Page 9 of The Break-Up Pact

But my most favorite routine is when Mateo is up early enough to distract me just after the scone bake and pull me out to the front of Tea Tide, where we’ll split a massive teapot’s worth of Assam and watch the waves from the boardwalk as we catch up on each other’s lives.

Today, we’re splitting a chocolate chip scone from Tea Tide and a concha from Sirena, the popular Mexican restaurant Mateo’s uncles co-run on the main road in town. Our breakfasts are propped between Mateo’s mountain of student essays and my laptop, where I’m going through the list of wholesale ingredients for this week’s order from our local vendors. He’s already in today’s khakis and a navy sweater-vest with light blue ocean waves subtly knit into it, but I’m still in what I call my Baking Pajamas—my favorite slouchy gray sweatpants rolled up over a ribbed white tank top, flip-flops kicked off, the comfiest I am all day.

Mateo runs a hand through his hair, essentially daring the curls on top to rise with the humidity. “Good lord,” he mutters. “These kids are incorrigible.”

“Here, let me help. I’m an ace at…” I squint at the paper Mateo is grading. “Trade negotiations between ancient Greece and Egypt.”

Mateo hums in amusement, taking a hearty sip of his tea. “By all means,” he says, handing the paper over to me.

Only then do I see the source of his distress. “Is that someone’s Instagram handle?” I ask, referring to the handwritten note with a winking emoji on the top of the typed page.

“They’re relentless,” says Mateo grimly, taking a gigantic bite of scone.

It’s still very disorienting to Mateo that he’s hot. In his defense, we were both late bloomers. The difference is I spent all my awkward years pretending I wasn’t, while Mateo spent those years trying to chameleon into the history section of the local library. He was entirely unprepared for puberty to end and people to notice him. Particularly because he’d only had eyes for Dylan since we were fifteen and sweetly refused anyone else with a polite “no, thanks.”

“I’m looking up the handle,” I inform him.

Unfortunately, my Instagram app opens to the profile of one Lisel Greene. Her most recent post shows her and Griffin with their eyes scrunched in a laugh, white water rafting through a current so intense that it’s splashing into their faces. She’s in the foreground, holding on to her oar with those muscular, tanned arms of hers and leaning back into Griffin with a familiarity that both fascinates and repulses me.

Mateo plucks my phone out of my hand. “Not worth your time,” he reminds me, swiping out of the app with a strength I apparently no longer possess.

The image disappears, but the hurt stays lodged in my chest. Lisel’s most recent pictures are all in the same vein. White water rafting, hiking up steep peaks, rock climbing in the rain. All the kinds of things Griffin and I used to do together, when he was reckless and I was determined to match his energy, to prove I could keep up even when it scared the shit out of me.

“Besides,” says Mateo with a slight smirk, “seems like you’ve already moved on.”

“Thank you,” I say, putting my hand on my chest. “I’ve reduced my Taylor Swift break-up playlist listens to once a week.”

“Oh, no, I’m talking about that photo with Levi.”

I blink. “Photo?”

“The one Dylan saw in your old cross-country Facebook group last night.” Off my look, Mateo pulls out his phone and goes into his text thread with Dylan, which is an anthropological delight. Long rows of thoughtful text from Mateo interrupted by caps lock, exclamation points, and emojis from my brother. “This one.”

The first thing I notice is the shock of my neon pink sports bra against the sand. The second thing I notice is how very close Levi’s hand is to it in this photo, which someone must have snapped from the boardwalk after we raced. It was taken mere moments after we fell into that dune together, and with Levi’s forehead so close to mine and our limbs tangled in each other’s, it looks steamy enough to be an outtake from a romance novel cover.

A fact clearly not lost on our former teammates, because the caption under the photo reads about damn time, you two with a kissing emoji. At least a dozen others posted teasing comments below it in the same vein.

I tear my eyes off it. “When did that get posted?” I ask, my face so red that even a full dunk into the Atlantic couldn’t cool it off now.

“Sometime yesterday.” Mateo takes a pointed sip from his mug. “Got anything you want to share with the class?”

“It’s not what it looks like,” I say miserably, drawing my knees up to my chest. “We were racing.”

“Oh, is that what the kids are calling it these days?” Mateo asks.

I bury my face in my hands. It’s been a few days since that beach race. To my surprise, Levi took me up on the offer to write in Tea Tide, settling at one of the far corner tables inside the next day. At first I didn’t let myself read too much into it, certain something would scare him off. If not the lack of coffee, then Sana immediately leaping up from her seat to proposition him for an interview.

But Levi’s been back every morning for at least a few hours, sitting quietly with his genmaicha and enduring Sana’s intermittent peer pressure. I’ve been pretty busy trying to come up with ideas to get the rent I promised Nancy, but before he leaves, we’ll usually have some kind of exchange at the register. It’s quick and casual, a banter that only skims the surface, but I look forward to it enough that these photos fill me with dread.

“Levi is going to be mortified,” I say quietly, already steeling myself for an empty chair at Tea Tide today.

“Levi hasn’t been on Facebook since Obama was in office,” Mateo reminds me. “And why would he be mortified? Everyone thought you guys were dating in high school.”

“What?” I splutter. “Based on literally what evidence?”

Mateo raises an eyebrow in a manner so professorial I feel like my life choices are being graded. “The two of you were inseparable. Any time I came to a cross-country meet, you were sleeping on top of him or vice versa.”

“Running is tiring!”

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