Page 3 of Shattered Altar (Makarova Bratva Duet)

“What does that mean?”

“Like, Coexist. Make peace with your demons. When life gives you lemons, throw them back and ask for tacos instead. That kind of eyeroll-worthy nonsense you see on the back of some soccer mom’s minivan.”

Mia bursts out laughing. “Okay, point taken. But finding a therapist is like dating. Plenty of fish in the sea; you just gotta find the right one. You know, I do have a friend who’s a therapist. I could refer—”

“No,” I say, cutting her off.

“Again, rude. Why not?”

“Because it’s too personal. The two of you are friends.”

“We’re not that close,” Mia protests. “We slept together twice and that was it. We were both young and busy. It was just about sex.”

“Lovely. Already way more than I need to know about my therapist.”

“Okay, fine. Point also taken.”

“Speaking of fish in the sea,” I say, changing the subject, “what’ve you hooked lately? Dating anyone noteworthy?”

She exhales dramatically. “I’m a surgeon, love. The men I meet are usually sprawled across my table with their insides staring me in the face.”

“Uh, ew.”

“Hard to find a man attractive after that,” she follows up.

“You haven’t dated anyone since William,” I tell her, as if she needs reminding.

“Yeah, well, I’ve been busy.”

“For three years?”

“Again, I’m a surgeon. I’m always busy.”

I laugh. “What about your fellow doctors? I’m sure there are a few hot nurses around, too.”

“Do you think I work in an episode of Grey’s Anatomy?”

“I mean, maybe? Are there really no McSteamys in sight?”

“None whatsoever,” she says. “Which is fine. You know I’m more of a McDreamy kinda gal.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Right. I forgot about your weird taste in the male gender.”

“Me?” she scoffs. “Says the lady who dates men as boring as unbuttered toast!”

“Now who’s being rude?”

“Don’t argue,” she replies. “I remember your dating history. You claim you’re into bad boys, but every single one of your previous boyfriends has been as vanilla as a cupcake.”

“Okay, okay,” I concede. “So maybe none of them have been—”

“Exciting? Sexy? Even remotely interesting?” she offers.

“Lionel wasn’t so bad!”

She barks out a laugh. “His name was Lionel. Beginning and end of story.”

Before I can start in on bashing all her ex-boyfriends, an announcement begins playing over the sound system.

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