I feel the blanket on my legs, and I open my eyes to see Karrie sit by me with her own blanket. “I need to get rid of that bed,” I tell her. “And this couch.” Then I close my eyes. “My shower, the table. The kitchen.”

“I think it’s easier if you just move,” she says, then looks at me. “Was it where I’m sitting?”

“Probably,” I answer her, and she closes her eyes. “Please, like I haven’t sat on your couch before.”

“This is true,” she says.

“I might have to replace that window also.” I point at the window.

“The window?” she asks me.

“Well, I was looking outside, and he came up behind me,” I tell her.

“And his dick fell into you?” she asks.

“I may have bent over.” I roll onto my back. “I need to move. This is why I don’t bring it home.”

“He isn’t just a one-night stand,” she tells me.

“Merde.” Shit, I say in French. “Merde, merde, merde.”

“It’ll be okay,” she says, and she lays by me the whole night. When the morning comes, I feel as if I’m suffering from a hangover or a truck running me over. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt this bad before.

“I really hope I’m not coming down with something,” I tell her, sitting in joggers and a shirt that is not Mark’s with my hair piled on my head. “My bones ache.”

“It’s called heartbreak,” she tells me, sipping her own coffee.

“Yeah, that’s what I was afraid of,” I say into my own cup. “I can’t go to the game tonight.”

“I know,” she says, and she doesn’t push me. She doesn’t tell me that I have no choice; she just accepts it.

“I hope he’s okay,” I whisper and look over at her.

“Me, too,” she says. “Me, too.”

I turn to look out the window, and I wonder where he is right now. I wonder if he’s sitting on his terrace looking at the water or if he’s just lying on the couch like me.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Mark

“There he is.” I hear my mother’s voice when I walk into my apartment door. She comes to me with her arms open. “My baby boy,” she says, and I bend down to hug her. Her brown hair curled as always. I hug her like I always do, and she presses her cheek to my chest.

“You know he’s in his thirties,” my brother says from behind her. My eyes fly to him, and I smile at him. It’s been one week since the huge blowup at Vivienne’s house. One week since I’ve seen her, spoken to her, felt her, hugged her, or kissed her. It’s been a week since I’ve been able to breathe.