“You people make me sick,” said Louise, my other roommate, emerging from her bedroom. Louise isn’t a morning person and she’s working on her novel while contributing to a Black feminist website, which means, as she says, “I get to write about stuff that really matters without getting paid.” Adam and Louise are a great balance because Adam sees life as the peppiest, most joyful musical comedy and Louise wants to strangle him, but, as she puts it, “with love.”

“Here’s what I think Carter should do,” said Adam, stretching his hamstrings across one of our mismatched folding chairs. “I think he should find a guy who’s even cuter than Callum, which I know won’t be easy, but when he does, he should marry him and make a sex video and send it to Callum using the score from Waitress, because that’s Callum’s favorite.”

The scary thing was that I instantly pictured myself having pounding raw sex with some mouthwateringly hot imaginary stud while a woman sang a tender ballad about rediscovering her true self.

“I think Carter should thank whatever God he believes in,” suggested Louise, “for getting rid of that cheating scumbag Callum, and then Carter should buy us some sourdough pretzels on his way home.”

“Everyone,” I said, “you don’t have to worry about me, because I’ve been working on myself, and last night I didn’t dream about Callum, not even after I saw his Toyota ad, the one where he runs out of the surf and towels off in front of his Toyota. I’m entering a new and totally happy chapter of my life, because I’ve finally made a decision: love doesn’t exist.”

Louise nodded in agreement as Adam regarded me as if I’d slaughtered a puppy.

“Carter Ogden,” Adam said firmly, jabbing at his phone, “I’m sending you the entire score of Pippin right now, I mean it.”

CHAPTER 2

Once I’d hit 45th Street I unlocked a Citi Bike and began pedaling crosstown to my job of the day. As an associate event architect, I love the constant variety in location and clientele. But as I negotiated Midtown traffic I realized something particularly horrendous: it was Valentine’s Day. Callum and I would tuck multiple cards into each other’s underwear drawers and backpacks and shoes, as surprises; we’d bring each other hot pink–frosted cupcakes sprouting plastic cupids, and once I’d woken up to find my face and pillow scattered with those tiny, chalky, pastel hearts stamped with “BE MINE” or “LOVE YOU,” only now they would read “FUCK OFF,” “DIE ALONE” or “YOU FOOL WHY DID YOU OPEN HIS PHONE AND OBSESSIVELY SCROLL THROUGH THOSE PHOTOS OF HIM WITH OTHER GUYS EXCEPT WHY DID HE TAKE THOSE PHOTOS UNLESS HE WANTED YOU TO FIND THEM WHICH OF YOU IS THE BIGGER IDIOT?”