Should I feel proud of being a divorcee? I feel as if I’m wearing a scarlet D on my chest. Like I should run and hide before people with pitchforks try to tar and feather me in the middle of town square.

I don’t think my small town in New Jersey has a town square, but still. It could happen.

I click on Becca’s name and lift the phone to my ear.

“Hey! How’d everything go?”

I sigh. “It went fine. I’m just exhausted.”

“I’m sure. Why don’t you go home and take a nap? Then you’ll be recharged for tonight.”

“I don’t think I’m feeling up to coming out tonight.”

“Oh, no. You are not getting out of this one. You can’t sit home and mope around. You need to be with your friends. Your very excited friends who got babysitters to watch their asshole children for the night.”

I slump forward and rest my forehead against the steering wheel. “I don’t feel like celebrating.”

“Then you can sit at the bar and cry into your mojito. You’re coming out.”

“Fine. But it’s your fault if the townspeople stone me to death.”

“What? Is this another one of your book references that I don’t get?”

“Never mind. I’ll see you tonight.”

Chucking my phone onto the seat beside my purse, I glance out the windshield just in time to catch my now ex-husband waltzing out of the courthouse.

In the year it took us to get divorced, Andrew lost a good ten pounds. I’d always tried to convince him to come running with me when we were married. I only run if I’m being chased was his response. Funny how he suddenly found the desire to get in shape once I was out of the picture. Bastard looks better than he did when we first met.

I, on the other hand, found the ten pounds he’d lost, and tacked on another five for good measure. I’d lost my drive and stopped working out. I envy the people who stop eating when they’re stressed. I’m an emotional eater. I eat my feelings, and unfortunately, they aren’t fat free. They taste a lot like Ben and Jerry’s.

I peel my eyes away from the man I used to love and back out of my parking spot. Instead of leaving the courthouse to my Spotify playlist like a badass, I’m crying to Don Henley’s Sometimes Love Just Ain’t Enough.

“I am not going in there.”

Becca tugs on my elbow. “Come on. She already spotted us.”

My bottom lip juts out. “But there’s balloons.”

“I swear I told her not to get them. You know Kerry.”

The bouncer hands my license back and jerks his thumb toward the embarrassing scene that awaits me. “Those balloons are funny.”