Page 3 of Tell Me You Love Me

“Drive faster,” he grumbles. “I hate sitting in the car. I’m gonna read now, okay?” He releases my hand and snags his book from the back of my seat, digging his hand into the pocket a second time in search of his pen. “I don’t want to talk anymore.”

“What are you read?—”

“Murdles. Shhh.” He clicks his pen and pokes his tongue forward. It helps him think… allegedly. “I’ll let you know when I need to pee. And can you tell me when you’re planning to stop for food? Maybe twenty-five minutes before.”

“Uh—”

“Actually, fifteen minutes is enough. Twenty-five is unnecessary.”

“Right.” I look out at the road spreading ahead of us, knowing I won’t get another word from him from now until lunchtime. And because I know it, I snag my earbuds and press one into my ear, waiting for Bluetoothto connect and the soft music playing through the speakers to transfer to my ear instead.

All so I can listen to the music I like without bothering the little boy set on solving a murder mystery.

But of course, with the change in technology comes a robotic voice.

Text received by Fox:

Bitch, stop ignoring me!

Alana fucking Page! I’m watching your GPS dot move further and further away. I want it known I am NOT pleased!

Colin called. I was busy, so I couldn’t accept, and he didn’t leave a message. Did you chat with him today?

Calllllll meeeeeeee! I promise not to talk you out of this stupid move. I’m having withdrawals, and I saw you, like, twenty-three minutes ago. If you won’t come back, then the least you can do is call me so we can hang out.

I know your mom is sick, and I know Colin is with Tasha now. But you’re punishing me for things outside my control! Divorce him and stayyyyyy.

You can live with me. Colin will probably even give you the apartment during settlement, and then you can sell it for oodles of money and bank that for Franky’s future as a tech gazillionaire.

And did I mention staying with me? I won’t charge you rent so long as you bake your brownies at least twice a month.

Helen called, too. She said, and I quote, ‘I’m worried about Alana. What do you think we should do?’

Tommy’s gonna be in Plainview, too, right? Have you considered what the F you’re gonna say to the guy whose heart you broke before your ass busted outta town without a backward glance? Do you think he’s still pissed?

Oh, God. Have you considered that he might have married a beautiful model and made thirty-seven beautiful kids? You won’t cope, Alana! Come back to New York so we can talk this out and come up with a better plan.

Because if you have a sudden psychotic break and kill the model wife of the guy you never got over, then you’ll go to prison.

If you go to prison, I’ll be forced to co-parent with Colin for access to Franky! I don’t want to co-parent with Colin.

Andthat’swhy I’m not calling her. Not yet, anyway. Fox Tatum has a tendency toward wildly unhinged and over-the-top dramatics, and her fanciful obsession with a story I told her once, eight years ago, about a guy I used to know in high school, is why I refuse to hit the green icon on my screen when her name flashes for attention once more.

No way.

No chance.

Not happening.

If I’m driving back to Plainview after all these years, willfully heading toward the life I already escaped and the trauma I’d rather not revisit, then I’d prefer to do it with my sanity intact, my heart beating a normal tune, and without my best friend screamingbut Tommy Watkins!in my ear.

My high school boyfriend—the love of my friggin’ life—may or may not be married to a model these days, and who knows, he may or may not have beautiful children with dark brown hair and perfect hazel eyes. But one thing is for certain: he’snotsitting around thinking about me anymore.

ROUND TWO

TOMMY

“That’s the lot, Miss Bitsy.” I carry the aging woman’s groceries inside her house and plop the bags on her dining room table. Gallons of milk already with chilled condensation on the side because of the heat of the midday sun. Tubs of yogurt toppled over, and bags of salad that, if it were for anyone else, wouldn’t make me lift a brow. Butthiswoman… the one who would rather churn her own butter and raise chickens so she can have the freshest eggs in a fifty-mile radius… a bagged salad may as well be tornado sirens screaming across town.

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