“It’s half skylight because it’s seven hundred square feet but yes, thank you, Max, it is charming. I’m fully redoing it except for the skylight. Actually—would you mind looking at photos and tell me what you think? I want to paint every wall gold but Max says it’s crazy.”

“It’s not crazy, it’s genius,” I said, faking girlish camaraderie while my insides boiled over with hurt. Fleur winked, then scampered inside to get her laptop.

“Isn’t she the best?” Max said, watching her go with a dreamy look on her face—one I hadn’t seen in years. Max was always at her best when she felt seen. I smiled benevolently at her.

“Yes, Max, she’s very lovely,” I lied. “It seems like she understands you.” That one was true.

The rest of the evening passed quickly as we drank wine and went through pictures of Fleur’s new apartment until suddenly they were aware of being tipsy, and tired, and they tottered back inside to make tea. Then we were hugging good night, dispersing to our bedrooms, and I was all alone with my wounded heart.

*  *  *

Even Max’s patented brand of calculated manipulation wasn’t enough to keep Tyler from my thoughts. I thought about him all night. About the shape of his face and the smell of his armpit, and the feeling of him, that destabilizing unfolding that took place whenever we reached for each other. I tried to tell myself that I would never feel those things again, so I might as well get over it tonight. The sooner the better. But then the other half of my brain would wish for him to open the door and tell me that he was sorry. That’s the real cruelty of a broken heart. The only person you want to discuss it with is the person who did the breaking.

I ricocheted like that, between regret and desire, for hours and hours. Each time I began to fall asleep, I would think something—a want of him or the burn of rejection—and jolt awake again. It felt like waking up in the bathtub at the exact moment the water has entered your mouth: It’s not clear which way is up. In that state I relived every single one of our conversations, seeing them from a new perspective—the one where I was a dumb girl from a small town, buzzing around his chest because he was the center of the universe and I was a fly. All us flies look the same.