“Oh, my God,” she says, smooshing all her syllables together in excitement. “We have so much to talk about.”

From my spot on the floor, I watch them chat easily, and I feel warm all over at the sight. This is love, too, I tell myself, reminding that aching mark on my heart. These friends who are here for me, who are helping me pick up the pieces after this scandal.

But even so, all night I wait for a call, a text, an e-mail.

All night I feel like someone I love is missing.

Chapter 20

Chapter 20

I guess I leave because I’m looking for a sign.

In the early light of Sunday morning, I rise from the massive pile of blankets and throw pillows (not my eyelids, which have been modestly improved by, of all things, two moist teabags laid gently over their swollen surface) haphazardly arranged on my living room floor. Pretty much all of my bones hurt from sleeping in this arrangement, even a few I wasn’t aware I had, but I don’t suppose I’d trade it. Sibby’s still down there, the comforter from my bed pulled up over her head, only her pouf of black curls visible on the pillow. On the couch, Lark is sprawled—in true princess style—limbs askew, mouth open, a gentle snore punctuating her breaths. Neither one of them stirs when I move, and I’m guessing that’s because they stayed up much later than me. I’m pretty sure I’d drifted off sometime during the fifth episode of The Bachelorette binge-watch, and as I tiptoe into the kitchen I fleetingly wonder if I ought to check the freezer for one or more of my bras.

Instead, I immediately check my phone, which is, at this point, almost certainly a fool’s errand. There’s still nothing from him, and nothing new from the news or gossip blogs—only the same basic information, repackaged to seem like there’s something additional. Keeping the clicks coming.

I could start working, I suppose, could start setting up these coffee-shop meetings Lark plans to help me with. But this early on a Sunday—well, on a Sunday at all, probably—I’m probably not going to hear much back. And anyway, at this particular moment, when my heart—still looped with that inconvenient L—is tight and aching, work would only be another kind of hiding. If I’m missing Reid so much, I might as well do the one thing that’ll make me feel closest to him.

Quietly, I wash my face and brush my teeth, avoid everything in my closet with any kind of frolicsome pattern, and shove my feet into a pair of sneakers that’ll keep my feet comfortable. I snag a piece of scrap paper from my desk and in my own unadorned, unremarkable handwriting, I write a simple message.

Going for a walk. Back soon. xo—Meg