can you look at me? I want to apologize to you.”
“For what?” My gaze judders back.
“You know what,” he says.
“I don’t,” I say. “All I know is, I waited an hour for someone who didn’t show up. The rest—why you totally disappeared for twenty-four hours—that’s just a guess.”
A guess loosely drawn by Peter, in the most painful way conceivable.
“So if you want to apologize for something,” I say, trying to lean into the anger, away from the ache, “you’re going to have to explain what it is, exactly, that you did.”
“I panicked,” he says.
There it is.
I’m still the woman with too many expectations, and Miles is the guy who panics when they’re set on him.
“I didn’t tattoo my name on you while you were sleeping,” I say.
“I know that,” he replies.
