“Sora!” I call. What is she doing? She’s going to freeze. I just have my tuxedo jacket on and the cold already slips straight through the fabric, like ghost hands against my ribs. I run to her—she’s working hard to get away from me, though her stilettos and the icy sidewalks slow her down.
Cabs and rideshares rush by on Michigan Avenue. She flings up her arm, trying to signal one. Two cars speed by already carrying passengers in the back seats.
“Sora, wait.” I grab her elbow, which feels like ice. “You’re going to catch cold.” I shrug out of my jacket and throw it over her shoulders, but as she turns, I see the tears streaking down her face.
“You could’ve just been honest. That Mal is backing your bakery.”
“She’s not. I promise, she’s not.”
“I just… I can’t believe you.” Sobs choke her voice. I can barely understand what she’s saying. “You… lied to me.” She flashes her phone in my face. She’s found a photo on Mal’s social. It’s a selfie Mal took of us. On that night. That stupid mistake of a night. She’s licking my face. We’re both drunk. At the bar. The night I took Mal home. Damn it. I can’t deny that.
“See? That look on your face. It’s true, isn’t it?”
“Sora. Please. Let’s talk about this.” A cab slides to the curb beside us.
“No.” She opens the cab door and slides in. “I can’t believe you’re just like all the others,” she says, damning me. She slams the door before I can say another word. And then the cab leaves me, jacket-less, in subzero wind chill, standing alone on Michigan Avenue.
Twenty
SORA
If you’re looking for someone else to tell you who you are, they are going to get it wrong every time. Only you can define you. No one else can. #GoSolo.
—SOLO FEBRUARY CHALLENGE
Jack calls many times that night. And the next morning. I send them all to voicemail. I just… can’t. I can’t anymore. That’s the plain truth of it. But the photo of Mal licking his face… the possessive way she’d taken hold of his arm at the awards, the fact that she sat at his table. What am I supposed to think? It’s Dan all over again, and me wandering around a banquet hall that is hosting an electricians’ union meeting instead of a bar mitzvah. And it’s Marley, too, sputtering on about how sexting isn’t cheating—technically. And Chris, telling me he was going to Cancún with a buddy from college, but then busting himself when he sent a picture of the view fromhis balcony, failing to note that the frame included a neon-yellow thong bikini hung out to dry over the railing.
A little voice inside my head whispers,This is what men do. You knew he was too perfect.He was going to save Valentine’s Day, and now he just reinforced what I thought all along: it’s the devil’s holiday. How could I be so gullible—again? How could I believe that Jack wouldn’t be just like the rest? I should’ve listened to my gut early on. It had been warning me all this time Jack wasn’t over Mal.
I think about Marley. About Dan. About my rotten luck. I’m spiraling down into a pity party even as I’m choking back tears. Why did I ever let Jack in? Why did I believe after a lifetime of evidence that men justlie, lie, lie,that I’d finally and at long last found one who would tell me the truth?
My nose is so red and raw that it’s peeling, and I’m so incredibly sad that I don’t know how I’ll drag myself out of this. I’ve been brokenhearted before, but never sucker punched quite like this.
I can’t even imagine considering Jack has an explanation that will make everything okay. It’s exhausting me to even try.
I’m so tired. So bone-tired. Of the lies. Of hoping it will be different this time. Being optimistic is freakin’ exhausting. Put a fork in me. I’m done. I’m tired of being duped. And the only way to stop being duped is to stop believing what everyone tells you.
In fact, to stop believing anyone. Ever.
Larry wanders over to the couch with his tongue lolling out and I crush him in a bear hug. At least dogs are loyal. From here on out, this will be the only male in my life.
I cry into his fur, acutely aware that I’ve been here before.Larry knows the drill. He turns and tenderly licks my face. Miraculously, his depth perception works right then. He doesn’t even miss this time. He gets it on the first try.
At least Larry loves me.
Sniffling, I swipe my face with paper towels because I’m out of tissues, and I realize I’ve been derelict in keeping my condo well-supplied. The fridge stands empty, and Larry’s bowl barely has kibble in it. And I’m not even 100 percent sure I have toilet paper.
My phone rings. I fumble for it and see Arial calling.
“Hello?” I answer, my voice sounding like I swallowed a cheese grater. Ugh. The ugly crying jag still lingers, apparently.
“Sora.” Arial sounds serious. Zero question marks or upward lilts. Uh-oh.
“Yes?” I sit up on my couch. Larry, who had been zonked out next to the coffee table, raises his head at the sound of my voice.
“Have you seen the reaction. To your piece.”
“No?” NowIsound like Arial, with all my sentences ending in an upward lilt. What’s happening? “Is it bad?”
