Page 59 of My Favorite Bad Decision
“What’s he saying?” asks Miller.
“A bunch of bullshit,” I whisper. “Some of it true.”
“How would you reply if he was saying it to Maren?” he asks.
“The difference is that if he was saying it to Maren, it wouldn’t be true.”
“I guarantee it’s not true here either,” he says, grabbing the phone, and then an animal noise rumbles in his chest. I can hear it from a foot away.
“I’m going to beat his ass when we get back to New York,” growls Miller, his nostrils flaring.
I exhale. “He’s just mad.”
“No one speaks to you like this and gets away with it,” he hisses, typing.
“What are you doing?” I demand, reaching for the phone.
“Replying. Send it.”
Miller has typed, “The way you are handling this certainly convinces me I’ve made a mistake.”
I laugh. “You’re just making a bad situation worse.”
“It’s what you’d have said if you weren’t upset. Believe me, it would be a lot worse if it was coming from me, and it’s going to be a lot worse if I ever run into him. Send it. You’d do it for Maren.”
I would. I’d type it for Mare, just like he typed it for me. And before that, I’d have snatched the phone out of her hand just as he snatched away mine.
I hitsend. Blake replies, calling me a fucking cunt, Miller demands to see the phone and this time I don’t hand it over because I’m worried Miller’s going to have them turn the car around. I just delete it and block Blake’s number.
The way I’d do for Maren. The way Miller would do for me.
“Done,” I say, and this time, when my eyes fall closed and my head rests against the back of the seat, all I feel is relief.
“I would like to point out that you just dumped someone by text,” he says, and we both start to laugh.
* * *
We are greetedon the tarmac by a young, nervous kid who hands us two small suitcases. “Just some clothes and toiletries,” he says, “courtesy ofElite.”
One of my dad’s magazines. I imagine he asked an editor for help, and that editor pulled some low-level employee out of a wedding or her own baby shower to rush around, gathering clothes for us.
“I had nothing to do with this,” says Miller, his brow furrowed.
I shake my head. “Believe me, I know. My guess is when you see the skintight vinyl pants and vest combo they packed for you, you’ll wish they hadn’t gone to the trouble.”
“I happen to love vinyl pants on the beach,” he says, plucking my suitcase out of my hand before we climb the steps to the plane. “One of many fun facts you’ll soon learn about me.”
We each take a plush leather seat and when I glance over at him, a couple feet too far away, my heart pounds in my throat.
I love his cheekbones. I always have. I love the sharpness of his jaw. I remember learning about the gonion—the exact point where the vertical and horizontal ramus of the mandible converge—and even then, it made me think of him. I love his dimple. I love his laugh. I love the way his hair starts to curl when it gets a little too long, the way it is right now, and how much darker his facial hair is than the hair on his head.
I love everything, and now we’re going to be alone together, in a house and…I’m too warm, and my pulse is too fast, and there’s a tight knot in my stomach because…
Holy shit. What am I doing here? I can’t go away to the Caribbean with Miller West.
I can’t. This is fucking insane and…
He narrows one eye. “What’s going on over there, Fischer?”
