It was a blow, not gonna lie. I pride myself on being good at reading people, and always preach to my clients to be attentive to their partners’ feelings. With Brenda, I failed on both counts. I was blind to what was going on in my backyard. Which has led to another instance of me not practicing what I preach. I haven’t been on a date ever since Brenda left me. I’ve refused all subtle and not-so-subtle offers from my parents—mostly Mom, admittedly—and friends to set me up with that perfect relative/friend/vague acquaintance they just knew I’d hit it off with. Online dating isn’t for me, too prosaic. And I haven’t met anyone the old-fashioned way. But Garrett’s announcement has stirred a dormant longing. Life is short. I shouldn’t waste it pining after someone who tossed me aside with no regrets. Time to move on. Yeah, I might be ready to jump back on the proverbial horse.

Right, next time someone offers to set me up on a date, I vow to keep an open mind.

Four

Vivian

What an awful first day at the new office. This morning, that Cavendish mess. Then, in court, the hearing before mine dragged on forever, bungling my afternoon schedule and forcing me to pull long hours to get everything on track for tomorrow.

As a result, I get home super late and well past dinnertime. The house is silent, meaning Tegan must be in her room with her headphones on. Before saying hello to my daughter, I hop into the bathroom real quick to change into more relaxing clothes.

In front of the mirror, I let loose my hair from the tight bun I keep it in while at work and massage my scalp with my fingers. After a day wrapped up so tightly, it’s a mess. I drop the pins and donut styler in the drawer under the sink and comb through the rat’s nest with a brush. Unable to resist, I check the tips and pull off a few split ends. I should probably stop abusing my hair like this, but I’ve been in the Mom Bun Club since Tegan was born, and now I’m addicted to not having to deal with hair in my face or, heaven forbid, actually have to style my locks. The curling iron at the bottom of the drawer stares up at me accusingly. I haven’t used it in—how long? I couldn’t say, but the thin layer of dust covering the handle is a clear hint it’s been too long.

I drop my burgundy suit and cream blouse in the dry-cleaning laundry basket and move to my bedroom to change into a pair of leggings, an oversized sweater, and comfy socks.

Once I’m settled in my cozy gear, I knock on Tegan’s door.

There’s no answer.