My bedraggled self stares back at me from the mirror over my desk. We both know that if I saw Liam on the street, I’d throw myself at his feet like a demented groupie, wailing for him to take me back.
So this is love.
What a nightmare.
First thing in the morning, four goons in black suits show up at my door with all my things packed up in cardboard boxes. Without a word, they drop the boxes on the step and turn to leave.
“Oh, no you don’t!” I holler after them.
The biggest one—his name is Kieran, I remember—turns back to give me a raised eyebrow.
I stand aside from the door and jerk my thumb over my shoulder. “In you go.”
In this thick Irish accent, Kieran says, “What’re you on about?”
“I’m guessing you lot were the ones who packed all my stuff up and took it over to Liam’s place a few weeks ago, am I right?”
Shifty-eyed, the goons look at each other.
“That’s what I thought.” I step aside and sweep my arm toward my bedroom. “You know where everything goes.”
Kieran laughs. When his disdain doesn’t make me wilt, he glares at me.
I fold my arms over my chest and glare right back.
An hour later, my clothes, toiletries, and books are back in their rightful places in my bedroom. Kieran and the goon squad trundle out silently, looking like they’re not exactly sure what just happened.
Standing in the open doorway of the apartment watching them go, Ellie says, “You know that old saying, misery loves company?”
“Yeah?”
“Tyler and I broke up again. So at least you won’t have to be miserable alone. My miserable ass will be keeping you company.”
I’m lying on my back on the living room floor, staring up at the ceiling, flattened with longing for a man I’ll never see again. “What happened this time?”
She sighs heavily, closing the door and wandering into the kitchen. “He said he felt smothered.” Her chuckle is dark. “Apparently, the girl he was seeing behind my back didn’t make him feel quite so penned in.”
“That’s shitty. Are you okay?”
“I’ll live. I’ve been rage eating the past few days. That always helps.”
I told her the short version of Liam’s heartlessness last night. Being a good friend, she was righteously angry on my behalf. I feel a little guilty that I can’t muster enough outrage to return the favor about Tyler’s mistreatment at the moment, but judging by my mood swings over the past several hours, later on I’ll break a mirror or throw a vase off the balcony, and we can be outraged together.
Ellie grabs something out of the freezer and comes to sit cross-legged next to me. She says, “You want some pistachio ice cream? There’s tons of it left. We’ll probably be eating this stuff forever.”
I look at her, holding out the container and a spoon, and burst into tears again.
She takes that as a no and starts to eat, every once in a while reaching out to pat me comfortingly on the shoulder.
Miserable and heartbroken, I hide in the apartment for three days. I don’t go anywhere. I don’t call anyone. Except for Liam, because I can’t help my sad sack self, but his phone number is disconnected.
That cruel, horrible, cowardly, lying, no-good, pretending-to-have-a-heart bastard.
I miss him with every fiber of my being.
Now I understand how otherwise rational people can snap and commit violent acts. The human body wasn’t designed to contain so much emotion.
On day four, I decide I’m fed up with myself. I’m still heartbroken, but lying around sobbing for hours at a time isn’t helping anyone. And I’ve still got the bar to pass, if I can manage it.
I doubt I can manage it in my current mental state, but if I fail the first time, there’s always the next.
Unless I happen to fall for another dangerous stranger in the meantime and ruin my life again.
I call Buddy and tell him I’m coming back to work. He says miserably, “Yes, dear,” as if he doesn’t have a choice in the matter. For whatever bizarre reason, that makes me grimly happy.
When I show up at the diner, the first person I see is Carla. She does a double-take when I walk through the door, instantly abandons the customer she’d been taking a food order from, and rushes across the restaurant to grab me in a frantic hug.
“Jesus Christ on a cracker, you look like a litter box that hasn’t been cleaned in a year! I’m so glad to see you! I’ve been so worried about you! Are you okay? Because you don’t look okay, you look like death, and oh my god,” her voice rises, “I can’t believe you were living with a gangster!”
When she finally stops for a breath, I break away from her, feeling a thousand years old.
“Thanks for letting the entire restaurant know about my romantic entanglements. It’s good to see you, too. I appreciate the inspiring words about my appearance. And yes, I’m okay.”
To the old guy openly eavesdropping from the table we’re standing next to, I say, “Sir, mind your business.”
He shrugs, turning his attention back to his pastrami on rye. “I was here first.”
I mutter, “Let’s take this into the back.”
I head through the dining room with Carla on my heels, peppering me with questions and begging forgiveness for not calling me after my graduation dinner. I was right: Dave put the kibosh on that.
Goddamn bossy men. I should start a women’s group for survivors of alpha males. There are probably millions of us worldwide, nursing bruised hopes, hearts, and uteruses.
When we get to the kitchen, Diego’s at the grill, flipping burgers. For some reason, he doesn’t seem surprised to see me.
“You’re back.” He flashes his white teeth in a smile.
“I am.”
I stand there awkwardly, painfully self-conscious in my uniform, more aware of my body in clothes than I was at Liam’s when I spent my days wearing his dress shirt and nothing else.
“I’d give you a hug, but I’m all greasy.” Diego flips a patty, sending a splatter of fat flying onto the front of his white apron, then glances over at me. “You good?”
“Never better,” I lie. “You?”
He lifts a shoulder. “Same.”
He’s acting strangely nonchalant for someone who threatened murder the last time we spoke. Then again, his mood swings would give mine a run for their money, so I dismiss the thought and continue walking to the break room. Carla clings to me like a baby monkey riding on its mother’s back.
I shut the door behind us and fall into the nearest plastic chair, then wince in pain. I’d forgotten how hideously uncomfortable they are.
Carla pulls up another chair, sits down so close our knees touch, and grabs my hands like she’s about to lead us in prayer.
“Girl,” she says, all out of breath. “Liam Black?”
She waits with wide eyes for me to start talking.
I get choked up instead. My face scrunches up, and my voice comes out strangled. “Don’t say his stupid name. I hate him.”
Her voice is bone dry. “Oh, yeah, I can tell. That weepy face has hate written all over it.”
I sniffle, struggling not to give in to the tears pushing against the backs of my eyeballs. In an attempt to avoid telling the story and possibly bursting into sobs, I say, “What did Dave tell you about him?”