I drag myself to the door and open it.
She takes one look at me, my tear-streaked face, the rat’s nest that is my hair, the oversized hoodie, and wordlesslypushes past me, holding a bag like she’s raiding a bunker.
“Jesus,” she mutters, kicking the door shut with her foot. “What happened since this morning?”
“I googled.”
She winces. “Rookie mistake.”
“There’s a picture,” I whisper, “of me… at the premiere. And the comments…”
She sets the bag down on the table, then crosses the room and pulls me into a hug.
I break, silently and violently, right there in her arms.
“I should’ve known,” I mumble. “I should’ve known what they’d say.”
“People are assholes,” she says fiercely, wrapping her arms tighter around me. “They’re terrified of women who don’t fit in their narrow little boxes.”
I sniff. “They said he was doingcharity work, Maya.”
She pulls back just enough to look me in the eye. “I hope they all get explosive diarrhea in their cars. During rush hour. With no toilet paper in sight.”
A weak laugh slips out. It’s not much, but it’s something.
She cups my cheeks, her thumbs gentle. “Screw them. Screw the internet. And screw Jake fucking Hollander.”
Then she turns, grabs the giant tub of ice cream from the bag, plucks out a spoon, and nudges me toward the sofa. “Sit. Eat. Stuff your face. I’ll be back with cocktails and a playlist titled ‘Men Are Trash But Ice Cream Is Forever.’”
She brings the cocktails, and I don’t ask what’s in them. I don’t really care. Could be gasoline with a sugar rim at this point.
She kicks off her shoes and settles onto the sofa beside me, pullingthe corner of the blanket over her lap like she owns the place, which, emotionally speaking, she kind of does.
“Thank you for being here,” I murmur.
“Always,” she says, like it’s not even a question.
We eat in silence for a little while—ice cream straight from the tub, cocktails of suspicious strength, and a shared unspoken agreement that trousers are optional.
Eventually, she clears her throat, nudging me gently with her foot. “So… do you want to talk about it? Or shall we just spiral silently while watchingMurder She Bakedreruns?”
I groan and drop my head onto her shoulder. “I don’t even know what to say. I mean, he lied. But also, he didn’t. But also… he did.”
She sips her drink. “Men do that. They lie, and then they act surprised when you feel betrayed. It’s like they think emotional deception is fine as long as their pants are still on.”
I snort. “It’s the loophole. The ‘technically I didn’t cheat’ of identity crises.”
She grins. “Exactly. Emotional catfishing with a six-pack and a good jawline.”
That gets a real laugh out of me, even though my heart still feels like a bruised fruit.
We’re quiet again for a beat. Then, softly, Maya says, “You love him, don’t you?”
The words are like a needle popping a balloon I’ve been trying to keep inflated with sarcasm and full-fat ice cream.
I don’t answer right away. Just stare into the little swirl of melted icecream at the bottom of my spoon, like maybe it holds the answer. Spoiler: It doesn’t.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “I do. At least… the version of him he showed me. But”—I shrug—“was any of it real?”
