When I hang up that final time, tears spill out of my eyes. I wipe them away as fast as I can, but they keep coming. I splash cold water on my face from the kitchen sink, and wipe myself dry with a dish towel. It’s rough against my skin, harsh and unforgiving.

My thoughts race, back and forth, back and forth. I’m an oil painting from Picasso’s Blue Period; the original image is one of sadness, but I keep slapping angry new coats of paint on the canvas, trying to hide it, hoping no one will go digging and scraping at it and find out how many layers there are.

What did I do wrong?

Was I just too much? Did I come on too strong?

Was I too “me”?

Did he get tired of me that quickly?

A knock on the door has me drying my face again. It can’t possibly be Miles. Right? But what if it’s Miles? Shit. I don’t want him to see me so broken. I hold my breath and look through the peephole. Mary stands there, ferret Frank on her shoulder, a lit cigarette dangling from her lips and one in her hand—she sometimes forgets she’s already smoking and lights a second.

I unlock and open the door and usher her inside.

“Finished rehearsals early, thought I’d stop by and see what’s new,” Mary says, putting out both cancer sticks in an ashtray on my coffee table that says “Ash me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.” She keeps it here for whenever she makes an impromptu visit. “I have a pair of tickets for previews if you’re interested. No pressure. You kind of lived the play, after all.”

“You know you don’t have to do that. I get that we’re not . . . part of each other’s lives anymore,” I mumble.

She looks affronted. “Says who?”

“I’m not on your payroll, but you keep giving me things—why do you keep giving me things?” I ask, hating the painful, pleading quality of my voice.

“What things?”

“This hugely discounted apartment, the spa day, the massages.” I lower my voice, jerk my head toward the shared wall. “Miles.”

Her hazel eyes sparkle with mischief. “Didn’t realize I’d gifted him to you. Something happen?”

“You definitely engineered it. And don’t change the subject, please.”

“Just tell me the good stuff and then we’ll get back to your thing,” she says.

Despite my confusion and misgivings about her serial drop-bys, I settle beside her on the couch and find myself giving in. After all, who else can I tell?

“It was wonderful. We had the best time at the most pretentious place ever.”

“Then why do you look so miserable?”

“Because it’s already over and done.”

“How do you know?”