I’d spent Saturday doing exactly that—lying in bed, alternating between bingeing a mindless show on a streaming service I’d forgotten I subscribed to, crying my eyes out, and being forced by Presley to sit up and eat.

Sleep had been elusive until I’d broken down and taken the supplements Presley, the patron saint of patience, left for me around four this morning. I’d passed out until after eleven a.m., showered, and dressed. Now I was starving. I was about to go track down my phone to text Presley when there was a knock on my door that had my heart racing irrationally.

I knew it wasn’t Holden. Why would it be Holden? I’d basically rejected his declaration of love and made him leave.

“Chloe? Open up,” Presley called as I made my slow, sluggish way to the door.

“Hold your horses,” I muttered, not loudly enough for her to hear. That would take more energy than I had. Funny how fucking up your entire life sucked up every last bit of energy.

When I opened the door, there stood Presley, patron saint of patience and nourishment, holding a carryout bag from Clayborne’s on the Corner, which had the most delicious fried mushrooms I’d ever eaten.

“You’re my favorite person,” I said, taking the hot bag from her.

“Mm-hmm.” Presley’s smile was wide as she came inside. “If you eat all of your lunch, you can have a treat.” She held up an unopened package of Twizzlers, presumably for me, and a teal-blue bakery box from Sugar Babies, the bakery across from Clayborne’s, likely for her. I could eat a cupcake in a pinch, but Twizzlers comforted me like a pacifier did a baby. “You’re dressed,” she said, her surprise obvious.

“I got some sleep and a shower.”

“Thank God. You were pretty ripe by last night.”

“Thanks, friend,” I said dryly as we went to the couch. I emptied the Clayborne’s bag, spreading two fried chicken sandwiches, a large order of mushrooms, and a large order of pretzel bites with cheese dip on the coffee table.

“How are you doing?” she asked as she unwrapped her sandwich. “The fact that you opened the door and didn’t force me to use my key again seems like an improvement.”

I bit into a fried mushroom and savored the crisp saltiness of the breading, preferring to focus on food instead of the shambles otherwise known as my life.

“I did a precursory search for jobs in the hotel industry for you,” she continued. “There’s a lot out there. Everywhere.”

That was my cue to shove in another mushroom.

“Maybe the first decision is whether you want to stay in Tennessee or open up your options to other places.”

“Here,” I said around the bite of food.