There’s glitter in my eyebrows. Glue on my pants. And somewhere under the mess, the sad remains of my pride.
The t-shirt I sacrificed in the name of redemption now lies across my kitchen table like a cotton confession.
I’ve written a message in neon puff paint and surrounded it with little lightning bolts and rhinestones, because if I’m going down, I’m going down with flair. Rishi told me once there’s healing in glitter. So, here goes nothing.
The front reads:
SORRY FOR BEING A DICK!
TEXT ME FOR FURTHER APOLOGIES
(555) 977-1529
Yes, my actual number.
Yes, in all caps.
Yes, I hate myself.
The back is even worse:
I’M SORRY TEXTUALLY FRUSTRATED!
I AM SEEKING REDEMPTION!
PLEASE DON’T BLOCK ME!
I stare at the shirt for a full ten seconds before grabbing my phone and snapping a photo. In case I die of shame and someone needs to tell the story at my funeral.
Then I text it to her.
Exhibit A. I’m calling it my Penitent Dick Era.
My thumb hovers over the screen. No way to undo it now. Not after I branded myself a walking billboard for emotional turbulence.
This is what desperation looks like. This is whattryinglooks like.
I hope to hell she laughs. Or forgives me.
Either way, it’s done.
I’ve officially glitter-glued my sins to a cotton-poly blend and offered them to the gods of forgiveness.
Now all I can do… is wait.
CHAPTER 20
GLITTER IS MY LOVE LANGUAGE
RORIE
I’m exactlythree bites into a questionable bodega croissant and halfway through a client call that’s circling the drain when my phone pings with a text.
Carl.
Annoyed with myself for not deleting him. I sigh, glance at the screen expecting an apology or a meme, but what I get instead?—
Holy. Shit.
