Page 12 of Made Man

His breath catches on the inhale. Direct hit. Plus ten points for Mira.

My chest aches harder. I don’t want to win. There’s no winning.

“Was it even hard for you?” I ask, my voice catching, too.

His eyes close for a second. His whole body is braced for impact, like he expects me to sucker punch him at any time. He lets one of my wrists go, but he keeps his fingers curled tightly around the other.

He takes his phone, taps open the Notes app, and presses it into my free hand.

“What?” I ask, my fingers automatically curling around the case so it doesn’t fall as he lets go.

“Read,” he says.

I huff and lift the screen close to my face. I left my glasses at home.

It’s a bulleted list. I see his spelling hasn’t improved any since high school.

skwerrel on windersill w/ penjamin

t swift not so bad

lemoncello fried banana at nihao on boston street is FYRE

I scroll. The list keeps going and going—things he saw, notable events, things he likes, things I would like. I love limoncello.

the beemer died October 5 rip – dear killed it, dear survived

i miss your shampoo

back at the gym – day 1 – max squat 250

i miss your weird baby toes

My thumb cramps by the time I finish scrolling. My nose is burning.

“You saw a squirrel with a vape pen on your windowsill?”

“Yeah.”

“When?”

“Yesterday.”

I glance at the last item on the list.

macroeconomics is dumb. i miss you.

“When did you take macroeconomics?”

He has to think for a second. “Freshman year of college.”

My fingers tighten around his phone in a death grip. I feel like each note scooped out my insides like a melon baller, and now I’m a ghost wearing a sheet, and the only thing holding meup is the fumes from an old anger that I never really had a right to at all.

He would never have left me if he hadn’t been driven away by who I am.

“I want to be mad,” I whisper.

“Mira—” He exhales, my pain echoed in the word, but before he can say anything else, a voice calls out from right behind me.

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