If we were another former couple, seeing each other for the first time in a decade might be a dreamy, serendipitous meet-cute—a Nancy Meyers movie in pre-production. We’d have a few drinks and spend hours reminiscing about old times before picking up right where we left off. It would be comfortable and familiar as anything, like a sip of hot chocolate at Christmas with Nat King Cole crooning on vinyl in the background.
But we are not that kind of former couple, and I’m convinced that if Nat King Cole were here and knew my side of the story, he would grab Ryan by the scruff of his shirt and hold him steady as I roundhouse-kicked him in the throat.
It’s a tough pill to swallow but Ryan looks good. Like, really good. His face is harder than it was when he was twenty-one and the stubble on his chin tells me he hasn’t shaved in a few days, making him seem like he just rolled out of bed. And not rolled out of bed in a dirty way, but in a I-just-rolled-out-of-bed-and-yet-I-still-look-ruggedly-handsome-and-you-fully-want-to-make-out-with-me kind of way.
The bastard.
“Ryan,” Cristina says, always the first to jump in, “Jason mentioned that you and Kara went to college together.”
“We did.” His eyes don’t move from mine for even a second. “It’s got to be what, ten years now?”
“Yeah, it’s been a long, long time,” I say quickly, turning to face Cristina. “I think I may have mentioned him before. Remember my friend from North Carolina?”
If someone were to look up “my friend from North Carolina” in the Dictionary of Kara, they would find the following: My friend from North Carolina (noun): 1. Ryan Thompson. 2. My college boyfriend. 3. My first real boyfriend ever. 4. My first love. 5. Taker of my virginity. 6. Guy who massacred my heart with a rusty sledgehammer and fed the remains to rabid, ravenous dogs.
Cristina is well versed in the Dictionary of Kara and recognition washes over her. “No way,” she says, her voice dropping.
“Yes way,” I answer happily, overcompensating.
Now it’s Cristina’s turn to panic. “Wow. Okay, wow, what a small world, huh?” She grabs Jason’s hand in an iron grip, making him wince as she blasts an over-the-top smile. “Well, we should give you guys a chance to catch up. My abuelita just got here so Jason and I are going to say hello.”
“Your abuelita died two years ago,” I hiss.
“I know, it’s a miracle. See you two later!” She drags her soon-to-be husband away before he can get a word out.
I watch them go, sailing away like the last lifeboat as I stand on deck with the string quartet, the cheerful Bach melody only further confirming that this ship is going down.
2
“So,” Ryan says, drawing my attention back to him. “We meet again.”
“We meet again,” I answer.
He tilts his head, scrutinizing my expression. “I have to say, you don’t look happy to see me, Sullivan.”
I exhale out a bitter laugh. “Oh, no. I absolutely am. I’m downright joyful.”
“Your demolished champagne flute tells a different story. Not to mention your monotone voice and the subtle, murderous glint in your eyes.”
“Yeah, well, it was a slippery flute.”
“Now, there’s a line you don’t hear every day.”
His voice and words slip under my skin with sickening ease. I can already feel my patience wearing thin, a guitar string being tuned so tight that it snaps.
“Okay, fine. I’m shocked to see you and not in a good way. Is that what you wanted to hear?”
Ryan continues to study me with his unrelenting gaze. “It’s not necessarily what I want to hear,” he admits, “but I’d prefer that to polite lies. You never used to have a problem being honest with me.”
“How we acted in the past isn’t relevant to who we are now. You don’t know anything about me anymore.”
“Sure, I do,” he says easily, too easily for my liking.
“Really, like what?”
“Well, for one thing, you still can’t hide your emotions to save your life. Like right now, you probably think you’re playing it cool but I’m definitely noticing an aggressive rage vein that’s pulsing in the center of your neck.”
I run my fingers across the front of my throat, then wish I hadn’t. How can an open-roof deck suddenly feel suffocating? “You wish you were affecting me that much.”
“I think it’s pretty obvious I am. You seem five seconds away from hopping the guardrail and rappelling down the building.”
“Trust me, after another five seconds with you, I won’t need to rappel. I’ll straight-up jump.”
Ryan seems like he’s about to grin, but stops himself. I gaze off to the side, spying a waitress making the rounds in the distance. My laser-focused eyes try to distinguish which appetizer she has on her tray, and I can tell from their shape that they’re the mini empanadas. I try to will her closer via telekinesis but it doesn’t work. A shame. I level a look back at Ryan with resigned defeat.
“Something else that hasn’t changed about you,” he goes on, “you’re still melodramatic.”
“Why are you so difficult? Why can’t we just have a normal verbal exchange like other former acquaintances would have?” I feel someone’s shoulder bump into my back and turn to see a group of Jason’s work friends. I take a small step forward to give them more space.
“Hey, I’m perfectly composed,” Ryan says. “You’re the one who can’t control your raging hate fire.”
I squeeze my little black clutch with both hands as I glare into his irritatingly green eyes. “You always did bring out the worst in me.”
“Aw, that’s sweet of you to say. Have you been holding on to that little nugget for the past ten years or was
