“You shithead,” I said to the computer screen. Dave hated coffee and had bought me the small coffee press for the nights I stayed over; he’d never entertain the idea of a cappuccino machine when I’d mentioned it, and now the loser was registering for an expensive Delonghi cappuccino maker. The slights never stopped.

I felt my adrenaline surge through me, and my heart started pounding furiously—I looked down and swore I could see my T-shirt on my left side pump up and down. Could the stress of everything going on in my life trigger a heart attack? Choosing to ignore it, I continued to click through the future inventory for the couple’s happy life.

“Ina, I’m being called into a meeting. I’ve got to go.” I hung up on her before she could even sputter a good-bye.

Asparagus steamer, ironing board, and Jenga board game from Bed Bath & Beyond. Twelve glass beer mugs. Had Dave started some sort of weekly poker night? Towels and more towels. They’d registered for complete sets in four different colors. Why would two people need so many towels? Remembering Dave’s minuscule three-quarters bath at his place, I wondered where they’d even store so many towels.

Just as a goof I maneuvered through the pages and chose a simple crystal bud vase. Under “quantity” they’d asked for two of them. Checking off a single bud vase, I dragged the cursor to the “complete sale” button and clicked. It took a second for the “complete sale” page to launch, where I could enter in my credit card information and select a shipping option. There was no way I was going to buy Dave and Madison a bud vase, but suddenly I noticed the shipping information.

The new couple wanted their gifts shipped to an address on Bonnie Hill Drive. This wasn’t Dave’s address. I had no idea where she lived, but I was guessing she was an apartment dweller, not a home-owner, and Bonnie Hill Drive was all houses in the hills.

I grabbed a Post-it and scrawled the exact address. I mentally Mapquested the route and figured I could get there in about eleven minutes from work. I checked the clock. It was close enough to lunch to sneak out of the office. Hell, I didn’t even have to bother sneaking; I’d eaten enough takeout at my desk to not get any grief for leaving for once. I headed for my car.

Taking the freeway up and over the hill to Hollywood would be best, I decided. The heat from the BMW’s black leather seats sealed my cotton skirt to my thighs and reminded me of how that creep Troy Zarcoff had left my ass stinging Saturday night. My hands tightly gripped the wheel; I ignored the perspiration on my forehead and chin I saw in my rearview mirror reflection. I was on a mission.