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“As someone with long-term expertise in pining from afar, I’m happy to play the pawn in your game.” “She made you work for it, huh?” I glance at the girl, who’s still on the phone. I get the impression that if she asked him to tattoo whipped on his forehead, his only question would be: What font? She’d get him to agree to papyrus, too. “It was worth it,” he simply says. “She won’t be mad that you’re helping me?” I tap my chin, thoughtful. “Maybe I can make Conor believe that we’re having a threesome.” His small smile is hard to interpret. “Oh, she’ll love this. Give me your phone.”
“No. Well, his actual name is Jonathan Smith-Turner. He runs this research center in Boston.
“There is someone, Maya.”
A realization: the space between Conor and me is not the fluid, breachable entity I believed it to be, but solid. Uncrossable. I’ve only been fooling myself. There was never a chance for us. There is only the rest of my life. Without him.
