Page 74 of Problematic Summer Romance

Edinburgh, Scotland

The first package arrives the day after Conor’s departure.

I struggle not to frown at it as I read the attached card.

Last night was a mistake, and I take full responsibility. I shouldn’t have left without waking you up, but it seemed like the wisest thing.

If you need anything, call. Whenever.

Conor

In the box is a state-of-the art bread-making machine. I glower at it for a few moments, uncomprehending.

“What’s that?” Georgia asks when she enters the room.

“Hmm?” I stuff the card in the waistband of my pajama bottoms. “Just a present. From a friend.”

She grins, salacious. “What did Conor Harkness get you?”

“A…bread-making machine.”

“Oh my god. Because he knows you love fresh bread?”

That must be why. I did mention my cravings for homemade bread at some point, but it was such an offhanded, in-passing comment, there’s no way he remembered.

Except, he did. “Motherfucker,” I mutter, staring at my scowling eyebrows on the metallic surface of the appliance.

“What? Why?”

I ignore Georgia and storm to my room. How fuckingdarehe? Be a dick to me on the phone, then come to my rescue, then coax me into developing arobustcrush on him, then make me come like the world is ending, then leave me alone in his fancy hotel where I totally revenge-ordered breakfast room service, then remember what I enjoy and send me a way to enjoy it more often.

How. Dare. He.

But in the following days, the gifts continue.

A necklace. Three fantasy books. New Post-its and a fancy umbrella. Flowers. A set of plush towels. An Xbox. Sneakers that, the internet informs me, I could resell on eBay if I ever wanted the starting capital for a new life.

Should I take a stand and return them? Nah. If it were anyone else, I would interpret the presents as a wooing strategy, or maybe an apology for acting like a total douche. Unfortunately, I understand Conor well enough to know that if he wanted forgiveness, he’d simply ask for it.

He’d never be so gauche as to parade designer brands in any real courtship. The boxes he has delivered are too flashy, with noelement of surprise—the opposite, in fact. He’s not sending me Tiffany jewelry and Hermès sweaters because he wishes me to have them. He just wants Georgia, Alfie, Rose, and everyone else who visits my apartment to know he’s still interested in me. Continue keeping up the charade.

“Why doesn’t he bring them to you in person?” Alfie asks during D&D night. With each passing day he becomes more unfuckable to me. What did I used to see in this whiny, clueless, cowardly little shit? I wish I’d taken notes. I want a word with past Maya.

“Because he’s a fancy finance boy, or something,” Sami says. “I bet he’s in Singapore, disrupting the local economy.”

“Conor’s a biotech investor.” I looked that up. “But yeah, he got busy. He might come to visit soon, though,” I lie.

“And disruptyou.”

I grin at Sami while Georgia and Rose giggle and Alfie rolls his eyes. Later, once the session is over and I’m alone in my room, I toy with the idea of picking up the phone and calling Conor.

“Whenever,” he said.

I check the hour. It’s the middle of the day, back home. Lunchtime, in fact. Why not? He’s probably having a protein shake. Or training on the rowing machine in his river-view gym. I bet he has time for me.

And yeah, he does. Because he picks up after exactly one ring. “Everything okay?”

“Hello to you. Where are you?”

---