“I shouldn’t be talking about this,” I say.
“Maybe,” she says gently, “you need to?”
I must look suspicious, because she adds, “I swear, I’m saying this as a friend, not the friendly neighborhood gossipmonger.”
“I need to talk about it,” I relent. “Just not about it. I feel like that should’ve stayed private.”
She pantomimes zipping her lips shut, but hasn’t even finished when she chimes in, “But for what it’s worth, everything you’ve said has only made me love and respect him more.”
“Miles is great,” I say. “I just don’t think Miles and I are great for each other.”
“Why?” Ashleigh asks. “You’re unbelievably happy when you’re around him. That’s kind of the main thing that matters.”
“I’m exactly the kind of person he can’t handle being with, and he’s exactly the kind who could destroy me,” I explain.
“Honey.” Ashleigh touches my hand. “That’s how it works. That’s love.”
“I get too swept up in him, Ash,” I say. “I almost let myself get absorbed again, and for what? I know better.”
“You’re being too hard on yourself,” she says.
“He ran, Ashleigh.” My voice breaks. “He was supposed to pick me up from work the next day, and he just . . . never came.”
Her mouth falls open as she takes in my meaning.
“I didn’t hear from him for hours. Until I texted him.”
“Oh, god, Miles, no,” she groans, like he’s here to reason with.
“And then, Peter came by,” I say.
“Holy fuck!” she yelps.
“He and Petra broke up.”
Another shocked gasp. “No,” she says, aghast. “Miles didn’t . . .”
“He says he was just helping her move her stuff out,” I say. “But Peter said they’re on the path to rekindling.”
“What in Satan’s ball sack?” she demands, then, thinking better of it, says, “Look, Peter’s bitter, and Miles is a nice guy. Of course he helped her move out.”
“I know,” I say. He wouldn’t tell me he loved me if he intended to get back together with Petra. Maybe it’s naive, but I really believe that. Or maybe I just want to.
“That’s not the point,” I say.
“It’s certainly a point,” Ashleigh says, “if not the point.”
“There’s a job,” I blurt. “Near my mom. I think I have a real shot at getting it.”
She assesses me for a long beat. “Shit.”
“I wanted to tell you right away, but . . .”
She looks down at her hands. “I was icing you out.” She sighs and squeezes my hands. “When you move, just don’t forget about me, okay?”
“Trust me, I couldn’t,” I say tearily, and I mean it. “I could barely handle this last week without you. I don’t want to do that again.”
“Couldn’t agree more.” Her eyes drift up to the cut-in. “What a disgusting color.”
“It truly, truly is,” I say.
Her smile grows, eyes dropping to me. “Want to put on the TV and keep going?”
“Do you?” I ask.
“I think it’ll be fun to have an ugly room for a while,” she says. “Duke couldn’t abide ugliness. Or dogs.” She perks up. “Maybe I should get a dog.” She looks to me for feedback.
“I think you should do exactly what you want to do,” I tell her.
“Let’s rob a bank,” she says.
“I think you should get a dog.”
34
SATURDAY, AUGUST 10TH
7 DAYS
Later, in the kitchen, picking over a plate of pizza rolls, Ashleigh invites me to stay with her until the Read-a-thon.
“I haven’t had a roommate other than Duke in a long time,” she says. “And this house is fucking huge. It’d be fun.”
“Speaking of the size of your house, you’ve never mentioned . . .” I trail off.
“That I live in a Bond villain lair?” Ashleigh says.
Which gives me permission to more openly call a spade a spade: “That you’re rich as fuck.”
She snorts. “I am not. Duke has cookie money.”
“Cookie money?” I repeat. “Like he knocked over a Girl Scouts truck and started a black-market operation?”
“Like, he’s the heir to a cookie fortune,” she says.
“I didn’t know cookies could have fortunes,” I say. “I mean . . . other than . . . fortune cookies.”
