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“You told another girl we were complicated.”

“I fucked up.”

“You’ve said that.”

“Because I did.”

“No. You keep saying it like it covers everything.” My voice is climbing, and I don’t care. “You fucked up when you kissed her. Fine. That’s one thing. What do you call telling her you were basically available before you kissed her?”

“I don’t know.”

“Bullshit. Yes, you do.”

His face hardens. “You want me to say I planned this. I didn’t.”

“I want you to stop acting like every single part of it happened by accident.”

“I’m not.”

“You were texting her for weeks.”

“Two weeks.”

I watch him hear it, and his face goes slack.

“Wow.”

“That came out wrong.”

“No,” I say quickly. My heart’s racing. “That one came out really clear.”

He drags both hands down his face. “I’m not trying to minimize it.”

“You just corrected me, because apparently fourteen days of lying deserves accuracy.”

“I wasn’t lying every day.”

It’s out before he can catch it, and we both stop. The laughing people on the lawn are gone. There’s a car somewhere far off and my own breathing, loud and uneven in my ears, and Evan’s face has gone gray.

“Kylie—”

“No. Keep going. This is really helpful.”

“I didn’t mean it like that. I wasn’t waking up every morning thinking, today I’m going to lie to my girlfriend.”

“Wow. That’s a really high bar. Congratulations.”

“Ky—”

“Jesus Christ. You lied to me.” My voice cracks down the middle, and I watch it go through him.

“I know,” he says. He takes a step toward me, and when I don’t move, he stops. “I love you.”

My eyes burn so fast I have to turn my head. I stare at the bike rack. One of the bikes has a flat back tire, the rubber folded against the rim. I hate him for saying it, and I hate myself more, because I believe him. I don’t know what to do with a love that can sit right next to two weeks and complicated without flinching.

“You don’t get to say that like it fixes the sentence before it.”

“I’m not trying to fix it.”