Because I’m heartbroken and still slightly, if not mostly, drunk, I click on his profile. Seth rarely posts photos of himself, his feed instead full of pictures of his travels. For the past however many years, he’s been a roving reporter, traversing the country and sometimes the world for his stories, which are mostly investigative, serious-type pieces. He’s an in-demand freelancer, so he’s never in one place for very long. When we were still young and naïve, we thought we’d be journalists together at the same newspaper, him covering news and politics, me reviewing books and the arts.

I scoff into my empty pint of ice cream. Neither of us ended up where we thought we’d be.

I squeeze my eyes shut because suddenly all my brain wants to do is replay the first of my catastrophic breakups. The worst one. The one that started it all and has yet to be beat, even by tonight’s should’ve-been-a-proposal. But despite sobering up somewhat thanks to the ice cream and water and probably the jaunts of crying, I know I’m in no position—physically or emotionally—to be able to handle a DM from an ex, especially not the ex.

I need reinforcements. “May.” I poke her repeatedly until she finally murmurs something that sounds somewhat conscious. “I just got a DM from Seth.”

“Oh shit.”

At least I think that’s what she says since she hasn’t removed her face from the pillow.

“I need another drink.” I’m sort of joking, because lord knows I’ve imbibed enough alcohol over the past few hours to last me a lifetime, but if this situation doesn’t call for excessive drinking, then I don’t know what does.

And when May actually rises from the bed and joins me in the kitchen, my decision is validated.

“Wanna talk about it?” May clinks her shot glass full of tequila against mine, asking me the question for the second time that night.

“Nope. How many shots do I need until I black out?” I down the liquid from my glass, wincing as it burns my throat.

Turns out, just the one.

Two

My cure for getting over a breakup? Move on to the next person!

—Lana Parker, “So You Got Dumped, Now What?”

An evil bright light forces my eyes open the next morning. It’s either the ass crack of dawn, or my drinking caught up with me and I’m being beamed up—or down, jury’s still out.

I have to literally pry my eyelids apart as they seem to be caked in some kind of black gunk that I really hope is the remnants of last night’s proposal-worthy makeup look. Once I finally manage to unstick them, I’m forced to survey my surroundings. Which immediately makes me want to close my eyes again.