It hasn’t stopped for days. It’s the kind of steady, droning drizzle that quickly soaks the city to the bone, painting the skyline in grey watercolors, and turning headlights into blurry stars.
I used to love this kind of weather, all moody and cinematic. But now it feels like the universe is sighing right alongside me.
Curled up on my couch in one of Eric’s old hoodies, I refuse to admit it still smells like him. Oversized and swamp green, I’ve matched it with a pair of threadbare boy shorts that used to be sexy, but now just scream:Emotionally Damaged.
The city sprawls beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows set between glass and steel with a thousand lives humming along on the other side.
My condo sits on the twenty-fourth floor. All sleek white walls, brushed gold fixtures, high ceilings and way too muchcurated art. It looks like it belongs to someone who actually has their life together.
I haven’t washed my hair in three days and there’s an entire bottle of Sauvignon Blanc sweating on the coffee table. My laptop is sitting on my thighs like a lead weight, open to a blinking cursor on a half-finished chapter I’ve rewritten so many times it doesn’t even make sense anymore.
I stare at the name on the screen and want to scream.
Ryder Blackwood
My newest fictional god is a brooding, leather-jacket-wearing, sinfully hot former-Marine-turned-tattoo artist with a heart of gold buried under ten layers of emotional damage.
He’s my latest blue print of a book-boyfriend that women across the world will thirst for by the time I’m done with him.
But there’s a problem. I can’t write about him anymore.
He won’t talk to me. He just… sits in my head, arms crossed, silently judging my lack of brain power. And the worst kind of writer’s block? Is when a figment of your own imagination starts ghostingyou.
I’ve texted Eric once. Just once.
I don’t even know what the hell I want to say. I just want to understand. I deserve at least that much.
That was four days ago, and the asshole left me on READ.
I never imagined I’d be the woman staring at her phone, rereading a text she regrets sending, but here we are.
A hard knock breaks through my reverie.
Dragging myself to the door, I toe aside a stack of unopened mail spread across the floor and crack it open to find Sasha, holding up a giant canvas tote bag with a bright smile on her face.
She’s in high-waisted black leggings, an oversized lilac sweater that slips off one shoulder, combat boots, and a messy topknot that makes her look effortlessly cool. Her skin is dewy from the rain, but her eyeliner’s still intact.
“You look like shit,” she says, brushing by me to step inside.
“Great,” I mumble. “That was the look I was going for.”
She sets the bag on the kitchen island with a thunk. “I brought supplies. Wine, stuff to make a charcuterie, trashy tabloids and bottle of tequila. And also—because I love you—a discounted cake from the bakery down the street that says ‘Sorry Your Life Is Trash’ in black frosting.”
That actually makes me snort.
“I also brought these,” she adds, digging out a pair of fuzzy socks with middle fingers stitched into them. “Because mood.”
“Not only are you my bestie, you are an icon.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
We settle onto the couch with a spread fit for two queens. We don’t talk much for the first hour. We don’t have to.
She flips through a tabloid reporting a rumor I’ve ghosted the wedding on purpose to drum up publicity. There’s even a blurry photo of me looking haunted outside a grocery store.
Jesus. I had no idea I lookedthatrough.
“You need to leave,” Sasha says out of nowhere.
