“Oh.” I try to match her crestfallen tone, but I’m more confused than ever. “I don’t understand. That sounds sweet.”
“It is. But don’t you get it? He said kids, Quincy.Kids. He’s the kind of guy who dates a girl to the altar.”
“And I repeat, that’s a bad thing?”
“It is when I don’t think I ever want to get married.”
Now I understand. “Oh, Brynn.” I reach for her hand, my heart aching over her lost faith in love. “Not every marriage ends in divorce.”
“Over forty-four percent of them do. And as someone who’s obsessed with numbers, I don’t like those odds.”
I can tell she’s hunkered down on her position, and I’m not going to change her mind in this one conversation. So, I put a pin in it for now.
“Tell me this, Miss Numbers,” I say, lifting my slice of pizza. “If I fold this in half, will I be consuming half the calories?”
“Of course.” She takes a bite of her own slice, smiling for the first time in days.
For the rest of the evening, we talk and laugh about anything and everything, until I’m positive thoughts of Oliver have faded into the background, and I realize how much I missed this—being present for the little moments. Little moments that count in a big way.
Sure, we can still talk on the phone when I’m in LA, but I doubt it’ll be the same. And I’m starting to wonder…
Is the promotion—and the possibility of finally making my father proud—worth losing a friend who sees the real me, inside and out, and not only loves me unconditionally, but actuallylikesme, too?
Some days, I’m not so sure.
CHAPTERTWENTY
The next several weeks zip by in a blur, my private blog keeping record, preserving my memories in simple HTML code. Brynn and I squeeze in every last second of time together before I have to head back home. She even joins me for my dance class. I thought I’d signed up for Salsa Dancing for the Advanced but hadn’t noticed the ellipsis when I’d registered online. Turns out, if I’d have clicked to read more of the description, I would’ve seen that we were actually attending Salsa Dancing for the AdvancedinYears. Brynn and I were the only students under sixty-five, but we had a blast, anyway, even though all my dance moves were abysmal.
To keep from constantly collapsing in tears, we made a pact not to discuss my impending departure, which was easier said than done. One or both of us would often tear up at the most random moments, then pretend like we had an eyelash or piece of lint stuck in our eye. But we both knew what the tears were really about.
Like now, as I gaze at myself in the mirror, dressed in head-to-toe running gear, I feel my throat tighten.
Only three more days until I head back home.
Home…
The once simple word feels so complicated now, and the image conjured in my mind is an incongruent amalgamation of two different places. I wish I didn’t have to choose between them.
I see Whiskers in the reflection, curled in a tiny ball on the bed, purring contentedly, oblivious to the fact that in a few short days she’ll be leaving the only home she’s ever known. While I’m hopeful she’ll adjust to life in LA, my heart still breaks at the thought.
There’s a knock at the door, and I quickly dry my eyes on my sleeve. “Come in.”
Brynn pokes her head inside, leaning against the doorframe. One look at me, and her features crumple.
“Don’t cry or I’m going to cry,” I scold, my voice strained.
“I can’t believe you’re finally running the marathon. And I’m going to miss it.” She sniffles, trying to hold herself together.
“With tax day in two weeks, it’s hardly your fault. We’ll celebrate tomorrow.”
“That’s right.” She manages a small smile, but it quickly falters as she murmurs, “Over our last Brunch Bingo before you—”
“Don’t say it!”
“Okay, okay.” She dabs her eyes with the lapel of her blazer. Then, she steps all the way into the room, revealing what she’d kept hidden behind the doorjamb. A glossy black garment bag.
“What’s that?”