Two weeks after I bleached my hair, he’s still occupying my head. In some bullshit philosophical way, I thought bleaching was a guaranteed way to get over a breakup because the weird chemicals leeching your hair color represent some sort of mind cleanse too, removing the memory of the person you don’t want to keep. Today, when I ponder whether or not I should move my pictures with Jax from my hidden album to my trash for the eighteenth time, I know it’s more bullshit than philosophical.

Happy hour at Hearth & Oven today is unexpectedly anything but—it’s actually pretty depressing. Barely anyone around for a Friday evening; the only people in here are the waiters and an elderly couple nursing a plate of spaghetti pomodoro in the booth at the far corner. Looking at them reminds me a lot of Lady and the Tramp minus dodging meatballs with snouts, but ten times cuter and more wholesome. It makes me muse at my own romantic life, realizing too soon that level of intimacy and love affection is way beyond my reach.

I go back to wiping the espresso machine until it glints with the reflection of the light overhead. The tiny bell over the entrance door sounds its shrill ring, signaling an oncoming customer, but I don’t look up. Other waiters can find a table for them—heck, they can find a table themselves—I’m too preoccupied right now. I turn around to wipe the milk I spilled earlier off the back counter. Through my peripheral vision, a boy saunters up to the cashier and leans forward.

“Nice hair.” Jackson Cooper stands there, looking at me expectantly through the dollar-store sunglasses I got him.

An onslaught of memories comes with his face. Most I wish I hadn’t kept, others I wish had been associated with someone else. “Got you to thank for it.”

“You’re welcome.” No hint of remorse or guilt on his face. His nonchalance used to play off as a cool, bad boy persona. Now it’s just grating ignorance and speaks volumes of his selfishness.

“Fuck you.”

“That’s what you’re used to, right?”

My hands itch with the urge to break his nose.

“So, am I getting my coffee or what?”

With a disgruntled scoff, I turn around and make him his artisanal cup of rich-boy coffee, because who gets casual daytime coffee at the fancy Italian restaurant on campus? The rest of us plebeians stick to the $2 fountain coffee at The Market, Dunkin’ at best. Some of us don’t have $11 to spare for an iced latte, and some of our exes like to remind us of that despite having met us for the first time with a Hearth & Oven apron working the counter. If it weren’t for the as-needed basis of how much this place pays me, I would’ve left right about five minutes ago. I curse myself for still having his usual order memorized.

The whirring sound of the milk frother fills the whole shop; I’m relieved from how loud it is that it hides my audible gulp. Jax doesn’t care about me, I tell myself. But no matter how much I tell myself I don’t care about him too, I can’t convince myself that. Because looking at him now reminds me why I believed his sweet nothings in the first place.

His upturned honey blond hair glistens and turns into gold threads backlit against the fuzzy sunlight. Shadows dance across his face, angling his jaw and lifting his cheekbones. The slight way his eyebrow arches hasn’t changed despite the new slit on his left one, telling me I wasn’t the only person who made a cosmetic change within the past two weeks. And those lips, pursed in thought, the feeling of having them on mine still fresh on my mind.

Caught in my own trance, I angle the cup of milk I’m holding the wrong way that it splatters all over my face and shirt. “Oh, shit!” Jax yells the same time I spit out a harsh “Fuck!” It startles Erin, who’s cleaning the table after the elderly couple, and said couple, who were just exiting. I offer them a quick apologetic look before I gesture at Erin to cover for me.

I rush past the kitchen to the locker room where I keep all my stuff, Jax tailing shortly behind. “Get out,” I tell him, just like I did two weeks ago after he made me feel like an idiot for thinking all his promises are meant to be kept, hoping all his apologies are meant to last. “Get the fuck out!”

“Rory, shit, dude.” Jax’s hip cocks to one side, one hand on it as his other hand ruffles his hair. Typical of him. “I’m sorry, okay?”

“Said that too much. It’s lost all its meaning now.” I take my shirt off and wipe the milk dribbling down my face and chest. “You’re so full of shit.”

“Fuck.” If I don’t know any better, Jax almost laughs. He tosses my shirt away and lurches at me, pulling my lips to meet his. My brain reacts as if we’re the same poles of two magnets, but my mouth remains parted for him, my body pressed against his as an exemplification of opposites attract, because he has that effect on people. It feels almost like a vacuum cleaner sucking my face, but I’m not complaining; I kind of like it rough, and he knows it.

I indulge in kissing him back, because no matter how weird whatever shit just happened is, this feels right. One kiss doesn’t carry the weight of empty promises and meaningless apologies.

* * *

A week later, Jax isn’t back to being my boyfriend, but he’s back under my covers, curled up in my arms as I nibble at his earlobes after pounding him. This is a lot easier than reminding myself he’ll leave again when he’s bored without thinking about what I’m feeling. There’s bleach for that later.

Nothing fits into the curve my chest the way his back does. Nothing smells fresh and woody the way his scent tickles my nostrils. Nothing fills me up and drains me, rendering me an empty shell, the way he does. That’s what makes this confusing and exciting and such a shitty place to be.

Next to him, I sigh, thinking of all the sweet nothings he murmured while his head was on my bare chest. He told me about all the movies we’d see at the drive-in, Halloween costumes we’d wear, playlists we’d build together, clothes we’d swap. I sent him the Instagram reels that made me snort water out my nose when I made the mistake of drinking while watching them, showed the weird Last of Us fanfic I wrote when I was bored waiting for him to text back, added his favorite song to my shower playlist so there’s something to remember him by other than the way he feels under me.

I fall asleep thinking of the things I’d tell him in the morning, about how, maybe, I’m ready to forgive again. Maybe it’s time for a new promise.

When the next morning’s sunlight wakes me up, the space next to me is already empty. No trace of last night, not even his condom wrapper or the lingering scent of his cologne or an indent in the mattress in the shape of his body.

No new promise, no new apology.

Ten minutes later, I’m in my bathroom. I bleach my hair again, because it’s easier to remove the color from my hair than the memory of him from my head.