I stumble forward, clumsily, and sit next to him, swinging my legs back and forth.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey.”

“Why do you have that look on your face?”

“What look?” he asks. “This is just my face.”

“Your face has a look. Like you’re anxious or something.”

“I am.”

I jump up. “I’m so hyper right now. Hold that thought while I run around the fountain.”

Kit laughs so hard he almost falls over, craning his neck all the way around to watch me.

“I forgot how weird you are,” he says when I sit back down. “You’re a dead language, you know that? No one is like you, and you are like no one.”

It’s a nice compliment, probably more than my brain can handle right now.

“So, why are you anxious?” I reach into the fountain and cup some water in my hand, letting it run down the back of my neck.

“I’m waiting for the inevitable question.”

Am I that predictable?

“So,” I say. “Are you in love?” I make jazz hands, and he grabs my wrists, but then quickly drops them.

“Yes.”

This time, no hesitation. No dancing eyes. No avoiding the question. My stomach drops, and my heart grows old and saggy. I couldn’t run around the fountain even if I tried. Why did I even feel happy enough to do it in the first place?

“Word,” I say. And then, “Wow.”

Kit has thick, black lashes. They almost make him too pretty, but the square shape of his jaw rescues his masculinity—giving all of the fine features a square, hard canvas. When he looks at you, though, through those lashes, it’s like he’s conveying something important with his eyes. He doesn’t know the effect he has on women. I’ve watched the silent swooning, the way he makes women stumble over their words, and causes their faces to fill up with color.

“May I use your phone, please?” I ask. Kit hands me his phone without hesitation. I open the camera, turn it to selfie mode, and snap a picture of myself.

“What are you doing?” Kit asks.

“What does it look like I’m doing? Taking a picture of myself.”

“I know that. But why?”

He watches as I text the picture to myself. I left my phone back in the hotel room, but now I wish I’d brought it. I could send an SOS to Greer.

“I take pictures of myself as I experience big moments in life. I name them and keep them in an album.” He makes a face and shakes his head. His eyes are dancing, though—thinking, thinking, thinking.

“What will you name the moment you just experienced?”

I look at the picture I just took: spiral curls stick straight out from the sides of my head, my topknot is crooked, and mascara decorates the underside of my eyes like black bruises. I look a little hopeless, a little angry.

“Fuck love,” I tell him. I’m glaring at him defiantly. He draws back like I’ve hit him, the smile turning into a wince.

“Fuck love,” I say again. Kit doesn’t understand. He’s shaking his head like love doesn’t deserve cruel words. I want to find Greer, get out of this place. Get away from Kit, who takes a year to acquire love, and a year to destroy my heart.

“Helena,” he says. “It’s not like that.”

“Have you seen Greer yet? Long lost love Greer? Are you out of love with her? It only took you a year to fall in love with Della, and—”

“Stop it,” he says.

I have tears now. Stupid, repulsive tears.

“I’m in love with you!” I yell, and immediately regret it. Why would a person feel the need to yell something like that at the top of their lungs?

The silence is all consuming. It’s a thing of pain. It draws out, and across, and over—like a dull-bladed knife. A confession so bare. The shock on his face, I can’t stand to see it. It’s embarrassing. I turn to go. A step or two, and then I take off running. My hair comes loose and streams out behind me. It makes my escape heavier than it already is.

He doesn’t call out to me like men do in the movies. My footsteps are the only ones I hear. There is no chase, no romance. And in that moment I think of the dumbest thing, a line from My Best Friend’s Wedding. ‘You’re chasing him, but who’s chasing you?’

I don’t go to the bar. I go back to the hotel and pack my things. A shirt here, a shirt there—tossed into my duffel. I rush through it all, trying not to think about what just happened. How I burned my relationship with both Kit and Della in that one irresponsible moment. I splash water on my face, and run outside to meet my cab. And, as I get to the airport, I realize that I’m a runner. Life gets hot and I pack my things and leave. It’s new, but so is being an adult. I’m learning about myself. But, hey! I did what I came to do. So I’m an accomplished runner. Greer has been blowing up my phone for the last three hours. I wonder if she saw me leave the bar with Kit. If she found him when she couldn’t find me. Did he feel all of the old things when he saw her, or is his heart firmly grounded in Della now? I text and tell her that I’m going home.

Greer texts me back: He’s on his way there.

I look around, panicked. I’m already through security. He can’t get to me. And why would he want to? I’m already so embarrassed. I said the unsayable thing to my best friend’s boyfriend. I clutch my duffel to my chest and count backward from a thousand. I’m a lot falling apart. A lot hurting. I feel like a failure and a flake. And then we board, and I order a drink without a mixer. And I know I’m wearing a slutty dress, and my hair is a mess, and people are looking at me. But they can’t see my heart. If they could see my heart, they’d understand why my mascara is smudged.