1
JENNA
Ididnotwake up this morning intending to scream about dicks in a public place.
But here I am—thirty minutes into my work day, ten fun-sized chocolates into my rage spiral, and one narcissistic ex-husband away from completely losing my mind—when an idea hits me like a sugar-fueled lightning bolt.
If Bobby wants to act like a dick, fine. I’ll send him one.
A really big one. Made of chocolate, of course. Maybe he’ll finally choke on something other than my hopes and dreams.
My leg bounces under my desk as I stare blankly at the spreadsheet on my computer monitor. I’m supposed to be reviewing an auto claim, but the words blur into a mushy mess of VIN numbers and policy limits. All I can think about is how this is my first Valentine’s Day alone in ten years.
Ten years of being Mrs. Bobby Jones.
Ten years of “we’re high school sweethearts” smugness.
Ten years of pretending I didn’t notice my husband flirting with any girl who walked and had a pulse.
And then one day, a text pops up on his phone while he’s in the shower, and my world goes sideways.
KATELYN:
Can’t wait to see you again. Last night was soooo good.
Attached wasa mirror selfie from a girl who looks like the Forever 21 clearance section threw up on her. But still young, pretty, and very much not me.
I’d like to say I kicked him out that night, that I immediately found my self-worth and my spine and told him to shove it. Instead, I froze. I rationalized. I gave him chances. A whole year of chances.
But the divorce papers are signed now. The ink is dry. The ring is off my finger and hidden in the back of my underwear drawer, behind the granny panties I only wear when I’m bloated and satan’s waterfall is plaguing me.
Which brings me back to the chocolate.
Another wrapper crinkles in my fingers as I rip it open. I shove the piece of candy into my mouth like I’m personally offended by nougat. Then my eyes flick to the tiny digital clock in the corner of my monitor.
11:17 a.m. Close enough to lunchtime.
I grab my purse from the bottom drawer and cram the rest of the chocolate wrappers into the trash. My boss, Marilyn, glances up from her desk as I walk by her office, a question in her eyes.
I point to the door. “Early lunch,” I whisper.
She waves a hand and goes back to arguing with someone on her phone. She’s been weirdly gentle with me since the divorce. A perk of public humiliation in a small town, I guess.
The February air in Maple Ridge is crisp but mild as I emerge from the entrance of the insurance office. A thin layer of cloudssoftens the sunlight, and Main Street has that picture-perfect small-town charm that real estate brochures live for. Brick buildings. Hanging baskets. A florist, a bookshop, a bakery. And the newest addition: Bliss.
The chocolatier’s storefront takes up the corner lot like it owns the whole block. The windows are polished to a mirror shine, displaying glossy truffles and handcrafted bonbons in neat little rows. The sign above the door is simple but elegant, ivory script on a dark-brown background, reminiscent of melted chocolate and cream.
I square my shoulders and march toward the door, clutching my purse strap as if it insulted my mother.Iam a woman on a mission. A petty, unhinged mission, but still.
I yank on the handle harder than necessary, and the little bell overhead gives a startled jingle. A wave of rich, dark cocoa and sugar and something warm and buttery hits me like a hug. I’m instantly salivating and slightly more feral. And because my brain has been replaced with pure spite, I blurt—at full volume—something I can’t take back:
“Give me the biggest dick you have!”
The entire shop goes silent.Oh no. No, no, no.I blink once, twice, as my words echo off the walls and bounce back at me.
Give me the biggest dick you have? Seriously, Jenna?
A woman gasps in front of me. My face scrunches with regret, already knowing exactly who it is by the smell of her lilac perfume and permanent expression of disapproval.
