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Which leads to me having a panic attack as my world starts to fall into itself.
I used to be her favorite, back when she had more baby fat on her face and her little fingers would grip mine like she never wanted to let me go.
Just like I’d been gripping the steering wheel as I reminded myself to breathe.
A knock on my driver side window makes me jump.
“Get your ass outta the car. I’m starving,” Miley says before trying to open my locked door. I sigh and tuck my phone into my Prada tote that Peter got for me on my birthday.
Another fucking trigger.
Who the fuck has a panic attack because they’re terrified of their five-year-old?
I open my car door and when Miley hugs me, I try not to roll my eyes.
“This isn’t a thing we’re starting because you think I’m depressed, right?” I ask into her hair, letting myself sag into her just a little.
“Shut up. I’ve missed you.” Her words are muffled and she’s the only woman I know who comes close to my height, even if it’s only due to her impressive shoe collection.
“Are you sick of Sam yet?” I ask, making a joke at the expense of her boyfriend. It’s a term I never thought I’d use with Miley.
“Sosick of him,” she says as she pulls back, a large grin on her face.
“Right,” I respond as we walk inside one of our favorite restaurants. “You’re in the honeymoon phase. Stay there. It’s a great place to be.”
“Ah, ah,” she tells me, holding her finger up, “If there’s no wedding, there won’t be a honeymoon.” She tucks her platinum blonde hair behind her ear, and I smirk at the way she squares her shoulders at the thought of matrimony.
“Is he still asking?”
She nods just as the hostess comes over, and I give her the name of the reservation.
“Milas, table for two.”
Uttering my maiden name has me overthinking, knowing that while I made the decision long ago to maintain it for professional use…did I always know? Was it always meant to end this way?
The woman in front of us nods and tells us to follow her, and I tuck away these melancholy thoughts.
“Are you still saying no?” I ask as we make our way to our table, my tone hushed to avoid interrupting the others lunching.
“I don’t understand why he’d want to try again,” she mutters, a frown on her face as she tilts her head to the side to answer me. She’s got her clutch tucked between her elbow and ribs and her turquoise silk skirt looks like it was made for her. “His last attempt crashed and burned.”
“Call it theMiley Effect, I suppose,” I say. We stop in front of a table and the hostess asks if it’s okay. “Certainly.”
She gives us a smile and walks away, and I pull out my chair and sit down with a huff.
“What about you?” she asks before she reaches for a cloth napkin and settles it over her lap.
“Oh, no,” I start with a shake of my head. “We’ll need a glass of wine before we approach anything that isn’t work-related.” I try to say it with a chuckle but the acute pain in my chest has me rubbing at my collarbone, and I pretend I’m fiddling with my necklace to cover the gesture from her watchful eyes.
We run through the rigamarole of business updates, comparing notes and clients, discussing projects and making little jokes at some of the trials and tribulations of being at the mercy of other people’s tastes…or lack thereof.
A half-empty bottle of wine sits between us when she circles back to the topic of my personal life.
“How’s the divorce going?” she asks, her mouth full of pasta.
“Your mother woulddieif she saw you speaking with your mouth full,” I admonish, gesturing toward her with my fork, my own gnocchi growing cold from my lack of appetite. In an attempt to fill my body with some sort of sustenance, I take a healthy gulp of wine.
“Don’t threaten me with her,” she cries out after swallowing her food. “I’ve already had to endure several dinners with her and Sam and I’m almost certain he’s going to leave me for her.”
