How do I feel? I’ve just lost my mom. In one five-minute phone conversation, I lost the only family member I have, burned that bridge, so now it’s just a scorch mark on my heart. I wait for the feelings of grief to overcome me like they did in the snow when I lost Jack and the rest of the Kim-Prescotts.

“I feel… relieved,” I finally say. Honest, even when it’s hard. “My mom sucks, doesn’t she?”

“Your mom sucks the most suck of all the people who suck that aren’t, like, war criminals or Republican senators.”

I spring off the futon. There’s a buzzing in my limbs, but it’s not panic, not anxiety. It’s something else. Something better. “I feel… good.”

“Fuck yeah.” Meredith punches the air again. “You told Linds where she can shove it!”

“Yeah!” I say. Forward, not backward. “Yeah!”

“This calls for a celebratory dance party!” Meredith shouts as she reaches for her phone and opens her Spotify app. Somehow, of all the songs that could possibly come up on Meredith’s Bar Study playlist—Bach and the Beatles and so much Billy Joel—it’s Celine Dion’s version of “It’s All Coming Back to Me” that cues up next. And I promptly burst into tears.

“Shit. Fuck. Ellie, why are you crying?”

“I’m not crying,” I argue as I try to brush the tears aside, but they’re coming so fast, I’m more just pushing the wet around, until it looks like I’m in a face-wash commercial.

“I can see your face. You’re sobbing.” The doorbell to my apartment rings, temporarily distracting Meredith from my cryfest as she stumbles the ten feet to my front door. When she opens it, I expect to see my landlord reminding me of the upcoming increase in rent. Instead, Ari Ocampo is standing on my stoop in a rainbow parka and a pair of thigh-high white pleather boots, holding a pastry bag from Roastlandia.

“Ellie!” she says, swanning right inside without invitation. “I saw Andrew’s Instagram post, and I came right over. I brought you some gluten-free bran muffins.”

“She’s heartbroken, not constipated,” Meredith says.

Ari eyes her. “And who are you?”

Meredith looks rightfully affronted. “Meredith. Ellie’s best friend. Who are you?”

“I’m Ellie’s other best friend,” Ari answers. “She may not claim me as such, but she would be wrong.”

Ellie is still standing in the middle of the room with tears running down her face. “Can someone please turn off this song?” I manage through a mucus bubble in my throat. One of these days, I will stop ugly-crying in front of the only people who can tolerate me, but that day is not today.

Meredith shuts off the song, and Ari hands me the bag of muffins. “Did he cheat on you? That handsome, Gucci-wearing motherfucker.”