The Do-Over

by Lynn Painter

“Have a happy Valentine’s Day.” “Fuck that,” Nick said, biting out the words as if I’d wished him a happy castration as he got out and slammed his door. “I fucking hate this day.”

“Holy Christ,” Nick muttered at the same time Macy said, “Oh my God.” Yes, we were all calling out to the Lord in response to my phone’s disgusting swim.

He leaned a little closer, his eyes all over my face. “Are you crying?” “NO,” I said loudly, but the tears betrayed me by falling from my eyes. “Oh, fuck—no.” He swallowed and said, “No, no—I’m sorry—I was just messing with you.” “It’s fine,” I said, sniffling. “I’m not crying.” “Yes, you are,” he said quietly, his eyes serious for once as they stayed focused on my face. “Please, please, stop.”

“I don’t know what the terrible thing is that you’re dealing with and can’t talk about, but when all else fails, I say fuck ’em.”

He reached out a hand, tugged lightly on the piece of hair that had come out of my ponytail, and he said, “Fuck ’em, Emilie.” And then he walked away.

“You’re wrong.” He swallowed. “Somehow knowing I’m not the only, um… fuck… lonely one? Yeah, somehow I think that helps.”

“I fell in love with you on Valentine’s Day, Emilie, but I need more than just seven minutes.”