I reach out. Open it.

Find a cute, plaid scrunchie.

My cute, plaid scrunchie.

The one I last had in Edinburgh. In Conor’s hotel room.

Time stops. Restarts, counterclockwise. I slide the scrunchie around my wrist, grab a warm washcloth, and return to the gentle glow of the bedside lamp.

Conor hasn’t pulled up his pants, but he’s speaking on the phone, giving hushed instructions that I can hear but not understand. Still naked, I kneel next to him to clean him up.

His hand snatches my wrist.

“I have to go,” he says into the phone, abruptly ending the call.

His eyes linger on the washcloth, then flicker to me. “No.”

I tilt my head backward. Stare up at him. “Really? What are you going to do with that, Conor?”

He doesn’t reply, but tucks himself back into his sweats.

Whatever. Screw him. I stand, dropping the washcloth. That’s when he notices the fabric at my wrist. It was just a matter of time, since I’m wearing nothing else.

“I meant to…return it,” he says.

“Thank you for watching over my fifty-cent hair tie for the last three years.”

He blinks, vacant. “Is that how much one costs?”

“How interesting. Someone who can list every single factor that led to the 1987 Black Monday crash has no idea about the cost of a scrunchie,” I jab, venomous.

“No need to involve Alan Greenspan.” But then he admits, “You know why I kept it.”

Of course I know. And yet, something is changing. Maybe it’s his lingering gaze as I knot my hair on top of my head. Maybe his tone. Maybe the way he made me lose control while holding on to his for dear life. Whatever it may be, it unlocks something inside me.

A realization: the space between Conor and me is not the fluid, breachable entity I believed it to be, but solid. Uncrossable. I’ve only been fooling myself. There was never a chance for us. There is only the rest of my life. Without him.

Tears sting down my cheeks as I gather my clothes, tempted to just walk back to my room naked. Even if the entire wedding party sees me, it would be preferable to being here one more second, with him.

“Hey.” His warm hand wraps around my upper arm. Conor stares down at me, looking absolutely, completely devastated. “Did I hurt you?”

I let out a wet, hard laugh, and pull up my shorts. “You know, Conor, I’ve never had sex this good.”

“I…I don’t think anyone has, Maya.”

“How nice of you to say, when you didn’t even get an orgasm out of it.” I tip back my head. Wipe the backs of my hands over my face.

“I don’t need to—”

“You don’t need anything, or anyone, do you? That’s smart. And I am a fucking idiot.” I slip on my top. “For the last three years, I thought that there was a key to solving you. That if I learned the right steps, if I performed the right way, you’d stop lying to both of us and accept what we already were. But now…” I let out a bitter laugh. “You just admitted to jerking off to Little House on the fucking Prairie fantasies with me. You held on to a keepsake for three years. And I…I could probably force you to acknowledge that you’re in love with me, but…” I spread my arms wide. “It means nothing. It doesn’t matter how much you love me, because in your head I’ll always be too young and stupid—”