“You’re going to love this, Lar. All the influencer dogs are eating it. You’re going to be trendy!” I take the brick over to the kitchen, noticing it does seem to have real chunks of meat and peas in it, which I guess is good, but otherwise, it just… smells like dog food. Also, it’s an unpleasant shade of mud brown. I glance at the brochure inside the box, the one with the adorable little fluffy white dog with one paw raised in anticipation of her owner setting down her fresh lunch. That dog’s bowl really looks like it has carrots and chunks of steak in it. Hmmm. Well, we’ve got it, so why not give it a shot. I open the plastic package and spoon a little into Larry’s bowl for a taste, and then place it down in front of him. He sniffs at it, six inches off again, but then sits down and glances up at me, skeptical.
“You don’t like it?” I can’t believe it.
I take a spoonful and put it right up to his mouth. He licks at it, suspiciously, and then shifts away from it, turning his head to one side, as if I just offered him kale. He flashes me a guilty look with his one good eye.
“You really don’t like it.” I can’t believe it. One truffle-infused lamb brick costs as much as a GrubDash from the local bar and grill. I suspect Larry would rather have the double cheeseburger. What am I going to do with a box full of curated, hand-hewn dog bricks?
Larry lies down in front of his bowl and puts his head on his paws, looking contrite. I guess he just doesn’t have fancytastes. Still, I feel like I can’t even do something nice for my dog without it backfiring.
I can’t even make Larry happy?
My life is a mess.
Twenty-one
SORA
No one is coming to rescue you. You’re going to have to climb on down from that tower by yourself.
—SOLO FEBRUARY CHALLENGE
I hide in my drafty condo and just keep a low profile, avoiding every social media platform ever invented. The last thing on earth I want to do is open my laptop and let all that horrible, horrible stuff claw its way back in front of my eyeballs. Already the criticisms have been circling my brain, like termites eating away at my self-esteem.
You’re such a fraud.
I can’t believe I even read a single stupid word you ever wrote.
It’s women like you who keep other women down.
Shame on you.
This was all a sham. #GoSolo means nothing now. Thanks for nothing.
The worst part is that nothing they could ever say is worse than what I’m telling myself. They think they’re hard on me? They have no idea what I’m telling myself. I should’ve never trusted Jack. I should’ve seen this coming a mile away. I had something good going with Solo February, and I let a guy distract me—again.
All I can think about is Jack. And seeing Mal hug his shoulders, and the deep, bitter taste of betrayal lingering at the back of my mouth.
I call Stella because I need advice. Preferably from someone with a PhD. in behavioral psychology.
“You should be taking better care of yourself. Have you even eaten today?” Stella asks, taking in my appearance, as she walks into my condo. Which, to be honest, I haven’t even bothered to check. She glances at my feet. “Are you wearing only one sock?”
I look down and see I am, indeed, wearing one mint-green sock, and the other foot is bare. I hadn’t even noticed.
I hug her tightly to me and don’t let go.
“Okay, okay. We’re going to get through this,” she says, hugging me back a moment before gently peeling me off her. “First thing is, let’s find your other sock. Or any other sock. Next thing, let’s go wash your face and comb your hair.”
I realize I hadn’t bothered to do either since coming home from the Golden Chef Awards. One quick glance in the mirrorand I see deep black streaks of mascara down my face. I’m a mess. I glance down at the bath rug and see my other mint-green sock there. I tug it on. Okay. One task complete.
“Also, I brought you a nice fresh salad,” Stella calls through the door of the bathroom. “And a bottle of tequila.”
“The tequila, yes. Not sure if I can eat, though.” I walk out of the bathroom feeling slightly better. Also, I found my sock.
“Since when?” Stella stares at me, bug-eyed.
“I’m just as shocked as you.”
“But this salad has bacon.” She opens the cardboard container to show me. I do a double take. “I mean, it’s kosher turkey bacon, but still,” she explains.
