More like a “hysterically crying in a public place because instead of being proposed to I’m getting dumped” Elle Woods moment.

The good news is I haven’t actually started to cry yet. Which is a relief because my mouth is hanging open in complete and utter shock, and adding heaving sobs to the mix would make for a huge, snotty mess. A literal one, not just the figurative one my life has become.

“I’m sorry, what did you just say to me?”

“I said, I think we should break up.”

I stare at the stupid, stupid man sitting across from me. I want nothing less than not to see Evan’s stupid, stupid face for even one second longer, but I can’t seem to look away, my face frozen in a mixture of horror and WTF-ery. I force my eyes shut, hoping against hope that when I reopen them, all of this will have been some kind of sick joke.

But it’s not.

When I open my eyes—eyes Evan once told me weren’t just brown but brown with flecks of gold—he’s still there. Still watching me with a gaze full of pity.

I wish I could channel a Real Housewife and throw my dirty martini in his face, but that would require a level of motor function I don’t seem to have. Also, something tells me I’m going to need the liquid courage to survive the rest of this night.

Finally, after several minutes of painful silence, Evan reaches over and pats my hand. Like I’m some grandma he helped across the street and not the woman he’s been dating the last four years.

“I know this isn’t what you were expecting, Lana Banana.” His stupid, stupid mouth curls up in a condescending hint of a smile.

I always hated that nickname. Lana doesn’t even rhyme with banana.

Stupid. Stupid.

I’m so fucking stupid.

I yank my hand out from under his, the mere touch of his skin on mine enough to give me the icks. “I thought you brought me here to propose.” I mean for it to come out accusatory, but instead my voice hitches with a tinge of whine.

A proposal is a reasonable assumption when the man you’ve been in a committed relationship with for four years plans dinner at the restaurant where you had your first date. Assuming the man isn’t a stupid, stupid asshole.

Evan’s face scrunches up like the very thought of marrying me is painful. “Oh.” He nods slowly, in a way he probably thinks is wise and sage and Gandalf-esque. “I can see now how you might’ve misinterpreted this.”