When he told me it was over, that it had been fun until it wasn’t anymore—and it was a real shame because I was a sweetheart and a helluva lay, but he had to be honest, even if it hurt him to say it, even though he knew it was the best thing for me—it hadn’t been only the end of our relationship. It had been the end of my career on the straight and narrow, too, although I didn’t know it at the time.

I’d moped around the office for days, bursting into tears at my desk at the sight of him. Trying to imagine which coworker he was fucking now, what she had that was better than me. And the whole time, he never seemed bothered. After all, he’d known the score all along.

Two weeks later, I got a summons to a conference room with him and the big boss.

Everybody did it, so I’d never thought twice. A dip into the petty cash here and there, change from an errand that covered a drink or two at happy hour. I never thought of it as stealing, because no one ever checked. And there was no way my boss, a man with the wounded entitlement of family money he expected everyone to respect even though he didn’t, would have thought to look through the petty cash drawer on his own. That was clear to me immediately. He’d had guidance.

“I’m so disappointed in you,” my boss kept saying, looking from me to my ex-lover and back again. “I’ve been so good to you. How could you do it?” When I hadn’t said anything, not trusting myself not to cry, disappointment had turned to rage. He told me I was fired, that he wanted me out of his sight, that I’d never work again in this town if he could help it. And he had the connections to help it.

And the whole time, he’d sat there in the conference room, a little smile playing across his face. Letting me know that he knew he’d won, in every way possible.

And I’d thought he had, too.

I drove around for days. Being constantly on the road felt better than staying put. All I could do each morning was get behind the wheel and drive and drive, telling myself I was looking for Help Wanted signs, telling myself I didn’t mind serving jobs, fryer grease in my hair, as long as it paid the bills, when really all I was doing was driving in circles, passing by my old office too often even for my own liking.

I even saw him escorting a group of people to lunch, or, once, chatting outside the lobby with a fresh new penny of an intern. Probably some young girl who didn’t know any better than I had.