I’m front row, stage left at this matinee performance. When Francesca prances over to my side, I wave stupidly. She doesn’t wave back, obviously, but she must have noticed me because right before the show ends, an usher, well, ushers me backstage.

I follow the trail of glitter and bandaid wrappers to a dressing room where two dozen dancers are wrestling off their leotards. Francesca is topless and smiling when she greets me.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” She pulls on a chunky black sweater. “I could have gotten you in for free.”

“I didn’t know I was coming until I walked by the theater,” I say.

The city is the best distraction. Belligerent taxi drivers. Christmas music spilling out of revolving doors. Bells jingling. Phones ringing. Busy chatter and blaring sirens. My track-by-track playlist titled How to Avoid My Problems.

Walking.

Three hours. Up and down and all around the city. Never idling long enough to remember what I’m running away from.

My thoughts.

I knew if I went home, I’d just sit and stew until I drove myself crazy. So I walked and walked and walked until I ended up in front of Radio City Music Hall.

“You want to grab coffee?” she asks, shoving her bruised feet into a pair of boots. “I have an hour break before I need to get ready for the next performance.”

We end up at an over-crowded café across the street from the theater, cramming into two seats at the window bar. Francesca sips green tea. I inhale a triple shot. We split a raw vegan date brownie.

“How’s Brent?” I ask. “Did he survive Vegas?”

“Barely,” she laughs. “But he’s good now. He did a three day juice cleanse and a vitamin drip.”

“Sounds expensive.”

Francesca laughs. “How’s Asher? I read the article. It was intense.”

“We… haven’t really talked.”

“About the article? Or in general?”

“In general,” I say. “Remember when I said I wasn’t sure if we were going to work out? Yeah, well, we didn’t.”

“Oh, Liv,” she sighs and pushes the weird date bar towards me, like it’s the glue for my broken heart. It’s more likely to pull out a filling. “Is there anything I can do?”

“No,” I say. “It’s not like it was serious.”

“Liv—”

“Honestly, it wasn’t even real.”

“What?”

“We weren’t together—not really,” I say. “When we saw you at the tree lighting and you looked so happy, I wanted you to think Asher was happy too. I kinda forced him into this whole fake dating thing. Why? I’m not even sure. My plans tend to backfire. You turned out to be awesome and Asher ended up being really easy to fall in love with. And now I’m just the fake ex-girlfriend with a broken heart.”