“Okay. Goodbye.”
I mumbled goodbye and hung up, staring at the phone in my hand as if it had suddenly transformed into a singing fish.
“Did your mother just... apologize?” Anica asked, having witnessed the entire exchange with wide eyes.
“I think she did.” I set the phone down, feeling oddly deflated. “Add it to the list of surreal things that have happened this month. Right below ‘Hudson Gable is actually Satan in a sexy suit.’”
“That’s... progress, right?”
“Maybe.” I sighed, running a hand through my hair, wincing when my fingers caught in the tangles. “Or maybe it’s just one more thing that doesn’t feel the way I thought it would.”
Anica studied me for a moment, then stood decisively. “Okay, that’s it. Shower time.”
“I’m not in the mood for?—”
“Didn’t ask. You smell like sadness and old ice cream. You’re getting in that shower if I have to drag you there myself.”
I knew that tone. It was Anica’s non-negotiable voice, the one that had gotten us through business crises, impossible clients, and that disaster with the python at a high-profile wedding. She’d chosen the name Knot Your Average Wedding for a reason…
“Fine,” I conceded, pushing myself off the couch. “But I’m not putting on real clothes afterward.”
“Baby steps.” She steered me toward the bathroom. “Clean sweats are an acceptable compromise.”
I stood under the shower spray, watching as two weeks of emotional shutdown swirled down the drain in a sea of expensive shampoo suds. The hot water didn’t magically fix anything, but as I scrubbed away the physical evidence of my depression, something shifted. Not healing exactly, but maybe the recognition that healing was theoretically possible. Someday. Maybe. If the universe stopped using me as its personal punching bag.
Hell, if my mother could apologize for twenty-nine years of trauma, I supposed anything was possible.
The moment two nights ago replayed in my mind. The moment I’d decided to purge every trace of my app from existence. It hadn’t been planned. I might’ve been a tad bit drunk, but I certainly didn’t regret it.
Yet.
I had been staring at my laptop, wallowing in self-pity and cheap wine, when a random thought had struck me. Hudson was probably working on the app at that same moment.
The image of him hunched over a desk, using my ideas, my designs, my dream to further his career had been too much. I’d opened my laptop and navigated to my app development folder. Multiple years of work, of research, of hope, all contained in neat sub-folders.
“Delete,” I’d whispered, selecting the entire thing. The confirmation dialog had appeared:Are you sure you want to permanently delete these items?
I’d clicked “Yes” without hesitation, watching as the progress bar filled, erasing my digital dream one pixel at a time. Then I’d moved to my physical notebooks, ripping out pages of sketches and notes, carrying them to the bathroom where I’d lit them on fire in the sink, watching the flames consume my future until only ashes remained.
I definitely would not get my security deposit back with the scorch marks they’d left, but I didn’t care.
It had felt cathartic in the moment. Powerful, even. A way of sayingIf I can’t have it, neither can youin the most dramatic fashion possible.
Now, standing under the shower spray, I just felt empty. And stupid. And maybe a little bit like a pyromaniac.
I shut off the water and wrapped myself in a towel, wiping steam from the mirror to stare at my reflection. My eyes looked hollow, my skin pale from two weeks of rarely leaving my apartment. I barely recognized myself.
“Who are you?” I whispered to my reflection. “And what have you done with me?”
When I emerged from the bathroom, Anica had changed my sheets and laid out fresh clothes; not sweats, but soft leggings and an oversized sweater. Close enough.
“Better?” she asked as I dressed.
“Cleaner,” I corrected. “Better is a strong word.”
“I’ll take it.” She gestured to the living room. “Callan’s here. He brought lunch.”
“I’m not hungry.”
