Page 6 of The Breakup Broker

Gloria chuckled and topped off my glass. “On the house. You look like you need it.”

Ivy burst through the door in a swirl of tulle and urgency, her honey-blonde hair escaping its twist to create a halo in the bar’s dim lighting. She was all delicate features and perpetual motion, like one of those Disney princesses come to life—if Disney princesses regularly committed identity fraud for bridezillas. “Does anyone know how to say, ‘I caught the bouquet at your sister’s wedding’ in Swedish?”

I raised an eyebrow. “Why would you need to know that?”

She sighed, sliding onto the stool beside me. “Bride’s orders. I’m now her childhood friend from Stockholm, fluent in Swedish, and allergic to shellfish. If they serve two-pound lobsters for dinner and I have to miss it, I’m going to be pissed. Lobster is my favorite.”

Maddy arrived next, juggling what looked suspiciously like drone remote controls. She had her mother’s elegant features and glossy black hair—currently pulled into a messy bun—but where Gloria moved like a gentle stream, Maddy was all crashing waves, her tall frame making the delicate remote controls look like children’s toys in her hands.

“Before either of you say anything, these drones are foolproof. Perfect spelling, zero chance of a mishap.”

“Good to know,” Gloria said, setting out two more glasses with a smirk. “Nothing like last time, then?”

“Different,” Maddy assured us, setting the controls down. “They’ve got GPS and anti-bird tech—the works.”

Gloria topped off our glasses, then leaned against the bar. “So, Savvy, how many hearts did you crush today?”

“Just one.” I shrugged. “But he didn’t take it well.”

Ivy winced. “Those are the worst. The ones who get all dramatic about it.”

“Or try to make it about you,” Maddy added.

“Or ask for second chances.” Gloria shook her head, chuckling. “Classic mistake.”

Maddy brightened suddenly, reaching for her bag. “Speaking of classic mistakes, what do we think about skywriting? Because I have this new client?—”

“NO,” Ivy and I said in unison.

“You haven’t even heard the whole idea!”

“Does it involve anything that could fall from the sky?” I asked.

“Or spell out unfortunate messages?” Ivy added.

“Or attract birds?” Gloria chimed in.

Maddy deflated. “You all lack vision.”

“And you lack basic pattern recognition,” I pointed out. “Remember the hot air balloon incident?”

“That restraining order was dropped,” she muttered into her wine.

My phone buzzed with a new client alert. Friday, nine a.m. Rise and Grind Coffee again. Tall, blue suit. Another day, another navy suit. In Manhattan, that was about as specific as saying, “He has hair.”

“Another one so soon?” Ivy peered at my screen. “That’s unusual for you.”

“Bills don’t pay themselves.” I tucked my phone away.

“You know what you need?” Maddy set down her glasswith the particular emphasis that meant she was about to suggest something terrible. “A website.”

“No.”

“Just hear me out?—”

“Absolutely not.”

“You could call it ‘It’s Not Me, It’s You.com!’”

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