Oy. For a moment, I see on Vera’s face exactly what must have been on mine this entire past week. I can’t get further involved. But I can’t leave things like this, either.

“Read the email. Seriously.”

I have to trust in my best friend to fix this for Vera. I can do nothing more right now.

Vera disappears down the basement for privacy and I plop into her vacated spot on the couch. I eye the discarded Snuggie for a minute and then shrug it on. For a moment, the world hugs me, and I let out a big sigh.

Jessie’s got secrets.

Jessie wants space.

I miss Jessie.

I laugh into my palms. I can’t believe that after years of failing to set Fred and Vera up on a blind date, they anonymously fall in love with each other through a customer service call.

Does this count as an Eliot fail or an Eliot success story?

There is only one person whose opinion I’d trust on this matter and she still hasn’t responded to my text from last week.

I wish . . . but no.

I wish . . . but that’s a bad idea.

I wish . . . seriously, Eliot. Just stop.

If only there were a way to tell her how I feel without forcing myself into her life.

Something occurs to me and I try to spring straight up, but I am promptly strangled by the Snuggie. No wonder Vera was having so much trouble attacking me initially. These things are just a fleecy straitjacket. I finally free myself and slump over, hands on my knees. An idea has just rocket-launched itself out of my brain. It’s an idea so satisfying and exciting that I wouldn’t be surprised to look down and see eight inches of air between my feet and the ground.

I’ve suddenly realized a non-intrusive way to communicate with Jessie. A way to reassure her of my feelings but give her space all at once.

It’s brilliant, it’s ridiculous, it finally gives me something to do with all this restless energy.

I have the sneaking suspicion that I might actually sleep well tonight.

Chapter Twenty-One

Jessie

Here’s the thing about me. Some people, when they’re incredibly sad, kind of lose their ambition. That’s not me. In the days after everything with Eliot explodes, I become a productivity monster. And when I say monster, I mean it. The couple in 3F almost scream when they open the door and see me standing there with my toolbox, ready to help them hang shelves.

“You got here . . . fast,” the man says.