I wish, with every fiber of my being, that were true. But . . .

“This isn’t some movie where the hot guy falls for the basement weirdo, Hols.”

“Don’t call yourself that!” she chastises.

I shrug, licking a bit of chocolate off the back of one of my teeth. “It’s true. And we both know it. I own it, mostly proudly. But who I am, what I do, the things I’ve been through, don’t exactly lend toward a happily ever after.”

I’ve lived with that truth for a long time, had it hidden deep inside behind locked doors and solid walls, but those have all been shattered, and after Blake, with my defenses all but gone, it hurts to spell it out so bluntly.

Holly’s eyes go red and glittery, but she growls, “I’m going to kill him.” Even she knows I’m right, no matter how much she wishes it weren’t true. “If anyone can figure out a way to do it without getting caught, it’s us.” She wiggles her eyebrows at me enticingly.

“I don’t want to kill him, Holly. I want to pretend it never happened so I don’t feel stupid, sad, and mad all at the same time.”

“You are not stupid. You’re kind and sweet. Sad and mad, I can help with. You need pizza rolls, cookies, and wine. Go claim the prime spot on the couch.”

I wish I had the strength to argue, but shitty food and a shittier movie sounds like the perfect way to wallow in my misery, so I don’t bother.

In the living room, I get my favorite blanket, the extra-fluffy one I gave Holly for Christmas two years ago, and curl up in the corner of her sectional couch with three huge pillows to make a nest of heartache.

I hear Holly get Olive set up with a one-millionth playing of Frozen and then she sits down next to me on the couch, a tray of steaming pizza rolls and cookies between us. I hit play on Legally Blonde, the movie we watch every time one of us has a breakup. Except it’s always Holly. It’s never been me.

Until now.

I bite into a too-hot pizza roll, wanting the burning pain of the liquid fire in my mouth. It’s nothing compared to the agonizing hurt in my heart. And I don’t mean the heartburn the shitty food is going to give me.

* * *

It’s late when I leave Holly’s, or it seems like it because Olive went to bed hours ago, but she’s only five with a bedtime of eight thirty. Since I’m a little older, it’s hours until sleep has any chance of taking me into its slumberous relief, and I can’t imagine going home and reliving my humiliation again by telling Jacob what happened today.