Page 63 of The Break-Up Pact

But these are all conversations that will be much easier to have face-to-face. I just have to get through the interview without doing anything vaguely meme-able, and we’ll have all the time in the world to talk it out.

“Well, don’t you look stunning?”

Griffin greets me at the midtown studio with a big, boisterous grin, his dark hair subtly gelled, his camera makeup already in place. They’ve put him in a well-tailored navy suit with a white button-down, matching the navy trim on the dark green floral dress someone from wardrobe thrust into my hands the moment the town car they sent deposited me here. I blink at him from behind the two makeup artists making quick work of my face—“Don’t worry, dear, the mascara’s waterproof,” one of them said to me with a wink—and offer Griffin a flat “Thanks.”

He hovers there for a moment like I’m going to return the compliment. When I don’t, he shifts his weight for an uneasy second and then says, “Hey, thanks again for doing this. You’re a real pal.”

The word “pal” sounds so ridiculous coming out of his mouth after the literal decade we spent together that I’d let out a snort if someone weren’t actively setting powder on my face right now. But with that aborted snort is a strange kind of relief. Griffin’s here, in the same room that I’m in for the first time since he broke up with me, and I feel… nothing. Not nostalgia, not hurt, not even anger. Not anything but the urge to laugh.

A quiet surge of confidence flows through me, an invisible armor. Whatever lingering nerves I had about the interview, about facing Griffin one last time, all fade somewhere underneath it.

“Sure thing,” I say breezily. “It’ll be nice to give the audience some closure.”

Something flickers and dims in Griffin’s practiced smile. A quick surprise followed by an unmistakable disappointment. I bite down another urge to laugh—it’s clear he thought he was going to find an entirely different June. Or maybe not a different June at all. Maybe he thought he was going to find the old June, the version of me that compromised too easily, who placated and gave in because I’d rather him push me into things than pull away from me.

But that June is long gone. He knew that before he broke up with me. I moved back to Benson Beach, and suddenly I wasn’t Griffin’s June anymore, but the June who was learning to run Tea Tide, who said no to his whims, who was growing and changing without him. He knew he couldn’t handle me trying to reach my best, so he dumped me in a way where he could put me at my worst.

But I’m still here. Stronger than ever. And with one look at his uneasy face, I can tell it’s driving him up the wall.

“Let me know if you need anything,” he finally settles on saying, the smile back in place.

I give him a tight smile of my own. “I’m good, but thanks.”

Watching him slink away is so satisfying that it feels like its own kind of closure. Now whatever happens in this interview will just be icing on the cake.

A half hour later, I’m perched on the plush velvet chair they put me in, delicately crossing my ankles, sitting at the exact casual-but-confident posture that Sana’s been drilling me on all week. She’s still neck-deep in whatever she’s trying to write for Fizzle, but she got me in touch with a friend who has media training, and between the two of them, we worked out a script for pretty much any scenario Business Savvy might throw at me.

One that I need right off the top when Archie, the severely chipper host of Business Savvy, slides into a chair a few feet away from where Griffin and I are seated and theatrically winces at a sound coming through the speakers.

“Oh, dear,” says Archie with a glance toward the screen behind us. He turns back to the camera and says cheekily, “How on earth did that end up there?”

It’s me, of course. Crying Girl. Bawling my eyes out on my couch and hiccuping out “I just—I just—” like they’re the only two words I know, my face so blotchy and mascara-streaked that I look like the world’s most tragic tomato.

But I was ready for this. Sana made me watch the clip ten times a night like it was exposure therapy. I might as well be watching a video of paint drying.

“Don’t do that to her, Archie, come on,” says Griffin, all at once making a show of being protective and serious. “That’s uncalled for.”

I settle deeper into my chair and smirk. This was clearly a setup to rattle me and make Griffin look all chivalrous for defending me. One that I derail when Griffin turns to me with a put-upon sympathetic expression and realizes I’m not only unfazed, but amused.

He opens his mouth to say something else he must have rehearsed, but I cut him off, leaning toward Archie.

“No, no, Archie, keep it rolling,” I say gamely. “I’m trying to get a Kleenex sponsorship over here.”

Archie lets out a surprised laugh. “That’s the spirit!”

The clip fades out and Griffin clears his throat. “Gosh, June,” he says, pressing his hands together and sitting on the edge of his seat to better face me. “I know we’ve talked about how sorry I am about that day, but I really am. I’m going to feel awful about doing that to you my entire life.”

I can see the camera zooming in on his apologetic face from the corner of my eye, another one panning in to catch my own. I smile easily, feeling less like I’m in an interview and more like I’m in a mildly amusing puppet show, watching Griffin try not to tangle his strings.

“Aw, don’t worry, pal,” I say pointedly, enjoying the way it makes his eyes flash in irritation. “Thanks to you, I always get to story-top at parties.”

He settles his expression, composing himself into the picture of apology again. “I’m just so upset at the idea of hurting you after everything we’ve been through.”

“Right,” says Archie. “You two were an item for… how long?”

Griffin blows out a breath and shakes his head, like the years somehow flew out from under him. “Wow. It’s hard to say, since we go so far back as friends. We’ve just always been around.”

Ten years, I could easily supply. We dated for ten entire years. And even though it would be briefly satisfying to drop that bomb on Griffin on live television, I don’t particularly want to cop to it, either.

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