Page 67 of Taking A Chance

Lyla:Why don’t you just talk to him? I know you want to.

Me:No I don’t.

Lyla:Lie to yourself all you want, but don’t lie to me.

Me:There’s nothing to say.

Lyla:So you think he had sex with this Natasha woman?

Me:Yes.

Me:Well, no. Maybe he didn’t. I don’t know. That’s the whole point.

Lyla:You sound insane.

Me:You don’t understand.

I put my phone back down on my desk and look up at the vase holding what are now very dead peonies. I haven’t been able to bring myself to throw them out. All the water has evaporated from the vase, and the drying flowers are beginning to crumble—much like my life—all over my desk.

“Honey, we need to talk,” Claire says. Her hand is on her hip and she has herI’m not playing any gameslook plastered over her face.

“About what?” I ask, thinking something is wrong with her current project.

“About you, you sad sack,” she says.

“I’m fine,” I say, turning my attention back to my computer screen.

“The hell you are,” she says. “You’re a lump on a log. This is worse than any bad date you’ve had in the past.”

“So?” I say, sinking deeper into my chair.

“So, why don’t you just talk to him?” she asks, leaning over my desk. “I mean look at this.” Claire points to the dead flowers, apparently proof that I’m beyond insane for not speaking to him.

“I don’t want to,” I say.

“You know,” she says, “I thought you’d say that. So I give up. But you’re coming somewhere with me tomorrow night, and you don’t get to say no. It’s the price you get to pay for how miserable you look.”

“I don’t feel like socializing,” I say, clicking down harder on my mouse.

“I don’t care. I’ll be at your place at seven to get you,” she says. “Oh, and don’t dress like you feel.”

Ugh. Friends are the worst.Sure, Claire has good intentions. Distract me, cheer me up, try to help me out of the slump. But I don’t really want to get out of it. I want to live in the slump for a while. Wallow in it like a pig in mud. I’m good at making homes out of sadness. I’ve been doing it all my life.

I check my email; the one sitting at the top, I don’t want to open. It’s from the owner of the cabin we were supposed to go to, kindly offering—once again—to reschedule. They had to keep my deposit and felt bad after I explained the situation. The elderly woman offered to let me move dates and come for a vacation on my own if I wanted to. Her kindness made me cry too.

I told her I’d think about it, not wanting to give it any more thought. Now she’s checking back in with me, saying the offer’s still good. Maybe getting away by myself would be good for me. Maybe a littleme timeis exactly what I need.

Emailing her back, I accept, requesting two weekends from now if it’s free, before throwing myself back into my work.

I’ll get over this. I always get over it. It doesn’t matter how bad the date is, how shitty the breakup is, people always move on. It’s life. Heartbreak is inevitable.

Time will make it better.

Right now, focusing on myself is exactly what I need to do.

* * *

I grabthe stack of mail from my mailbox in the lobby, each move I make more quiet than the last. Any moment now, Declan could arrive home. Or hop out of the elevator as he’s leaving. Or hear me and come running out of his apartment. The possibilities are endless. Which is why I’ve taken to mastering ninja-quiet skills when coming home and leaving.

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