Page 132 of Experiments in Offline Dating

“Why? What’s the matter with you?”

“I don’t know. Nothing. Everything? I’ve just been blue and delicate lately.”

“Delicate?” She narrowed her eyes. “You’re about as delicate as a jackhammer.”

“Right? But not anymore. I’m a mess. I can’t sleep. I’m distracted.”

“Perimenopause?”

“Say that again and this’ll be your last birthday.”

“Sorry.”

“But maybe you’re right. Who knows? I’ve been snappy with my parents for no reason. I called my dad a Tupperware fascist the other day because he had the audacity to put my leftovers in the fridge before I was done picking at them. He was only trying to help.”

She laughed. “That’s not so bad. You’ve called me a lot worse.”

“Yeah, but that’s you. I actually like my dad. Also, I’ve got this, like . . . a little bit of soreness here, like pressure in my rib cage or something, pretty much all the time.”

“Have you asked the doctor?”

“No.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“Since I got back from Ireland.”

She studied me, lips pursed. Then she sucked a breath through her teeth. “When you say ‘distracted,’ what do you mean?”

“I just. I can’t stop thinking about my trip, I mean. Every time I do anything, it’s on my mind.”

“Your trip? Or Tadhg?”

I looked away and took a big swallow of my cocktail. “No.”

“You sure?”

“No.”

“Could it be . . . a broken heart?”

“Of course not. You have to be in love to get your heart broken.” I threw back the last of my drink and choked on a raspberry. Simone pounded my back, and tears fell down my cheeks.

“What if you’d just choked to death on a cocktail raspberry, and the last thing you said to me was a lie?”

I turned and laughed at her through the watery tears, whipping my face with my sleeve. “Yeah. Okay . . . maybe.”

She sucked in a breath, eyes going wide.

“How do I know? What are the . . . you know . . . symptoms? I tried to look it up online, but all I found was a bunch of stupid, gushy, unscientific nonsense and quizzes from Seventeen magazine.”

“Please tell me you did the Seventeen quiz.”

“All right. I regret this. I’m going home now, and I officially hate you.”

She laughed. “Fuck, Maya, I don’t know. It’s been a while since I was in love with anyone. You know, other than Uhtred in The Last Kingdom. Do you cry at love songs?”

I pouted and turned to look at her. “‘When You’re Gone’ by the Cranberries came on while I was cooking yesterday, and I was such a mess that I had to turn the stove off and lock myself in a room with three Kinder Buenos.”