Page 89 of The Perfect Rom-Com

Before heading to the show we ate at The Watchtower, one of the—according to Gloria’s fun facts—23,650 restaurants in the city. We ordered a full English breakfast and stuffed ourselves until we couldn’t eat a bite more.

“You in pain too?” Gloria asks now, pointedly ignoring the message from Jack that just flashed on my phone. We stop at the crosswalk to wait for the passing stream of taxis and buses.

“I should’ve kept the leggings on.” I tug at the waistband of my faithful corduroy skirt. “I feel like I’ve swallowed a whale.”

“The body knows what it needs,” Gloria says in one of her little quips, as though this solves everything. She often likes to say, “The body knows what it needs,” to justify everything from three pounds of mashed potatoes in a sitting to a gallon of ice cream. “Cravings are just urgent messages” is another.

“So,” she says.

Then she leaves off.

Lets the word hang in the air.

Waiting for me to grab it.

I purse my lips together.

The flow of traffic eases and I begin to walk with the crowd across the street.

It’s not until we are pulling out our phones again to scan the tickets—and we see two more messages—that she breaks. “How many times has Jack messaged you?”

“I know no Jack.”

“But what? Has he called you five times in the past week? Ten?”

“I don’t know. I don’t keep track.”

Twelve calls a day. Every hour on the dot after eight.

The texts come less frequently, and when they come they are in spurts.

I do my best to keep my wits about me and not read them. Any of them. And the voice mail filled up after the first day. I haven’t listened to those either.

“Aren’t you even a little curious? Just to hear him out . . . for a moment?”

“No,” I reply firmly, more firmly than I intended, actually.

The topic isn’t up for discussion.

It’s why I haven’t gone back home. On the chance he does drive over to my apartment, he won’t find me. Or at work. Considering Gran is expecting me to be off another week anyway, for those suspicious undisclosed reasons she didn’t trust (rightfully, as it happened), he won’t find me there either.

I make a mental note to tell Gran the whole thing tomorrow.

Gloria looks a little chastened, and I add, a little softer, “I can’t even let myself entertain the thought I could talk to him, Gloria. This is what he does. He’s a master at persuasion. But the facts are laid bare. He lied to me for a year with a straight face. No doubt the whole two years. I can’t imagine what he’s capable of.”

“I know. I just . . .” Gloria’s voice trails away as we sit in our seats. “I just . . . can’t imagine everything he’s done the past two years was because he was trying to use you. I’ve seen a thousand bad guys in court, Bryony. And let me tell you, none of them joined bowling leagues.”

It’s painful to hear her speak like this, in his defense. It actually physically hurts my heart.

It’s best not to think. To keep the world in straight lines, black and white. To keep to the rules of common sense. And rule 1 is: People who care about you don’t lie.

Surreptitiously I check my email a dozen times during the show.

While the giraffes are walking on stilts.

As Rafiki makes everyone laugh with her antics.

During the great, horrible scene of the final battle.