She thought of what had happened with Heath. Unlike Portia, Annabelle had seized her opportunity and used it brilliantly. One introduction each, he’d said. While Portia had followed her seriously flawed instincts and waited, Annabelle had pounced and introduced him to Delaney Lightfield. It couldn’t have been more ironic. Portia had known the Lightfields for years. She’d watched Delaney grow up. But she’d been so busy falling apart that she’d never once thought of introducing her to Heath.

She glanced at the clock. Not even nine. She couldn’t face another sleepless night. For weeks she’d been resisting taking a sleeping pill, hating the idea of being dependent. But if she didn’t get a decent night’s rest soon, she’d go crazy. Her heart started its panicky flutter. She pressed her hand to her chest. What if she died right here? Who would care? Only Bodie.

She couldn’t bear it any longer, so she tossed on her hot pink trench coat, grabbed her purse, and took the elevator down to the lobby. Even though it was dark, she slipped on her Chanel sunglasses in case she ran into one of her neighbors. She couldn’t bear the thought of anyone seeing her like this—without her makeup, a pair of ratty sweatpants peeking out from under a Marc Jacobs trench coat.

She hurried around the corner to the all-night drugstore. As she reached the aisle with the sleeping remedies, she saw them. Piled in a wire bin marked 75% OFF. Dusty purple boxes of aging yellow marshmallow Easter chicks. The bin sat at the end of the aisle across from the sleep aids. Her mother had bought those chicks every Easter and set them out in her Franklin Mint teddy bear bowl. Portia still remembered the grit of the sugar crystals between her teeth.

“You need some help?”

The clerk was a chubby Hispanic girl who wore too much makeup and wouldn’t be able to comprehend that some things were beyond help. Portia shook her head, and the girl disappeared. She turned her attention to the sleeping pills, but the boxes swam before her eyes. Her gaze drifted back to the bin of chicks. Easter had been five months ago. They’d be rubbery by now.

A patrol car blew past outside, its siren blaring, and Portia wanted to shove her fingers in her ears. Some of the purple Easter chick cartons were dented, and a couple of the cellophane windows had split open. Disgusting. Why didn’t they throw them out?

Overhead, the fluorescent light fixture hummed. The overly made-up clerk was staring at her. With a good night’s sleep, Portia’d feel like her old self again. She had to choose something quickly. But what?

The noise from the fluorescent lights bored through her temples. Her pulse raced. She couldn’t keep standing here. Her feet began to move, and her purse fell low on her arm. Instead of reaching for a sleeping aid, she reached into the bin for the marshmallow chicks. A trickle of perspiration slid between her breasts. She scooped up one box, then another, and another. Outside, a taxi horn blared. Her shoulder bumped a display of cleaning supplies, and a stack of sponges fell to the floor. She stumbled to the register.