“In a sense, yes. And it’s hard to share that with someone because having an argumentative fiancé and broken off wedding may sound likeheavento someone else. Someone who may have had much worse experiences than me. It feels silly for me to put it in the same category.”
“But . . . itisin the same category, right? Like how it affects the brain and what not?”
“Precisely. No matter how big or small the distressing experience was, our brain registers it and does everything in its power to protect us. So something as small as yearly fights at Halloween can still cause my brain to go down a crazy, never ending spiral of intrusive thoughts.”
“Well maybe you need to experience something new so those old memories can fade away.” She shrugs likeobviouslythat will fix everything.
“Maybe.”
“Maybeeeeeee, you can experience something new with a certain someone . . .” She winks and shimmies her shoulders at me.
“I know what you’re getting at and I think that is the worst idea possible.”
“Why? He’s a great guy—the best actually!” Her affirmations about how wonderful Benny is not good for the little crush I have forming. “Party planning abilities aside, he’s a nine out of ten!”
“Why not a ten?” I laugh.
“Only one man in this world is a ten, and that is Henry Cavill. Benny may beswoonyfor some, but he is no Superman.”
“You make a strong case.” I laugh, and a picture of Benny in a Superman suit flashes across my mind.
Quit that, Ellie.
“But really, what’s wrong with seeing him outside of work?”
“I do see him outside of work! Quite often, actually.”
“Not on a date, though.”
“Isn’t it against the rules?”
“Meh, no one will ever know!”
I roll my eyes, with how chatty the people in this school can be left me unconvinced. There is no way a date with Benny Divata would go unnoticed around here. “I highly doubt that.”
“Well . . .” She pauses, a studious look in her eyes. “If you really don’t plan toworkhere for much longer, what’s the harm?”
She has a point.
Chapter thirteen
Benny
Frankieisattackingmyfeet and meowing at me an octave higher than normal while I cook dinner—her extremely annoying and clingy nighttime routine.
Chicken adobo, my parents' recipe, is sizzling in the skillet. I’m not sure what’s going on with me lately, but I feel lonely, and I miss them a little more than usual. But instead of resorting to sad takeout, I figure handling my emotions like an adult and cooking my own dinner would be the way to go.
Frankie keeps pawing and scratching my feet, completely ignoring her insanely huge cat tower standing in the living room. She knows I’m making something she isn't supposed to have and, per usual, is awaiting her offerings.
I take a piece of unseasoned chicken and toss it into the living room. “There, you naked vulture.”
She scurries after it and I return to my sizzling chicken, stirring it around the pan. This is the only dish I know how to make well, aside from spaghetti, but knowing how to cook spaghetti should be a survival skill. Nothing to write home about.
I try to glaze over the pity that befalls me as I cook dinner for one, on a Friday night, for the one thousandth Friday in a row.
As I prepare my plate, a notificationdingson my phone. Of course, Frankie is laying her fat gut on top of my phone so I ignore the sound and continue focusing on dinner. Then I hear anotherding.
Then another.
