The day after I get home from the National Championships, needing a distraction, I text Sara and entice her to be home at seven for one of the most exquisite meals I have under my belt: seared scallops on a bed of fresh corn and roasted hazelnuts, swirled in a creamy, paprika-infused brown butter sauce. Scallops cost a breathtaking twenty-four dollars per pound at the grocery store, and their soft, delicate white bellies make them tricky to cook without charring the skin and leaving the insides raw. In other words, don’t bother attempting to make them unless you know what you’re doing and have a reason to splurge. I’m making a pound and a half of them tonight because I want to feel talented and productive and like myself again as I recount the story of my breakup to Sara. I lost sight of who I am over the course of my relationship with Tyler; I need to prove to myself that I haven’t forgotten that again while dating Ryan.

I’ve unloaded the groceries and preheated the oven when Sara walks in and drops her yoga mat by the door. She taught a class tonight, so wisps of blond hair frizz up from her topknot, and her cheeks glow pink. It’s true that teaching yoga isn’t as physically taxing as doing it, or so she tells me, but she’s still one of those girls who never sweats. As a person who spent a good chunk of her teenage years sweating on national television, I’m jealous.

“You’re officially my favorite person, do you know that?” she says, taking in the paper-wrapped scallops and the ears of corn. “This looks amazing.”

“Thanks, but save your compliments for when you taste it,” I say. “Hey, do me a favor? Will you shuck the corn?”

“Sure thing. Looks fancy. What’s the occasion?” she asks.

I look up carefully from the paprika I’m measuring. “Ryan and I broke up,” I say.

Sara gasps and gives me a sympathetic look. “I’m so sorry,” she says, hugging me.

“Well, technically, I broke up with him,” I add. “We had a fight, and…”

I press my lips together into a tight smile so they don’t tremble. I can’t let myself cry again—not now, not after I’ve spent the better part of the last two nights crying myself to sleep. It feels important to add the technicality that I was the one to break off the relationship. I can’t stomach being the girl who gets dumped twice in six months.

Sara sinks into the kitchen chair next to mine, and while I slide the chopped hazelnuts into the oven and pat each scallop dry with a paper towel, I recount what happened. I don’t have to litigate Dimitri’s wrongdoings for her; I say he was emotionally and verbally abusive, and she understands.