Page 83 of Regretting Youu

He sits next to me, rather than across from me, and straddles the bench. I like it. I like how much he wants to be near me.

When our sandwiches are unwrapped, he waits to take a bite of his because he wants to watch my reaction to my first bite. I bring the sandwich to my mouth. “I feel pressured to like it now.”

“You’re gonna love it.”

I take a bite and then rest my arms on the table while I chew. It’s delicious. Not only is it the crispiest, most buttery toast I’ve ever tasted, but the mac and cheese is so warm and gooey I feel like rolling my eyes.

But I shrug because I like teasing him. “It’s okay.”

He leans forward in disbelief. “It’s . . . okay?”

I nod. “Tastes like a sandwich.”

“We’re breaking up.”

“Bread’s a little stale.”

“I hate you.”

“Cheese tastes processed.”

He sets his sandwich down, grabs his phone, and opens Instagram. “I’m unfollowing you again.”

I laugh after swallowing my first bite and then peck him on his cheek. “It’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

He grins. “Promise?”

I nod. Then I shake my head. “It’s second to how you taste after eating suckers.”

“Good enough for me.” He picks up his sandwich and takes a bite. He groans, and the sound he makes causes me to redden a little. I don’t think he notices, because he tears off a miniscule piece of bread and reaches across the table, placing it next to an ant. The ant eventually carries it away.

Miller kisses my cheek, then takes another bite of his sandwich. “You thought about what kind of film we’re going to make?”

I shake my head and wipe my lips with a napkin. He reaches up and brushes something away from my mouth with his thumb.

“We don’t have a lot of time,” he says.

“We have three months.”

“That’s not a lot of time. It’s a lot of work.”

“Dang,” I say with a sarcastic undertone. “Guess that means we’re gonna have to spend a lot of time together.”

He’s holding his sandwich with one hand and rubbing my leg with his other while we eat. He’s super affectionate. And he’s not afraid to kiss me in public. Or in front of a camera.

I suspect we’ll be getting detention more than once this year.

“Stop looking at it,” he says, referring to the camera.

“I can’t help it,” I say, looking away. “It’s just right there in our faces.”

“And you want to be an actress?”

I nudge him with my elbow. “That’s different. This”—I wave to the camera—“is awkward.”

“Get used to it because I want a lot of footage to work with. I want to win this year. Last time I submitted, we got fourth place.”

“In the whole region?”