“It’s not your fault. At all.” I reach out and squeeze his bicep. “There were signs I should have seen but didn’t until it was too late.”

Too late, as in opening my front door, walking into my bedroom and seeing Paul’s bare ass as he screwed his side piece in our bed, signs.

The sight will forever be burned in my retinas, and the pitching of my stomach still hasn’t subsided.

“It’s not your fault either,” he says, shifting his feet in discomfort. “Paul’s a dick. He was before and is even more so now. My Annie always asked what a nice girl like you was doing with a guy like him. Maybe this is a good thing. It might not feel like it now, but it could be.”

I smile and nod simply to ease him out of a conversation I’m sure he wanted no part in. “I’ll make it a good thing,” I say with way more optimism than I feel.

“Good.” He nods. “That’s what I like to hear. Now, I’ll work on Annie to see if I can’t accidentally extend some more credit for you. I know you have that big event coming up.”

I bite back the sob and release the pent-up hurt and frustration as a sigh instead. It’s nowhere near as cathartic though. “I’d be appreciative of whatever you can do. Once I get paid the balance on the event, it’ll go straight to you.”

And it’s true. It will. But then that means I’ll be late on my rent and utilities, which puts me in yet another tailspin.

Who am I kidding? I’ve been living in that endless eddy for the past three weeks.

Barney closes up his truck and heads out while I go back into the bakery. Cookie Cutter. It’s my labor of love. My dream come true. And while it was one hundred percent my baby—the concept, the implementation, the hard work—Paul had contributed half the start-up capital.

But he took his cheating dick and his helpful money with him when I kicked him out. Now, I’m left with a struggling business that’s short on capital, personal bills I can’t pay, and a broken, angry heart.

“Fuck you, Paul.”

It doesn’t feel as good as it once did. The words. The gusto behind them. The anger they barely alleviate. At first saying them was my way to get out the overwhelming emotions—the hurt, the disbelief, the heartache. And it worked.

But the hurt has been replaced by anger. The anger colored in big, bold strokes with despair.

I look around my cookie bakery. Everywhere is bright pastels and happiness. In the signs and awning outside, in the decor inside, and in the obnoxiously happy sentiments and designs on the cookies in the case.

This was all mine—but unofficially half his.