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The real Mira, the reasonable, rational Mira, disconnected from her body, floating above the counter in baffled mortification as the bizarro Mira below her continued making plans for her perfect ex-boyfriend to meet her nonexistent new one.
As good as he looked, as good as he felt, as good as he made her feel, it didn’t matter. None of this was real. She was still Mira from Montana with a small, messy life and too many responsibilities. And he was still Cole from Seattle, a rich and famous dream three states away from ever coming true.
He was already a proud resident of Emotionland. He’d popped a tent after Madigan’s wedding, built a house when she’d sent him tarts, and dug out a football field–sized bunker when she’d led him into her bedroom. And now? Fuck it. He was running for mayor.
Because she didn’t do things like say, “See ya!” and zip off in a private jet for the day. She was too busy dunking her feet in cement and chaining herself to every responsibility within a twenty-mile radius.
“I gave her my heart.” He cleared the thickness from his throat, staring at the pretty pink box on his passenger seat. “And she gave me a cupcake.”
You never told me what happened. All both of you ever said was that it didn’t work out, or that sometimes love wasn’t enough, or some other Hallmark card country song bullshit that always felt like you’d just decided not to tell me the truth.”
“Sometimes I think the only perk of possibly losing my mind is that I won’t remember all my mistakes.”
She wouldn’t have fewer regrets. She wasn’t courageous. She was scared and guarded and overthought everything, and because of it, she’d probably be alone forever.
Was it some sort of hereditary emotional damage handed down through the generations? “Jesus, I’m just like my mother.”
He was grumpy, and sad, and miserable. And he had no one to blame but himself. He was the one who willingly entered a sex-only relationship, caught every feeling imaginable, and just assumed Mira had too.
