back to the parking lot outside the temple, overlooking skyscrapers and oak trees. I always thought those parts in the movies where two people grew silent and leaned forward to kiss seemed so unrealistic. But in that moment with Jamie, kissing him seemed like the most natural thing in the world.
But we didn’t kiss. We almost kissed. And an almost kiss isn’t a kiss.
I wonder what Jamie’s doing. The look on his face, the tear trailing down his cheek as the car pulled away—my stomach hurts. I should have let him drop me off at home. Maybe we could have talked. Sorted things out.
I can’t imagine how upset he must be right now.
I open Instagram. I was so upset last night, I soft blocked Jamie and InstaGramm—but searching now, I find Jamie’s profile. It’s the same four photos from when he opened the account, plus the one of the Rabbi Rothschild quote he snapped yesterday. But nothing since then. No record of everything falling apart. I can look at these photos and almost pretend yesterday never happened.
I wish so badly it was true.
Rossum’s official campaign account pops into my feed. I hesitate, before scrolling down to the video. Our video. I brace myself for the comments. I know I shouldn’t do it—this is like picking a scab—but I need to know. As soon as I dip into the first few, I remember, yet again, you can’t brace yourself for things like that.
They’re the cutest.
Maya’s got the most kissable lips.
She’s not that hot.
He could do better.
How much you want to bet they’re doing it?
There are twenty-seven nested replies to that one.
It feels like I got dipped in an ice bath. I drop the phone on the bed. I understand why Jamie didn’t read the comments to me. But I don’t know how I’ll be able to look him in the face again.
I exhale and stand up. I throw a sweatshirt on over my pajamas. When I step into the hallway, a glass clinks in the distance. My mother. I don’t want to talk to her about this. She tapped on my bedroom door late last night and peeked in at me. I did my best to look asleep. But I live here. I can only hold her off for so long.
I take my time brushing my teeth and washing up, but when I step into the kitchen, I freeze. I must be having an official nervous breakdown, because my brain just conjured up both the most bizarre and most ordinary figment possible: My mother brewing tea in the kitchen. My dad on the love seat, feet kicked up on the coffee table, watching soccer in the family room.
“Maya.” My father looks over at me and sits up.
It’s real. He’s really here. He’s sitting on our couch, watching television like he always does on Sundays. They’re hanging out together in this house—under the same roof—like on a regular weekend. A jolt of sunshine kicks in. As randomly and suddenly as they announced their separation, it’s over.
My mother turns off the stove and hurries to me as my father strides over.
“You’re back?” I whisper to my dad. “I knew you’d get back together. I knew it.”
“Oh, honey, no . . .” My mother glances at me and then at my father. “It’s still . . . it’s a work in progress.”
“I came over as soon as I heard what happened. We wanted to talk to you. Together,” my father says. “About . . .”
Oh.
I sink onto a kitchen stool.
My mother puts a hand gently on my shoulder.
“Holding up okay?” she asks.
I shrug. I want to say I’m fine, so we can get through this conversation as quickly as possible. But the words are stuck in my mouth. Because the truth is, everything is not fucking fine. I am not okay. Tears spill down my cheeks.
In an instant they’re hugging me. My parents on either side and me in the middle. If you told me twenty-four hours ago I’d be having a group hug with my parents under one roof, I’d have melted into a puddle of relief.
But today everything aches.
We walk over to the family room. I settle onto the ottoman and tuck my feet under; Willow hops into my lap and nuzzles me. My parents sit across from me on the love seat. Both watch me with concern.
“I’m okay,” I manage to say. “I’m sorry for melting down like that.”
“It’s okay to be upset. The photo going viral. That’d be rough for