Page 10 of A Taste of Vanilla

I wipe under my eye with the heel of my hand. “Tell her I love her.”

He shakes his head, placing the phone back in the cup. “You tell her tomorrow when your spelling returns.”

I gasp. “My spelling is fine.”

“You texted me earlier that you were ‘emotionally constipated by betryyil.’”

“Betrayal has an I in it somewhere.”

“No,” he shakes his head again, “it does not.”

I sit back, sighing.

The sadness in me keeps moving, changing shape. Sometimes it feels like humiliation. Sometimes grief. Sometimes a hollow ache that makes me miss the person I thought Grant was so badly I want to call him just to hear the lie again.

But tonight, under the warm lights of Oliver’s bar, with fries and cheese and my best friend guarding my phone like a holy relic, anger starts crawling up through the cracks.

It’s small, hot, and all mine. “I’m angry,” I say finally.

“Good.” Oliver starts drying more glasses.

“I wasted years.”

“Yes.”

“I let him make me feel like a cupcake with too much frosting.”

Oliver stares. “I’m not touching that.”

“I’m a cupcake with the correct amount of frosting.”

He nods. “You’re several cupcakes in a trench coat.”

“I’m serious, Oliver.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want to be sad and dignified.”

“Then don’t be.”

“I don’t want to become one of those women who finds herself through herbal tea and a capsule wardrobe.”

“No one who owns that many pink sweaters is at risk of a capsule wardrobe.”

“I want to be hot.”

Oliver closes his eyes.

“And reckless.”

“Less good,” he mutters.

“I want to be wanted.”

His eyes open, and the words sit between us.

They’re not funny. Not dramatic. They’re just simply true.