I proudly cross my arms, looking over this new arrangement. “Now we’re done.”
I sneak another look at him. There was a time when I imagined I could read him. I thought I knew his heart as well as my own. I thought he had a heart. But it was all a cynical joke. It was Max pretending to have a heart.
He frowns. “Did you forget something?”
“What?”
“Where’s my array?”
“You picked cheesy puffs. There they are.”
“That was yesterday,” he says.
My pulse pounds. Is he going to make me do it?
He wouldn’t.
But there he is, waiting. Cruel, perfect Max. He does the finger-twirl.
I grab the chips from their jaunty angle next to his sandwich and take them back to my cart and grab the other chips. I hold them up and list them off, knowing he’ll choose the cheesy puffs. The understanding rushes between us, strong as an ocean current.
I know, and he knows I know. I guess that’s what makes this fun for him.
“Very good. Now let’s see.” He folds his hands and rocks back. His gaze is palpable on my skin, a cool, smooth weight.
I grit my teeth, heart drumming inside me. But all he sees is my cool smile—I make sure of it.
Finally he speaks. “I’ll take the cheesy puffs.”
“Excellent choice.”
I see right now he’s going to make me show him the array every time. And he’ll choose the cheesy puffs every time. Even if he doesn’t want cheesy puffs, he’ll choose cheesy puffs, because that will upset me most.
It’s as if we’re connected by some horrible thread. Just like always.
I tuck the other chips back in the cart, wondering what he’d do if I smashed them. But I’m here to check off boxes, not to crush his chips. If I’m going to reverse-chase him, now is the time.
Even though it feels pathetic. Like spitting at a hurricane.
He smiles as I bring him his cheesy puffs. He’s so much more substantial now than he was in high school. Solid in places where he once was slight. Hard where he was soft. A bright and beautiful glacier, shining above the globe. A vicious, aggressive winner with a charmed life.
I focus on my girlfriends. I’m doing this for them.
“You know,” I say, placing the chips at a jaunty angle, “if you wanted to ask me on a date, there were easier ways than having me deliver your sandwiches.”
He stiffens slightly, looks at me quizzically. Did I manage to surprise the great Max Hilton?
I lower my voice. “I get that you wanted to bring me here in hopes that I’d see all of this…success of yours.” I say the word success with everything but the quote fingers. “Hoping that it would help your chances with me, but I’m sorry…you should’ve messaged me—”
“I brought you here,” he says.
“Yes, to ask me out, and I’m flattered, I want you to know that.” I act like I’m arranging things in my cart. “And maybe if things were different, my answer would be different…”
He looks baffled. Like the whole idea is ridiculous, and it is—he’s always been too good for me. He always made sure I knew that.
I force myself to think about the book. Keep pushing the illusion no matter what. You’re the alpha. You’re the pursued. Your reality is stronger than hers. Go ahead, shoot for the stars.
“I know you’re disappointed, Max. I’m sorry you went to all this trouble to woo me—”
“This is what you’re going with, Mia? That I arranged all this?”
“And I do want you to know I’m flattered, Max. It’s not that you haven’t impressed me.”
That muscle in his neck twitches. Was impressed too much?
He turns back to his computer. Tap-tap-tap. “Yes, I’ll cry every night. I’ll rest my head into the bosoms of supermodels and just weep.”
I stiffen. Probably three supermodels at once, like in the stupid picture. Something unpleasant twists in my belly. Why did I ever think it would work? Max is winning. He always wins.
Keep pushing with the illusion. You’re the alpha. You’re the pursued. Don’t give up.
“All this trouble you went to. I’m sure you’ll find a wonderful real-life girlfriend someday who appreciates you the way you deserve…”
“Compelling as your little lunch-cart-girl monologue is, I have work to do, so...” He circles his finger and returns his attention to his computer.
Little lunch-cart-girl monologue? Lunch-cart girl?
“It has my attention,” I continue. “Don’t get me wrong. I di-int think…”
Right there I freeze.
His gaze snaps back up to mine.
Di-int. We both heard it clear as a bell—the dropped ”d” of didn’t, so that it comes out di’int. A glottal stop, my voice coach called it. That’s a central feature of the south Jersey accent I worked so hard to erase. I di’int think. Di’int think.
My heart bangs in my chest as he watches me, sizing me up, predator that he is.
And then he goes in for the kill, which is, in this case, a smile.
Or to the world it would look like a smile. Between us, it’s him enjoying the Jerseygirl slip, softly and silently plunging me back to those years in high school when I tried so hard to erase my accent. To have a shot at the lights of Broadway. To overcome the Corelli curse.
Jerseygirl. The name hangs thick in the charged air between us, all the more hurtful for being unsaid.
My face heats. Even my ears lose a little sparkle—it’s as though I can feel them dimming on top of my head.
With as much grace as I can muster, I put my lunch things back in my cart. I enunciate my words in my best, most aristocratic-sounding version of General American English, what my voice coach calls GA, “That’s all I’m saying, Max. Sweet of you. I am flattered.”
Still he says nothing.
I turn and walk. I need to say meow now, but I don’t have it in me. I just don’t have it in me. Except then he’ll make me say it. I run the exchange in my head: Forget your line?
Please, just let me go.
You’re the lunch-cart girl.
“Mia,” he says softly.
Something about my name on his lips like that, sounding genuine, even full of feeling, it reaches deep into me and squeezes my heart.