I tap the arrow with my thumb and brace myself—muscles tight, breath hitched, eyes half closed in case I don't like what I see.
Aw, crap!Ihatewhat I see. The image is like eye-acid that plunges straight to my heart. The top post is of Jude with Lisa Lynn, the owner of Organic Goods. I know Lisa. I like Lisa. At least, I used to.
Her face is squished against the side of Jude’s stubbled jaw as they pose for the selfie. They’re at a charity banquet; Lisa tagged him, which means she’s the one who posted it.
Nausea shudders through me. I plop the phone face down on the counter while jagged breaths heave from my chest. "I deserved that,” I decide.
The music in the room fades—the corners of my vision blur. I can’t believe he's dating already. Sure, it’s been the better part of a year, but still…I figured he was hoping to reconcile like I was.
Of course, with each day, it feels less and less likely. Each month, it grows harder to consider sending him the text I always thought I would, one that owns up to my part of things while inviting him to fess up to his. I was going through Hades, as no-swearing Nellie might say.
Still, I’m the greater offender. I’m the one whose pride was too big to swallow. I should have reached out right away. Or at least a day or two after it all went down. I meant to.
A loud knock sounds, followed by Nellie's classic front door request. "Let me in!"
Great.If I thought I was off balance before, it's a million times worse now. I let Nellie in, followed by Mr. Bruce, who doesn't come with his cat after all.
"Jinxy’s getting measured for his new Christmas duds," he tells us.
I escort them to the bar and wave toward the samples. “Cookie one, two, and three,” I say without the slightest bit of fanfare.
They look at each other, look at the cookies, and then drag one of each onto their plates.
“How ya doing?” Nellie asks me.
Sometimes, faking a smile feels like crawling through death’s door. “Fine. Which one do you guys like best?”
This makes them look down at their plates again. I’m normally not such a terrible host, but in the spirit of Don’t-Swear-December, let me saycrapis going down in my life right now. I’ve been hurled into a state of panic that might rob me ofmy dream job,andI just found out that my beautiful Aussie ex is dating some stupid…dummy-faced…selfie-at-a-banquet taker.
Yeah, it’s for charity, so stop tooting your own horn. Get over yourself, Lisa, you self-righteous twit. ‘Oh, look at me with America’s hottest chef. Look how cute we are together.’
“Um…” Nellie raises a hand. “What’s with the face?”
“The face?” I ask, working to change mine. “I’m not making a face.”
“You’re sort of making a face,” Mr. Bruce says.
“There’s no sort of about it,” Nellie says. “You’re ticked off, tiger.”
“Tiger?”
Nellie rolls her eyes. “Just tell us what’s wrong.”
So, I do. I tell them about the post and gripe about how annoying it is whilefullyaware that I have no legs to stand on because I’m the one who pushed Jude away.
Nellie hugs me. “Forget Jude. I’m sorry for bringing him up today. You don’t need him to get this job.”
“Agreed,” Mr. Bruce says, eyeing the cookies on his plate.
Nellie glances at her phone which reminds me that she has a date tonight.
“Well,” I say, nodding at the cookies. “Let’s hear what you guys think.”
They bite into the Greek yogurt one first.
"Interesting," Mr. Bruce says, smacking his lips.
Nellie wordlessly abandons it after one bite and reaches for the avocado cookie. I don’t bother telling them it’s saltless; it would take the fun out of it.
