Page 13 of The Break-Up Pact

I take a hesitant step forward, only because I’m not sure if he’s joking. But Levi manages to hook his hands under my knees and pull me up on his back in a motion so swift that I have to grab his shoulders like a life jacket. I’m settled against him an instant later, so easily that it feels like the shape of me was meant exactly to fit into the shape of him.

“You good?” Levi asks.

A little too good, maybe. “Yeah,” I manage.

I stare out at the ocean as if it can grant me some mercy from the sudden and unexpected heat that is coiling low in my gut, spreading lawlessly just about everywhere else. But there’s nothing to stop its reach. Nothing to distract me from the friction of my chest against Levi’s back, or the earthy-sweet smell of him, or the way the muscles of his shoulders ripple against my arms.

I crush my eyes shut. Nope. Nice try, brain. Teenage me may have suffered a brief case of swooning for Levi, but adult me knows better.

Despite that, some base instinct wins out. I close my eyes, and for a stupid moment, I let myself pretend. I imagine sixteen-year-old me got what she wanted, back when she didn’t know better than to want it; I imagine that the pressure of my body against Levi’s isn’t just a thrill, but a familiar one; I imagine half a lifetime of this steadiness between us, of this inherent trust.

I lose my sense of self long enough that I unconsciously lean my forehead into the back of Levi’s head, pressing against the gentle curls, staring down at the tanned slope of his neck. I can feel the precise moment he all but stops breathing. I come back to myself and jerk my head away so fast he stumbles on the top step, grabbing the railing to keep us upright just in time.

“June.”

I’m already drowning in mortification, but the concern in his voice immediately topples a wave of guilt right over it.

“Sorry,” I stammer. “I was just—”

Royally screwing us both over, apparently. Because in all the fuss, neither of us noticed the scruffy photographer lurking by the trash can until his camera is shoved in our face again.

Levi’s grip tightens so fiercely on me that I can practically feel the press of each of his fingers against my thighs. For an absurd moment, I think he’s going to make a break for it. Start running for the condo with me on his back like we’re in a badly directed action movie.

But there is quite literally nowhere to run. There’s a crowd at Tea Tide on our right, and a cluster of people with camera phones to the left, and someone unhelpfully yelling the words “I think that’s them!” straight ahead.

The phone cameras start rolling, and just like that, the Revenge Exes take the world by storm.

Chapter Six

“Thank you, Sana. You’re a genius, Sana. Here’s your Pulitzer Prize for excellent journalism and unparalleled friendship, Sana.”

I raise my eyebrows at Sana, who is currently draped over my front counter and singing her own praises with her ancient MacBook cradled like a baby in her arms.

I bop her on the forehead with my open palm. “We’re just going to wait for it to blow over.”

“Or. Or,” Sana counters for about the fiftieth time today, “you lean into this mess. You and Levi pretend to date. You let me cover the whole thing. Tea Tide stays jam-packed and I make enough money to move out of a glorified attic and we all live happily ever after.”

I turn toward the display case I’m wiping down so Sana doesn’t see my sympathetic wince. Sana used to travel as often as I did, buoyed by a steady freelance gig at a frothy lifestyle site. Then new management came in with a whole new vision. She was already considering quitting—the higher-ups seemed a little too interested in mining her identity as an Asian American woman for potential content, and she realized it was happening to other writers, too—but before the new tone of the site was formally discussed, they abruptly fired all the contractors, leaving them high and dry.

Professionally, she was almost relieved. She wanted to be writing cultural commentary and human-interest pieces she pitched herself, and she took it as a wake-up call from the universe to pursue Fizzle. But financially, in her own words, she was “mega fucked.” I told her offhand about one of Nancy’s cheap rentals, and to my surprise, she showed up in Benson Beach with an Uber full of suitcases the next day.

Now I live in the tiny apartment on top of Tea Tide, Sana lives in the even tinier apartment on top of the restaurant next door, and we’ve been going through it together every day since: me learning the ropes of owning a small business, and Sana trying to support herself with a rotation of freelance gigs while she’s waiting for the breakout piece to get Fizzle to hire her on staff. Hence why we are primarily existing off day-old scones and half-baked dreams.

We both flinch at the sound of a knock at the door.

“She’s closed, you animals!” Sana calls. “I ate the last scone an hour ago!”

But even in the dark, I recognize the unmistakable outline of Levi. I dart out from behind the register, unlocking the door to let him in.

“Hey,” he says the moment I push it open. “I just wanted to check in. I walked by earlier and it seemed… intense.”

The store was, in fact, crowded enough today to make Coachella look tame. We sold out of all five emergency bakes of scones and sold enough tea that we are dangerously low on Tea Tide’s signature tea blend of Darjeeling, rose, and caramel. I’m pretty sure I’ll be scrubbing Annie’s pretty pink floors for a week to get them fully clean again.

But at least this time around, I don’t mind it so much—getting peppered with questions about Levi’s pecs is a lot less humiliating than getting asked if I could openly weep on demand for a selfie.

“Intense is a good word for it,” I say, some of the exhaustion creeping into my voice.

“Oh, it’s you,” Sana crows happily. “Excellent. You’ll make June see sense.”

---