Page 177 of Dirty Damage

I pull my hand back, gulping back tears. “It was just an emotional day, is all. I’m fine. Oleg made it clear that he never wants to hear from me again and I’m going to respect that choice.” I force a limp smile. “Don’t want to turn into Drew, now, do I?”

“Sut…”

I pull myself off the ground and walk over to the kitchen. “Let’s have dinner,” I say abruptly. “I made salmon and roasted veggies as a thank you for letting me crash.”

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“Actually, I do,” I tell Mara, gripping her arm. “You’ve been like a sister to me through all this. I can’t tell you how much that means to me.”

We sit down at the table and Mara goes to town with the pasta.

As for me, I sit there and pretend to eat.

I have to fake as though every mouthful I take doesn’t taste like cardboard.

If these are the symptoms of a broken heart, I understand why people swear off love.

It shouldn’t hurt this bad to fall.

I wake up the next morning to my fertility app in full bloom.

Talk about a cruel wake-up call.

Something about the app nags at the back of my head, but I push it away and force myself into the shower.

After I get out and get dressed, I send Mara off to work with a hearty omelet, well aware that she’s watching me like I’m a ticking time bomb.

“I’m okay, Mar,” I insist. “I’m not going to jump off the balcony the moment you walk out the door.”

She frowns. “It’s troubling how fast you came up with that.”

Snorting, I pull her plate out from underneath her. “Just go to work, okay? I’m going to be fine. I have big plans for today.”

“Which are?”

“Going to the grocery store, cleaning out the fridge, and giving the whole apartment a good once over.”

“You’re not my maid or my private chef. You don’t have to do any of that.”

“Nonsense. It’s the least I can do for putting me up.”

“We’refriends, Sut. I’d have been happy to put you up even if you hung around in your underwear, ate all my food, and finished all my toilet paper.”

“That reminds me: I need to put toilet paper on the grocery list.”

“You’re insane,” Mara shakes her head.

“Very possible. Now, go to work. I don’t want to be accused of making you late.”

“I’ll text you later? Maybe we can go out for dinner or something.”

“Sure,” I nod, distracted by the grocery list Mara has pasted on her refrigerator door. “Milk, tampons, eggs, honey, trash bags…”

“What was that?” Mara calls from the front door.

“Nothing. Have a good day!”

The moment the door snaps shut, I race to the bathroom, realizing why my fertility app has been bugging me consistently since I woke up.

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