I screwed up my nose. “I don’t like to think of a toddler on cocaine,” I informed her. “And even if I were to think of one, I don’t think a coked-up toddler would be cleaning.”

“Whatever,” Fiona sliced her hand through the air dismissively. “What I’m trying to say is you’re scrubbing a floor that is honestly probably cleaner than my dining room table.”

Although Fiona wasn’t quite the neat freak that I admittedly was, I highly doubted that was true. Her small cottage on the beach was cluttered in that delightful, Nora Ephron kind of way. Cluttered but clean.

“I’m scrubbing the floor to distract myself because I’m likely going to sink into a deep depression when I do think about what an ass I made of myself today,” I grunted, scrubbing harder.

“Jesus Christ, can’t you deal with depression like a regular woman, and use your vibrator until you lose feeling in your clit, drink wine, and eat your weight in imported chocolates?”

I glanced up from where I was scrubbing. “Do regular women really do that?”

Her eyes damn near popped out. “Of course, they do. Self-pleasure, French wine and Swiss chocolate. Not all of this.” She gestured at the bucket.

I looked from her to the bucket, pausing to consider such a course of action. It seemed self-indulgent to do such things. Sure, I had a vibrator. Sure, I owned a good amount of wine and Swiss chocolate—I wasn’t completely unhinged. But I hadn’t combined all three things to deal with a crisis. I hadn’t had the luxury to deal with my problems in that kind of way. So, I'd figured out a way to turn something that always needed to be done—cleaning—into my own form of meditation.

During my contemplation over how I’d spent my life dealing with trauma, Fiona had taken the opportunity to snatch the scrubbing brush from my hands and pick up the bucket of water.

“Hey!” I protested weakly, trying to grab them back. But I was on the floor, and she was standing, and much taller than me.

“Nope,” she said, popping the ‘P.’ “You’re going to go home and engage in all of those activities that will actually make you feel better. And I swear to fuck, if you pick up any kind of cleaning implement in your house, I’ll know.” She wagged her finger at me.

“Cleaning makes me feel better,” I balked, rocking back on my heels.

“Bullshit. Now get up,” she ordered, holding her hand out to me.

I pouted, thinking of arguing with her and deciding not to. She wasn’t exactly wrong… Chocolate, wine and my vibrator did sound pretty good to me right now.

“Fine,” I conceded, grabbing her outstretched hand and letting her pull me up.

“He’s never going to come in here again,” I whined once I was on my feet.

Fiona squeezed my hand before letting me go. “Well, then he’s a fucking idiot,” she declared. “Even when you’re making a dick of yourself, you’re hot as fuck,” she informed me with a wink. “And I know for a fact that there is a man out there who will find you hot when you’re making a dick out of yourself.”