“Cease and desist, I beg you both,” I say. “I haven’t been single a full day yet. Can I get a grace period before I’m thrust back into the meat market?”

“Fine,” Meg says, “but only if Ruf and I get to take you out for this inaugural thrusting.” She’s scrolling through her calendar on her phone. “Okay, Tommy has poker night next weekend, but the following Friday is Mama’s Night Out. Oh good, I’m getting my eyebrows threaded that day. Let’s not waste it.”

“I already know the perfect place, and which overalls I’m going to wear,” Rufus says.

They both turn expectantly to me. I’m glad the conversation has veered away from Noah Ross. And also that I have lucked into these generous, funny, nosy, well-accessorized, and occasionally drunk friends.

Who knows, maybe two weeks from now, the thought of going out on the town as a single woman will feel less unthinkable.

I raise my glass, and we all clink. “Kate Mosses, here we come.”

Chapter Eleven

On Friday afternoon, I’ve got eighteen browser windows open on my desktop. I am crafting a compendium for how to visit the Cloisters museum without a hitch. I need Noah to be inspired by the medieval gardens and Netherlandish triptychs, not distracted by the hunt for a bathroom, or annoyed by a closed snack bar at the moment he wants a coffee.

I am finally reaching the state of preparedness where I feel nothing can go wrong. And that’s when fate slaps me in the face, in the form of a text from Ryan.

Let me state for the record that I have messaged my ex-fiancé no less than ten times this week. Low-key checking-in texts. Here-if-you-want-to-talk texts. Hope-you’re-having-a-good-week-at-work texts. I’m not trying to harass Ryan, or get back together. But it’s weird that we were intimate for three years—and planning to spend the next threescore staying that way—and suddenly, it’s like we cut a cord, and we’re strangers. It seems to me there should be some sort of wind-down period, a lame-duck session of the relationship. A couple of texts, nothing crazy. But Ryan seems not to share my vision.

Until today, when he actually writes back. Three times in a row.

Mom was spring-cleaning my place and found some of your things. Mostly clothes, but that robe with all the colors is there. And some award of your mom’s. She’s hitting Goodwill tomorrow. Wanted to give you a heads-up, in case you want any of it.

And then:

I’m in Boston for work, or else I’d try to hold her off longer. Sorry.

And then:

Also, the ring is yours. I gave it to you. Please stop asking if I want it back.