Page 83 of Kiss Me, Maybe
“Awkward,” she answers as she turns at a green arrow light. “Awkward and awful. But I was finally able to get a lot of stuff off my chest that I’d held back when we were together, so that’s something.” She’s silent for a while, thinking. “I’m still not sure he understands my side. Maybe he never will. But I think we both got what we needed from seeing each other a final time.”
“Closure?”
“Closure.” She nods. “Plus, I yelled at him for what his stupid girlfriend did to you. He’s not on TikTok, so apparently he had no idea about the video she made.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“It’s not about what I have to do.” A left turn, and then we’re in the restaurant parking lot. When she parks and shuts off the engine, she makes no move to get out of the car. “How are you?Really, Angela.”
I open my mouth to assure her I’m fine, then think better of it. I’m not fine. After the onslaught of criticism, more and more people are starting to come to my defense and reach outto check in on me. Last night I had a full-on sob fest reading through the comments and messages from friends, mutuals, and strangers alike. I haven’t responded to anyone—I still feel like I don’t deserve their kindness, but I’m closer to getting to the place I need to be in order to come back.
“I’m angry,” I admit. “At Esme, but mostly at myself. I keep thinking if I’d talked to her and Briana sooner, I could’ve avoided this. And then I remember what they put me through in high school, and I thinkfuck that. They don’t deserve an explanation. Not even Briana, though I think I’m starting to trust her.”
“Just say the word and I’ll find Esme through Isaac and—”
“Krystal, please.” There’s no bite to my voice. Just fond adoration, because apparently that’s the only thing I’m capable of feeling for this woman, even at my worst. “We should go inside.”
As soon as we’re seated, I regret not answering her messages sooner and making plans to meet somewhere a little more… private. Because there’s only one thing we haven’t addressed yet, and I’m not sure how I feel about being rejected in front of the deli lunch crowd. Which is only about two tables’ worth of people, but still.
“I need to tell you something I should’ve realized a long time ago.” Krystal fidgets with the place mats, avoiding eye contact the same way I have been since she arrived at my job. “I just…” She takes in a deep breath and lets it go slowly. “God, why is this so hard for me?”
I don’t think I was meant to hear that last part, which she mutters to herself in a rush of breath so low I almost don’t catchit.
“What is it?” I ask as a waiter delivers our food.
“My parents always loved each other,” Krystal says. I’m confused what her parents have to do with this, but I let her go on. “To this day, they still have their nauseating lovey-dovey moments. It’s why my mom was so devastated when Isaac and I didn’t work out. We were a way of connecting all the people she loved together forever. Breaking up with Isaac didn’t just hurt him. It hurt my mom too.”
She takes in a deep breath before continuing. “What hurt her even worse was the distance I put between us after we broke up. She means well, but she’s a meddler. I got sick of her always trying to control my life, of her believing she knew what was best for me better than I did. I had to do it for my own sanity. My parents hate that we barely see each other anymore, so I guess I was feeling guilty after I met with Isaac, because I decided to pay them a visit afterward.”
“Oh.” If her mom made her feel bad about how her relationship ended, I’ll go to bat for Krystal the same way she did for me against my cousins. I reach for her hand and squeeze once, my heart singing at the way Krystal automatically intertwines our fingers. “Are you okay? How was it?”
“I’m okay,” she assures me, her thumb stroking over my hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I told them about seeing Isaac again, and then I…” Another deep breath halts her progress. “I told them about you.”
“You… did?” I blink at her, stunned. “Why would you tell them about me?”
“My dad reminded me of something I’d forgotten a longtime ago,” she continues, ignoring my question. She breaks contact with my hand before rooting around her purse to pull out a wallet. “When he and my mom started dating, he asked for a picture of her to put in his wallet. He still has it, yellow and frayed at the edges with time, but he still looks at that damn picture the same way he looks at her now. Like a man in love.”
When she unzips her wallet and dumps out the contents, I’m more than a little bewildered. “What are you—” She pushes our untouched lunch aside as what looks like confetti flutters down onto the plastic table. On closer inspection, I realize they’re cut up rectangles of copy paper.
Each piece has a printed picture of me.
“Julian gave me this a few weeks ago.” From the card compartment of her wallet, she pulls out the only picture that wasn’t printed on copy paper. It’s my seventh-grade yearbook photo.
“Oh mygod.” I cover my mouth with a hand as I take in my thirteen-year-old fringe. That was the year my mom yelled at me for dyeing my hair black with her box dye when she was at church. The height of my emo phase, which was the closest I’d ever come to a rebellious teenager, only lasted a year before I realized the hairstyle didnotsuit me. “I’m gonna kill him.”
“Don’t.” She catches my wrist in her hand. I notice her expression for the first time since dumping the pictures from her wallet, and for a moment I’m confused all over again. Her eyes are soft with fond adoration, and I’m reminded of the damning photo Esme took of the two of us. “He’s the one who sent me all these pictures of you. Before I knew what I was doing, I was arranging them in a Word doc, printing and cutting them into perfect rectangles, and putting them in my wallet like a corny1950s husband.”
“Or a serial killer.” I raise a brow at her, but my smirk tells her I’m only kidding. “Seriously, how many pictures did Julian send you?”
“That’s not the point.” She stares down at the table, at the twenty or so pictures of me, and surprises me all over again. “The point is I’m not like this. Or at least, IthoughtI wasn’t.”
I shake my head, hoping it’ll be enough to chase the hope growing in my heart, but she only devastates me further.
“I think about you all the time. This whole week, I’ve been so worried about you. I hate what Esme did to you. Hell, I hatehermore than I’ve hated anyone in my entire life. I’ve seen people say the most heinous shit about you online and it makes my blood boil. I hate not knowing if you’re okay, and I hate that you felt like you had to avoid me while you’ve been going through this alone when I want to be the person who comforts you through all of it. I know that that’s my fault, and I’m sorry, Angela. I’m so fucking sorry you have no idea.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her she has no reason to be sorry. She told me from the very beginning what she was capable of. I’m the one who didn’t listen. I’m the one who fought through every wall she put up, hoping against hope that I could make her change her mind.
“I’m even sorrier for not realizing this sooner, but I can’t keep it inside anymore. I tried holding it back—hell, I’ve tried for weeksnotto feel this way about you, but, Angela—”
