Page 114 of Never After Us
But Mila doesn’t let up.
“This says people fall in love multiple times,” she says, stabbing a highlighted paragraph with her pointer finger.“It even says three times is normal.That’s barely any.What if I fall in love with, like, twelve people?”
I glance toward the ceiling.
“Twelve?”I ask.“That’s ...very specific.”
She shrugs, all confidence.“Maybe more.”
“Well, that’s a problem for your future therapist.”
Mila hums.Then she tilts her head, watching me like she’s trying to sort me into a very precise emotional box.
“Which one is Mom for you?”she asks.“First love?Second?Or the third one?The forever one.”
My lungs forget how to function.
Across the room, Mara—mid-pour—goes still.As if the moment has cinched around her and she’s afraid that moving will break it wide open.She doesn’t turn.Doesn’t speak.Just keeps holding the mug as if setting it down might turn this from a question into something she has to answer.
I consider lying.
I could say I’ve been in love before.I could say she’s my second.Or third.Or not even close.
But the truth?
I’ve never said the word aloud to anyone and meant it.
Not once.
“Mila,” I say carefully, “love isn’t a ranking system.People aren’t sequels.There’s no chart.”
She scrunches her nose.“But the book said?—”
“I know what it said.But real love doesn’t follow diagrams.Sometimes it’s slow.Sometimes it sneaks up on you.Sometimes it just ...sits there quietly, waiting until you realize it’s not going anywhere.”
Mila’s eyes widen.“So Mom could be your surprise love?”
Mara lets out a strangled sound—somewhere between a cough and a gasp.
I wince.
“That’s not exactly what I?—”
“Or you could be her surprise love,” Mila counters, flipping the page again like she’s unveiling the next plot twist.“She hasn’t loved anyone since Dad died.”
The spoon hits the countertop.
A clink that’s loud enough to make both Mila and me go still.
Mara doesn’t move.Doesn’t speak.Her hand stays midair like she forgot what it was doing.I see it in her shoulders—the way her entire body seems to draw in, like she’s trying to disappear without actually leaving the room.
“Mila,” she says, her voice quiet but strained, “I don’t think that’s something we should be discussing right now.”
“Why not?”Mila asks, completely undeterred.“Grandma said I need therapy to deal with my grief.That means I’m allowed to talk about it, right?”She scoots closer, her voice dropping to a whisper.“That means the loss of my dad—who I barely remember.”
Then she glances up at me again, curious and calm and way too emotionally intuitive for someone who still thinks unicorns might be real.
“Do you talk to your parents?”
