And I can't fix it with apologies or explanations or grand gestures.
I have to fix myself first.
The thought terrifies me.
Because I don't know if I can.
21
Bailey
For a moment, I forget.
The ceiling above Gretchen's couch is unfamiliar, painted a soft cream instead of the stark white of my apartment. Sunlight streams through curtains I don't recognize.
Then it all comes crashing back.
Daniel's cold eyes. His voice calling me aliability. The pregnancy test still in my purse because I never got the chance to tell him. The door closing behind me with that quiet, final click.
I sit up slowly. Every part of me aches—my head from crying, my back from the lumpy couch, my heart from being shattered into pieces I'm not sure I can put back together.
"You're awake." Gretchen appears with two mugs. "Herbal tea for you. Coffee for me, because I need it."
Dark circles shadow her eyes—I kept her up half the night with my crying.
"What time is it?"
"Almost noon. I called in sick." She hands me the tea and curls up in the armchair. "How are you feeling?"
"Like I was hit by a truck."
"That's fair."
I take a sip of tea. It tastes like nothing. Everything tastes like nothing.
"Was any of it real?" The question escapes before I can stop it. "How did I misread everything so badly?"
"It was real." Gretchen's voice is firm. "He's just broken."
"That doesn't make it hurt less."
"I know."
My phone sits on the coffee table, screen dark. I pick it up with shaking hands. Eleven missed calls. Seven texts. I delete them without reading.
Then I open my banking app because I can't avoid reality anymore.
$3,127.42.
The number sits there, accusatory. Rent is due in two weeks. My health insurance through Williams ends in thirty days. The baby is coming in eight months.
"I need to find a job." My voice sounds hollow. "Today."
"Okay." Gretchen doesn't argue, doesn't suggest I take time to process. She just opens her laptop. "Let's do that."
***
By application forty-seven, I've lost count of how many times I've deleted and rewritten my cover letter.
