Page 63 of The Perfect Rom-Com

In my life.

And the realization that suddenly I was single. Entirely single.

Which brought a new bundle of emotions buzzing inside me.

I look out the window to see Jack walking across the parking lot, walking with purpose. There’s a little baggie in his hand—smaller than a volleyball.

I take a couple steps toward the window and watch him from my private view through a tinted window as he stands at the bottom of the bus when he gets to the door.

He stops.

Then moves alongside the bus.

Pacing.

Slowly.

Back and forth with the little baggie swinging from his side.

Not on the phone, but deep in thought.

Kicking a little asphalt pebble as he pushes his hands into his pockets, his laptop still under his arm at his side.

What’s he doing?

Is he . . . waiting for me to finish?

I stand there for some time, watching him, wondering. Exactly how long does he plan to pace around?

His phone rings and to my surprise he doesn’t even answer it.

He turns it to silent.

Keeps pacing.

His hand moves to the back of his neck and he rubs it, continues walking.

I ignore the flutter in my stomach, ignore the whisper of what he’s thinking of, daring myself not to think about it because, of course, it cannot be true. It just can’t. Gloria’s gotten into my head is all. This is what happens when you have a sister filling your head with the same narrative over and over.

At last I push the door open. Drop down the steps onto the sidewalk. “Hey.”

He jolts up, and I see him move hastily from his lackadaisical walking, doubling his steps to get to me. Suddenly looking like he was doing something terribly important. “Hey.”

And it’s funny, his tone is the exact one I used but half an hour ago with Parker. It’s funny enough I find myself smiling. Throw my hands out. Drop them again at my side.

“You know what’s always surprised me?” I say. “You can spend a million hours filling up a suitcase—all the days and weeks and months and years carefully picking out the blouses and organizing neatly your set of toiletries and lining up your shoes. All that time and preparation. But it only takes a second to snap the suitcase shut and toss it into the ocean.”

“Well, I think you should probably get a better organizing system if it takes that long.”

“Shut up, it’s my analogy. What’s in the bag?”

“Oh,” he says, as if remembering what he’s holding. “Nothing much. I just saw it in passing when I dropped by the CVS and remembered you were out. Here.” He holds out the little plastic bag. It dangles lightly from his hand.

I take it.

Open it up.

It’s a little package of pens. The little five-dollar six-pack bundle of white ones I really like. The ones that write so smoothly. The ones he’s seen in my little disaster of a junk drawer beside my refrigerator on Friendsgiving Day when hunting for a lighter for the candles. The ones I keep in the bun in my hair sometimes when I’m in the middle of teaching. The ones that always end up on the floorboards of my little car and roll around beside the takeaway bags when Jack gets inside with his knees hitting the dashboard and says for the millionth time, “I hate this car.”