Twenty minutes later, Noah’s brother asked whether we were official. “She hasn’t fired me yet,” I answered, and another small group laughed while Maya took a drink of lemonade. I could see that her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, but I told myself she was tired from the bakery. It was easier to invent an explanation I understood than to ask whether I was causing the thing I didn’t want to notice.
The third time happened during cornhole. Maya stepped over the line, Jess shouted, “Ethan, your girlfriend is cheating,” and I called back, “I’m still reviewing the contract.” The laugh was bigger that time, loud enough to cover the soft sound of the beanbag leaving Maya’s hand. She looked at me without smiling, then walked toward the house while everyone else argued about whether her throw counted.
I watched the back door swing shut and finally understood that none of the jokes had disappeared when the laughter ended. Maya had been carrying each one, adding them to a sentence I kept insisting I wasn’t saying. I followed her inside, already reaching for an explanation about keeping things light. But when I found her in Jess’s kitchen, she set down the ice scoop and asked, “Why can you kiss me in private, Ethan, but turn me into a punchline when someone asks if I’m your girlfriend?”
