Page 110 of The Best Part of Breaking Up

As we reach the ground floor, I realize that he’s too winded to trail after me any further. He heaves a red-faced sigh as his hands find his knees.

“Heidi,” he calls. “I’m going to pretend this conversation didn’t happen. Give you some time to reconsider.”

“Good night, Henry.”

I head home, stopping at the corner market to grab a bottle of wine and wondering if it’s enough to fill the gaping hole in my chest. I uncap it before I even make it to my building.

Only one way to find out, I think.

***

I wake up to someone banging on my door. My head is pounding as I squint into the daylight. I fell asleep on my couch. I can feel the imprint of a throw pillow on the right side of my face. I snag my phone off the coffee table to check the time: it’s after nine a.m. I also have thirty-seven missed calls. My stomach twists.

Fuck.

I stumble towards my door and find Meg standing on the other side. “Thank god you’re alive,” she says.

“I’m alive,” I offer. “What’s the emergency?”

“Kamille’s grandmother called. They were expecting you to ride with them today, but you didn’t show up. They had to leave, or they were going to be late. She had my number from back when you dropped your phone in the pool.”

Everything catches up to me in a rush. Saturday. Nashville. Kamille’s concert. A wave of nausea hits me, and I prop myself against the doorframe, certain I’m going to be sick.

“Oh my god,” I say. I repeat it a few more times, for good measure. I’m already stumbling back into my apartment, searching for my keys.

“Heidi, what are you doing?”

“I’m leaving right now. I can still make it.”

I say it out loud, but I know it isn’t realistic. Even if I hopped in the car wearing this stupid dress and last night’s make-up, with mascara tear stains no doubt streaked across my face, it’s impossible. Nashville is three hours away. The concert starts at eleven. It’ll be over before I can get there.

Those details feel highly irrelevant at this moment, because this is a defeat I cannot accept. I have to try.

“Hey, slow down,” Meg says. “It’s not that big of a d –”

“It’s a huge deal!” I half-yell. I’m digging clothes out of my dresser drawer the way a burglar searches for hidden jewels. I just need an outfit, any outfit, but I can’t think. I realize when Meg grabs me by the shoulder and spins me around that I’m crying again.

“Heidi. Honey. What’s wrong? What happened?”

I wipe my swollen face, sucking in short breaths. I don’t have time to explain, nor am I sure that I want to. Everything that has happened is my own damn fault.

I’m the one who stupidly believed I was going to get that promotion.

I’m the one who trusted Quentin. I’m the one who broke all the rules. I’m the one who let him in, and I’m the one who put myself in a position to get hurt.

I’m also the one who overslept, the one who is going to break a promise to a kid that I am supposed to be a role model for.

“Five minutes,” I say. “I just need five minutes. Can you drive me? Please say you’ll drive me.”

She is obviously confused, and concerned, but she concedes. “Yeah, okay. Five minutes.”

I hide behind my sunglasses in the car, wondering if I’ve got enough makeup in the bag I grabbed to make myself presentable before we get to the liberal arts campus where they’re hosting the music camp.

“So, Paris?” I say to Meg, once we’re on the interstate.

“Paris?” she questions.

“Our vacation,” I say. “How’s the second week of September?”

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