Page 19 of Debugging Love

“Youhatehim,“ Morgan says.

“Exactly.”

Morgan settles back and pulls her feet onto the cushion. “You went on a date with the guy who happens to also be the neighbor you hate... That’s epic.”

“That’s not the word I’d use.”

“It’s serendipitous,” Kayla tries.

I grab my phone, pull up Google, and type in serendipitous.The occurrence and development of events by chance in a happy or beneficial way.“No. That’s not the word I’d use either.”

“I have to see this guy,” Morgan says wistfully. “You need to get a Ring doorbell so we can spy on him.”

“Being a ten does not make up for being a jerk. There will be no spying on him. None whatsoever. He hates me even more now than he did after our date.”

“Did you yell at him for playing his honky-tonk too loud?” Kayla asks.

“Sort of. Before our date, I took his trash to the dumpster for him, and while doing so, slipped and fell violently on my behind, which prompted me to write a nastygram on a Post-it and tape it to his door with extra-strong packaging tape.”

Morgan cackles while Kayla peers at me through her glasses, her expression vaguely amused.

“It’s not funny. Look.” I stand and pull down my shorts just enough for them to see the massive blue and purple bruise covering three-quarters of my right butt cheek.

Their combined gasp sucks more air than a jet engine.

“Oh my gosh,” Morgan says. “Danni! Does it hurt?”

“Only when I move.”

“He did that to you?” Kayla asks.

“Sorta. I mean. Taking his trash to the dumpster was my idea, but I wouldn’t have had to if he wasn’t such a slob.” I ease myself onto the couch.

“You win,” Morgan says.

“The prize for the worst date ever?”

She nods. “You’ll laugh about it someday.”

“I’ll laugh about it now,” Kayla says, chuckling.

“It’s okay. I blame Christopher.” Christopher, our boss. The one who gifted me the tickets that led to the date that led to the disfiguration of the junk in my trunk.

“He’ll want to hear all about it tomorrow,” Morgan says.

“Should I lie?”

“No,” Kayla says. “He needs to know your date injured your derriere.”

“I’m not showing him my bruise.”

“Definitely not,” Morgan agrees. “He used to work in HR. He’d probably write you up.”

We continue chatting about work, about the team-building events coming up, whether or not we’re going to partake, although I’m not sure we have a choice. Christopher planned them and he’s writing our annual reviews. One of the performance metrics is our willingness to be a team player, to participate in the growth of other team members, and to contribute positively to team dynamics.

After an hour of random chatting, the trauma on my backside throbs its way to my forehead. The inflammation wears on me like a low-grade fever. I excuse myself so I can go home and rest.

Relief descends on my shoulders when I enter my apartment, my happy place, my haven. Two large bookshelves hug the left corner of the living room, my chaise lounge in front of them. A copy ofThe Silent Patientsits face down next to a half-melted Bath & Body Works candle, waiting for me to pick up where I left off. But before I do, I need ten minutes of nature gazing while nursing a Sprite, my mom’s medicine of choice for sore throats. My throat isn’t sore, but I could use some medicine. And my mom. She passed away two years ago, and every memory of her—even the good ones—comes with a sting.

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