Wait. What if his wife kicked him out of there and I’m driving across the Brooklyn Bridge for no reason? On New Year’s Eve, too. This is practically a suicide mission.

Dylan: 101 West End Avenue. 20th floor. I’ll buzz you in. Then just follow the noise lol.

West End? What? How swanky. And what does he mean by noise? My heart started beating faster. I am so fucking exhausted.

Me: Omw. I’m actually coming from Fort Greene.

Dylan: Fort Greene? Okay. See you soon then!

Yeah. Fort Greene. Great. Now he’s probably going to want “the story.” Or would he? No one really cares about the Michael-and-me thing anymore. I barely do.

“Rerouting. Rerouting. Re-... rerouting.”

My navigation was getting a kick out of this whole thing.

Ugh. Did I type it in right?

I was in bumper-to-bumper traffic for a good ten minutes. It was the perfect time to lock my arms out, grip the wheel, and scream my fucking head off.

“AAAAAAHHHH!”

Well, consider that done.

My god, what am I doing? I am on no sleep. No food. Practically nodding off behind the wheel. I kept adjusting the heat inside the car. I’d be freezing one second, then sweating, then freezing again.

My phone vibrated several times while I sat there. With every buzz, I’d jump.

“Michael?”

No, just family already starting with the Happy New Year texts.

Fucking spare me.

By the time I reached the Upper West Side, it was mayhem. There were no parking spots, and people were running across streets without looking. Well-to-do women stared at me through my car windows as they walked their mini Goldendoodles, probably recognizing that I couldn’t possibly belong there.

“Yeah, fuck off. Look somewhere else, please!”

Maybe they were just concerned. I looked like hell.

Then, I heard penny rockets going off nearby.

In this neighborhood?

I’d wince and squeeze my eyes shut at every pop. How fucking annoying!

The ETA kept climbing. Two minutes were added every time I got caught at a red light.

Gas. Brake. Gas. Brake.

Nearly five blocks away, I was caught at yet another red light when a couple holding hands walked across the crosswalk at my mercy. They looked so in love. Arms wrapped around each other. He was careful to make sure she didn’t step in any puddles in her suede boots. What a dumb bitch.

When they reached the corner, he leaned in and kissed her for no reason.

Right in front of me! Why?!

“Yeah. I can’t do this. I can’t!”

When the light turned green, I made the next left I could and got on the parkway. My car fishtailed as my tires screeched over a patch of black ice.

“Home! Home! Home!”

I was going mad. Once I was able to pick up speed, I floored it toward the Bronx.

Buzz, buzz.

Dylan: Parking problems?

No. I’m not answering.

My eyes were closing.

This is so bad.

I gave my face a tiny slap to wake myself up. It didn’t do anything. It always looked like it worked in the movies. Oh well.

My foot got heavy, and the speedometer climbed to 65 mph. Faster than usual for the parkway, but I couldn’t escape this island quick enough.

Buzz, buzz.

“Fuck! What?!”

Dylan was calling. As much as I didn’t want to pick up, it would be good for someone to stay on the phone with me. I am going to fall asleep while driving and die. It’s gonna happen. I know it.

I answered, and party noise came blaring through the car speakers.

“Hello?”

“Andrea? Yo! Where you at, kid?”

I should have hung up right there. Kid? Ew.

“I’m sorry, Dylan. I’m having an emotional crisis. I just need to go home.”

“Oh, shit. I’m sorry. Were you going to tell me?”

“Honestly, I just need to get home. There were no spots near your place. I gave up.”

“You could have called me. I know where all the good spots are here.”

“What happened to your Harlem house, or whatever?”

I don’t know why I asked that. I felt like I was yelling at him, taking all my stress out on him like he was Michael. Getting to have the argument I never got to have.

“Oh! My wife is taking that place. Please don’t go there,” he laughed.

I heard him, but I wasn’t listening. Maybe I can cut off here and drive to Amara’s?

No. Forget it. I don’t want anyone to see me.

“So where are you? Are you past the point of no return?”

...

“... Andrea?”

I pulled my foot off the gas. There was that confusion that came with being in and out of a spell while driving. Where am I? What am I doing again?

For a brief moment, I forgot I was on a call. He went quiet and so did I. I think.

I couldn’t hear anything. It was like my car had turned down the volume on me. The cabin was warm. Then I felt the vibration of rumble strips under my tires.

Thump, thump, thump.

“...um, 135th—”

SCREECH!

CRASH!

POOF!

THUD!

SLAM!

My eyes closed, but it couldn’t have been for more than a moment. When I came to, my chin rested on the steering wheel, the airbag crushing my chest.

“Ah,” I choked.

I’m stuck.

Dark red, almost purple blood dripped down my face and onto the deflating bag. Its powder coated every inch of me and most of the dashboard. It was in my eyes, my mouth.

Someone ran up to my window and began pounding on the glass.

My head felt separated from my body.

“Hey! You okay? Hey!”

They pulled at my door handle.

My car. Mom’s car. Dad’s…

Other voices were trying to pull at the back door now.

Are they robbing me?

Horns were honking. I heard shouting, cursing, a siren, I think. Then nothing.

No life flashing before my eyes. No final thoughts. Just tired.

I woke up to a sunny morning. Light streamed through the blinds with such strength, it was more blinding than comforting. Is this the light that people always talk about seeing moments from death? Unfortunately no. It was the light bouncing off the river. I was very much alive.

As I went to turn my body, I felt some sort of tether.

“No, no, no. Lie back down,” someone said.

I couldn’t make out who it was, but it was apparent I was in a hospital. But which one?

“Where am I?”

“NYC Health. In Harlem.”

“So I did make it to Harlem after all,” I said. Well, I think I said it.

Barely conscious, and here I was trying to make jokes. My voice had no real tone to it. It was as if someone had slit my throat and ripped out my larynx.

Now there was a face in my face. My eyes adjusted.

“Dyl–”

“Yeah, I know. I wouldn’t want to wake up and see my face either.” He laughed.

“Why? Mike.”

My voice came out in super slow motion. I think I was falling asleep again. I powered down quicker than a dying cell phone.

My eyes opened again. No more sunlight. It was more like dusk, I suppose.

Now, no one was in my room. How frustrating! I have so many questions.

Looking at the various machines I was hooked up to and whatever was beeping, I could tell it wasn’t serious stuff.

I could move most everything, but it all hurt. My back. Neck. My face the most.

Dylan walked in with snacks and a coffee for himself.

“Oh shit. Hello,” he smiled.

“Talk…”

“Don’t talk. Let me get the doctor.”

“No. Phone?”

“Your phone? Don’t worry about your phone right now.”

I noticed he had to confirm everything I was asking before answering. I must not be making sense.

“Where… is it?” My brain screamed, but my lips said nothing.

Ok. Talking isn’t working. Angry, I tried to get up. I’ll get it myself. Let the IV rip out. I don’t care.

“No!”

He laid both hands on my shoulders, and I went down easy.

I hurt. I was tired. Semi-conscious. I wouldn’t have been able to put up a fight even if I tried. The realization of how weak I was sent me into a panic, and I tried to sit up again despite him holding me in place.

“Andrea, I’m pretty sure it was destroyed.”

“Destroyed?”

My voice had the sound of a swamp frog.

“Well, actually, I’m not a hundred percent sure it was destroyed. I haven’t seen it with the rest of your belongings.”

He pointed to a plastic bag in the corner. It looked like my jacket, shoes, wallet, and nothing else.

He continued. “You were on the phone with me, right? I heard the crash. I heard everything. Then, nothing. So I called 911, along with several other people,” he said, imitating the dispatcher. “They were already on it. Yeah. The dispatcher was a real cunt.”

I laughed, which sent me into a coughing fit for all of fifteen seconds.

He pulled a chair over to my bedside, real close, and lowered his voice to a whisper.

“I think you nodded off. You hit the guardrail, and then someone slammed into you from behind…”

I shook my head from side to side. Or at least I think I did.

I couldn’t believe any of this. No. I didn’t want to believe any of this. I’m probably in a secret room at his apartment. This is how he’s going to have sex with me.

Kidding.

“…Your right hand and foot are broken. You cracked your head on the windshield before the bag deployed. Oh, and the seatbelt strap tightened so hard along your neck, you briefly stopped breathing…”

He paused.

“I’m trying to remember the rest.”

I put my non-broken hand up. Stop. I don’t want to hear any more.

“The car was towed to some yard in the Bronx—”

“St-stop.”

Somehow, that news hit me the hardest, and I started to sob. Right there for him, a man I barely knew, and anyone passing in the hall to see. Like lightning, pain shot through my face with every sob and shaky inhale.

He pushed his chair back, giving me some room, and reached for the tissues on the bedside cabinet.

In keeping with the theme of being overdramatic, I wished, right here, right now, that I could die. Maybe I will when I close my eyes again. One could only hope.

I knew I couldn’t have Dylan being the one to take care of me, though. And, fuck Michael. This is all his fault anyway.

“Phone.”

“My phone? Yes! Who do you want me to call? The woman in admissions is trying to reach your sister, I think.”

“No. Tell them no.”

“What? What do you want me to say?”

This is stupid, but I could not remember Michael’s phone number.

555-4? No.

555-8? 8 something?

The other car must have hit me hard enough to knock it from my memory completely.

I knew my sister’s phone number by heart, but I didn’t want her.

The only person I could think to call… the only other phone number I could recite backward and forward… was Adam’s. For some reason, having Adam take care of me, if he was willing, felt far less embarrassing than asking my estranged family.

But then what? Have Dylan talk to Adam? Talking hurt, and Adam may very well hang up on me before I get to finish a sentence. I sounded like a drunk who had just fallen down a flight of stairs.

I could try, I suppose.

“Okay… call… 9, 1, 7…”

Before I could finish dictating the rest, Amara whipped around the doorframe and circled the bed to where there was just enough standing room. She leaned forward, pressing her hand to my forehead and looking into my eyes, making sure I was lucid.

“Oh my God, Andrea.”

“I’m fine,” I managed to say.

Then there was the elephant in the room.

“Hi, I’m Dylan.”

“Oh, yes, yes. They said some guy was with her, but I assumed Michael. Where is he?”

Dylan looked at me, just as curious as she was. What answer are you going to give her? His face seemed to ask.

I’m sure I answered painfully slowly, but the answer I supplied was this:

“He had to leave for Europe earlier than expected for the start of the tour.”

“I see,” Amara said. “You’ll be released soon, and I’m going to take you back to your apartment. I’ll stay with you for as long as I can. I let Hektor know as well. He may come at some point.”

No, no, no. This is exactly what I didn’t want. Family pitying me. Someone dressing me, bathing me.

This would be humbling, no doubt, but more humiliating than anything else. However, I was too weak to really argue, and I suppose it was better to have a sister’s help than an ex-husband’s or co-worker-potential-something. Whatever Dylan is.

“I’ll leave you guys to it,” Dylan said as he rose from his chair, sliding on that same pilot’s jacket and winter scarf, his sunglasses hanging from his shirt collar. It was giving Tom Cruise in Top Gun vibes.

“And here, I’m writing down my number.”

With a hospital pen and napkin, he scribbled ten digits onto it.

“Let me know if and when you want me to call work for you. I can tell them what happened. Unless you are logging on Friday, but I’d highly advise against that,” he added. “Seriously.”

“Thanks, Dylan.”

Dylan lingered in the room. A decision was being made: hug? Forehead kiss?

Nope. He just gave a tiny wave to both my sister and me, then turned for the hall.

After the sound of his footsteps faded, and with a few extra seconds of buffer, my sister burst out, “Okay. You are going to have to tell me all about… that.” She made a circle with her hand.

“It’s nothing.” I laughed. “But I really want to get a message to Michael, if you could help me with that later…”

“Yes. Later.”

“My back hurts.” I winced. “I need more meds.”

“I’ll ask the nurse.”

Amara crossed the room and stood in the doorway, searching for anyone with a clipboard.

I, on the other hand, stared out the window at a fading sky, asking myself, How the fuck did I get here?

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I kept staring at the corner, my mouth open, watching the car’s exhaust dissipate. “I’m dreaming. This is a stupid dream,” I mumbled, barely audible.

Then I turned toward my building and ran past Dylan, up the stairs to my apartment.

Inside, I started panic-searching for my phone, looking accidentally in the living room first, forgetting I had put it down in the bathroom.

There it was on the vanity beside the sink, face up under the bathroom light. I wanted the last five minutes back. Not even the call about my dad dying had hit me with panic this sharp, or if it had, I’d buried it. I snatched up the phone and tapped Michael’s name. Nothing. Not one ring. Straight to voicemail. Okay. Try again. Tap. “Hi, you’ve reached Michael… ”

“Fuck!” I yelled, throwing the phone into the iron tub. “Fuck!”

I was delirious. What are the odds I could catch up to the car if I ran after him? I actually considered this. As I grabbed my jacket, I saw Dylan standing outside my door, respectfully on the stairs.

“Hey. Don’t get scared.”

“Jesus, Dylan.”

“Sorry.”

“Excuse me,” I said as I crossed my own threshold and began locking the door behind me.

“Wait, what are you doing?”

“I, uh, I don’t know, but I have to drive. I’m going to Brooklyn.”

“Is that where he lives?”

“Yes.”

“Ok, I know this isn’t going to sound like an easy thing to do, but, trust me, you have to leave him alone right now.”

“Well, sure, that’s convenient, isn’t it?”

“Whoa, that’s not what I meant. Just trust me. Guy to guy, he doesn’t want to see you right now, or even a few hours from now.”

Part of me knew he was right. Michael needed time to cool off. I knew him, and I’d never seen him this furious. This might be the end of us anyway. I should save the gas and the miles on my car, at least for today. It seemed pointless.

We stood there atop my stairs, awkward and in the cold.

Though Dylan didn’t necessarily do anything, I was furious with him and myself. Why did he call me? Better yet, why the fuck did I answer? I am too nice.

With my key back in the lock, I unlatched the door, stepped inside, and said nothing.

“I’m sorry this happened. Really. Let me know if I could help in any way. If you need me to talk to him or anything.”

As if! I thought, but perhaps he could, maybe help? What if he let me use his phone to call Michael? No, that’s worse. That definitely looks bad. How stupid.

“You’ve done enough. Thanks though”, I said, slowly closing the door although I really wanted to slam it in his face.

“Wait,” he said, putting his hand in between the door and the jamb. He’s lucky I didn’t catch it.

“I feel bad leaving. I feel like I’ve dropped a bomb and left you to die or something,” he laughed nervously. “Seriously, Andrea, I feel so bad.”

“Yep, I heard you. It’s really all my fault though.”

“Don’t beat yourself up about it. I mean, it was totally innocent. I hope he comes around, I do.”

“Ok, thanks, Dylan,” I said, resuming operation ‘close the fucking door’.

“You’re not going to like, do anything stupid, are you? Harm yourself or something?”

Jeez, what vibe was I putting out there? I’m not suicidal. Not yet anyway…

“No. Not yet,” I said jokingly.

“That’s not funny… ok, idea! Want to order Chinese? I have some time to kill before my next showing.”

So he really is viewing properties? All of my instincts thus far today have been wrong. Maybe I shouldn’t fight myself anymore. Chinese actually sounded pretty good. Plus, I knew the moment he left, though not the guy I want right now, I’d feel utterly alone and spiral like crazy. Maybe I would harm myself after a few hours of mental anguish; who knows?

“Chinese sounds really good actually.”

“Perfect! Ok, can I—um, is it ok if I come in?”

A full minute seemed to pass before I answered. “Yeah, sure.”

There was nowhere worse for this to go. I was done. So done. I’d moved too fast after Adam; I saw that now. Idiot. I’d earned every bit of it.

I took a step back, allowing him space to enter. I’ve never had anyone else in my apartment but Michael. It felt like I was doing something wrong.

“Ok, I am googling what’s best around here… ” he trailed off.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

“Uh, sure. What do you have?”

I didn’t know what I had. I opened up the fridge. There was nothing but bottled water and leftover pizza. How embarrassing.

“Scratch that, we need to add beverages to the order.”

“Ok, no problem,” he laughed. “What do you want to eat? I’m adding a bunch of stuff from the menu.” He was studying the menu like it was a book. One hand on his chin, judging.

“I can’t even think right now,” I answered as I rubbed my eyes, double-checking I wasn’t dreaming.

“Shit. I am just going to order a little bit of everything. How’s that? On me.”

“Ok.”

I didn’t know if it was the promise of hot food, but for one second, everything felt… comfortable. Even ordinary. Like, I was hanging out with a friend, prepping for movie night, takeout on the way. I don’t know. It felt nice. Dylan was older, steadier; he’d already done the wife-and-marriage thing. Maybe we had more in common than I wanted to admit.

“Excuse me for one second.” I went into the bedroom and shut the door.

One more try.

I dialed Michael. For a few seconds there was nothing. No ring, no voicemail, just the flat silence of the line. Then, “Hey, you’ve reached Michael… ”

Ugh!

Click.

It wasn’t happening.

I left the phone on my dresser and pulled the door closed behind me. Putting a wall between me and that screen felt like fifty pounds sliding off my shoulders.

When I walked back into the living room, Dylan was pacing, hands restless, as if he didn’t know what we were doing either. But this was platonic. It was. It just felt good, for one second, to have a friend.

“All ordered?” I asked.

“Yep, thirty minutes they said.”

Thirty minutes? Oh my god. How was I possibly going to get through this? That’s too long to have this man in my house. Think! Think!

“I’d give you a tour, but from where you’re standing, you’re seeing it all,” I joked.

“I am?” He laughed. “No. It’s cute. Perfect for one person. It’s really quiet here too. Something you don’t get living in the city anymore, you know?”

“Have a seat,” I said, waving him toward the tiny two-top table I’d barely used. “Tell me about these properties you’re looking at. Bigger than this? Need a tenant?” It was my small attempt to change the subject and pretend the Michael thing hadn’t happened.

“Um… ” he laughed.

“It’s ok. You can tell me. I already know they’re better than this.”

“What? Hey, this place is nice. It is!” He assured. “The places I was looking at today were bigger, yeah, more like lofts. Overlooking the river.”

I was jealous before I’d even seen the place. Mine felt spoiled now. After only six months, I already wanted to box everything up and start over. A mulligan. And the river? That meant the coffee shop and the train within easier reach. My mind took off: a wide loft hung with art, a real design workspace instead of my cramped setup, silver light flashing off the water and spilling through tall windows. Dylan charging me the same rent, or less, just because.

He kept talking. Eventually the conversation drifted to his soon-to-be ex-wife and their arguments, as if sharing them would somehow make mine seem better by comparison. Then came his five-year plan, delivered with all the enthusiasm of a job interview.

Then, the doorbell rang.

My heart—and my feet—jumped.

I practically sprinted to the door, secretly hoping it was Michael, despite how unbelievably bad that would look if it actually were. It was the food.

Thirty minutes? More like fifteen. Still, I’d never been so happy to see a delivery person.

Dylan slipped in beside me, grabbed the bags, and pressed a few bills into the driver’s hand.

“Thank you very much,” Dylan said before closing the door.

“You paid? You didn’t have to pay. Let me Zelle you. My phone… “

“Andrea. Please, don’t worry about it. I got this.”

Ok. Fine. You can get this, I thought.

I was enjoying his company. Anything felt better than thinking about Michael and the disaster we’d left behind. It was a welcome distraction, though I knew, at the heart of it all, Dylan had caused this whole problem in the first place. Master plan or not.

We talked about work, and I even filled him in on the Adam situation. No man wants to hear about another guy, right? But Dylan had shared his own divorce drama, so it felt fair.

The food slowly disappeared from the table, and I found myself bracing for what came next.

He’s going to try to sleep with me, isn’t he?

Instead, he glanced at his watch, and his eyes flew open.

“Oh, fuck. I’m going to be late for this showing. I gotta go,” he said, slipping one arm into his jacket.

“Oh. Okay.”

It’s hard to explain, but realizing he’d stayed just to keep me company—and nothing more—left me feeling strangely sad. And lonely.

“Listen, call me later or something. Let me know what happens. If you hear from him. If you don’t. If you need me to talk to him... or knock some fucking sense into him.”

“Knock some sense into him?” I repeated.

“Yeah. He’d be a fool to walk away from you.”

Oof. I was blushing hard, and I couldn’t help it. Was I really worth all this praise he’d been, not so subtly, handing out since he’d shown up at my door?

No hug. No touch. He didn’t even ask me to walk him downstairs.

Dylan left the apartment, jogged down the stairs, and disappeared up the street.

Good God, Andrea. Do not start developing feelings for this man! Suppress them, like you had when you were with Adam.

For the rest of the night, I moved like a zombie. Leftovers into the fridge. Garbage out before it stank up the place. Comfy clothes. TV on. Phone checked again and again. Nothing.

I drifted in and out until morning, but it wasn’t real sleep. I kept twisting around, fighting the fleece blanket.

By morning, still nothing.

A text couldn’t hurt, right?

Me: Michael, please, please, please call me. I need to know what you’re thinking. It would have been such a nice surprise, having you here, spending New Year’s in Hudson with me. Dylan had texted that he was in the neighborhood, asking if I wanted to grab lunch. What you saw was me going downstairs, keeping him at a safe distance, telling him thanks, but no thanks. You pulled up at the worst possible moment. I am so sorry. Please call me.

Well, that sounded desperate.

I stared at my phone, waiting for those three bouncing dots, but the screen went dark from sitting idle.

A text came later the next day, but it was from Dylan, asking how I was doing. I didn’t answer. I was so overwhelmed with guilt and grief, so emotionally vulnerable, that anything coming out of my mouth felt dangerous.

The next day was a shampoo-rinse-repeat of the one before. Text Michael. Ignore Dylan. Don’t eat. Stay crippled and couch-bound.

By the 31st, I said fuck it. I got in my car and drove down to Brooklyn. I sat in the worst traffic I’ve ever endured in my life. A small panic attack took hold in my car. I wanted to burst from the prison of my car and run down the highway. All I had on me were my phone and car keys. Realizing I left my purse back home, along with my wallet, turned my tiny panic attack into a full-blown one. At one point in the drive, someone tapped their horn, encouraging me to move up a foot or two as if that would propel them to their destination any faster. I laid on my horn, “Shut the fuck up, you fucking bitch! Honk me again, do it!” I yelled into my rear view, hoping they could read lips. Then she returned that with a longer honk, hurling curse words in my direction. I’ve never been so fired up. I shifted the car into park and hopped out.

“Yo! I am not having this today! Fucking chill!” I shouted.

She proceeded to threaten me from the safety of her car. All attitude, no action. I knew it.

“Get back in your car and shut up!” some man yelled out his window, though I didn’t catch who. I gave one more piercing stare at her before sitting back down into the driver’s seat.

Deep, deep breaths, I thought. What a mistake this was. This was not the day to do this.

Finally, after another hour of inching traffic, I pulled onto Cumberland Street. It looked dystopian; everything changed in the dark. It was nearly six, and the temperature kept dropping. There was no parking near the house, so I left my car in what I hoped was a legal spot five blocks away. Tow me. I don’t care.

I climbed the stairs and rang the bell again and again, my body twitching from the cold. No answer.

He wants to play games? Ok.

I couldn’t keep my cool. I think I’d left it at home. I’d been in Terminator mode since the bridge.

“Michael!” I yelled through the sidelights.

I peered inside. There were no lights on. I went back down the stairs and knocked gently on Nonna’s door. She didn’t need any part of my wrath. Her apartment seemed empty too.

What is going on?

Back at the doorbell, I spoke directly into it this time, knowing he could see and hear me through the camera. Nothing.

“That’s fine. I’ll wait!” I shouted toward the roof, as if he was hiding up there.

I curled into a ball on his stoop, trying to stay warm. Between my scarf and hood, only my eyes were showing. Then a voice came through the doorbell cam.

“Andrea, I am not home! And I don’t know when I’m coming back. Do not wait there. Please, just leave.”

“Michael! Michael… ” I started talking to the camera.

“Please leave. I’m with friends. Nonna is at some party with my parents. Stop embarrassing yourself and go home. I am not ready to speak to you.”

Hm. Not ready. I analyzed that comment. So he will be ready and willing to speak to me at some point? There’s hope.

“It’s just, um… I came all this way. I won’t leave.”

“Well, then you’re gonna freeze.”

How could he be so cold? No pun intended. You’d have thought he had caught me having sex with another man or something. He is overreacting!

I sat back down on the stoop. He’ll come. He’s not going to watch me sit here from, well, wherever he is.

An hour passed, then another. I worried frostbite was setting in, so I started to leave. Even at the corner, I kept staring at his door, sure it would fly open any second and he’d check to see if I’d really gone. Fifteen minutes passed. The door stayed shut. I sobbed into my scarf as I dragged myself back to my car, which, thankfully, had not been towed. I let out one long cry and spent the next thirty minutes getting it all out. When I had nothing left, I walked back to his house. I wasn’t going to ring again. I only wanted to see whether the lights were still off. I crossed block after block, then looked from the opposite corner. The house was dark, upstairs and down. This was hopeless. Pathetic. This wasn’t romantic. It was humiliating.

My phone vibrated.

I got so excited my gloved hands fumbled it straight into a puddle of slush.

“No, no, no!” I screamed.

A couple passing by snickered as they watched me panic, fishing my phone out of the murky water and trying to dry it with my scarf.

Dylan had texted.

Dylan: Hey! Happy New Year! You haven’t been answering, and now I’m starting to get nervous. Let me know you’re alive.

I guess it wasn’t right to keep ignoring him. Besides, I was pretty sure I’d just lost anything that resembled a relationship.

Me: Dylan! Hey. Sorry. I am alive. No worries.

Dylan: Oh, good! You were freaking me out. What’s the latest? Did you guys work it out?

Me: No. We didn’t.

Dylan: I see.

Walking back to my car, I felt another vibration in my pocket but refused to pull my phone out, worried I’d drop it into another pothole full of slush or something.

When I finally made it to the car, I took a peek.

Dylan: Well, I don’t know if you have plans, but I’m having a thing at my house. Just some friends. Gary from work. Mostly dudes, but you’re welcome to join if you need to get out.

Me: Address?

Again, screw it. I pulled my visor down to see how miserable and puffy it looked. My skin was blotchy, my lips were chapped, I had no makeup on, and my hair was full of static from the wool beanie clinging to my skull for the last two hours.

This is me. And I’m done pretending I’m better than this.

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My God, I’m going to go insane if I keep rehashing this.

That familiar depression that settles in when a holiday is over sank into me, and I decided to call it quits for the evening.

There wasn’t that much kindling anyway.

I checked.

“Michelle, time for bed.”

“What? No! It’s early,” she cried.

“For me, maybe, not for you. Let’s go.”

Without a fight, she listened and started gathering the gifts she’d already declared her favorites. The bedtime-worthy ones.

We climbed the stairs together. I reached for her hand, but she pulled away. Apparently, she was at the age where holding an adult’s hand was embarrassing. In my eyes, she was still a little girl. In hers, she was practically grown.

Jennifer’s lackadaisical parenting probably had something to do with that. Michelle was remarkably self-sufficient. She didn’t need me. Who does?

“I need you to brush your teeth and do all the things for me, okay?”

“Are you and my dad fighting?”

Whoa. Answer!

“Um... no. Just... grown-up stuff. We’re fine.”

Michelle didn’t pry. I think she understood more than I gave her credit for sometimes.

The bedroom door down the hall opened, and Nonna jumped when she saw Michelle and me standing just outside.

“You scared me,” she laughed.

“Sorry. Is everything okay with Fran?” I whispered.

“Oh, yeah. We were just talking. Catching up in private.”

That was a relief to hear. I thought maybe Francesca was having some sort of nervous breakdown or something. Well, maybe she was, and Nonna was just a good actress. She made sure not to leave any space between her body and the door as she pulled it closed, as if to hide something.

“Well, we’re both going to bed,” I said.

“Oh! Then let me say goodnight.”

Nonna Lena bent forward as much as her body would allow and gave Michelle a hug and a kiss.

“See you tomorrow, I’m sure.”

Michelle pulled away from the embrace, already halfway to her room. She wasn’t going to bed. Are you kidding? She was absolutely going to play with her new toys until she passed out.

“You’re going to bed, Andrea?”

“Yeah. I’m done.”

I landed on “done” a little harder than I meant to. I wasn't trying to be so vague. Not that I was about to explain myself either. It wasn't exactly the kind of pity party you invite other people to.

“Everything okay?” she asked.

“Yep!”

I wasn’t going to tell her anything. I wanted everyone to believe that if I went home tomorrow, it was for a short break or to grab something from my house, yada yada, and not because Michael and I couldn’t seem to stand each other right now.

Moments came and went when I had to remind myself what I was even mad at him for.

He admitted I was stressing him out. He was pissed that I was choosing to stay home. Pissed that I wanted an apology for the “princess” line.

This time, I took the bed. Michael never came up. I couldn’t sleep, not knowing where he was. Around four in the morning, I went downstairs quietly, stopping halfway down the staircase and peeking over the banister to see him sleeping on the couch. The Christmas tree lights were off. It was dark, but not dark enough that I couldn’t make out his shape lying there.

Back upstairs, I grabbed my duffel bag and started stuffing it with whatever felt important enough to miss. Jewelry. New jewelry. Makeup. Meds. Michelle’s drawing from last night.

The whole thing felt ridiculous. I just needed a few days. A brief hiatus. A reset. Some breathing room before one stupid argument turned into ten.

Yet there I was, packing in the dark like I was running away.

Anything else? No. I didn’t think I’d be gone for half as long as I was threatening.

When I reached the bottom of the stairs, I set my bags quietly by the door. Seeing them there made my eyes well up. This is only temporary, right? I then crept over to the couch, leaning over the back of it.

“Michael,” I said, shaking his shoulder.

I was barely getting anything.

“Michael,” I repeated, shaking him again.

His eyes started to open. He looked around the room like he didn’t know where my voice was coming from.

It was still pretty dark, I’ll give him that. When it looked like his eyes had finally found mine, I continued.

“Hey. I’m going to go home for a little while. I’ll be back.”

Michael blinked at me, still half asleep.

“Now?”

“Yeah. Just for a little bit.”

Even to me, it sounded unconvincing.

Up until this moment, it had all felt theoretical. An idea born from spite and exhaustion.

Now I was standing in front of him with my bags packed.

Am I really doing this?

“And what do I tell my parents?” he whispered. “Where you've gone... what am I supposed to say?”

“By the time they wake up, it'll be a believable hour for me to have left. Tell them I went home to check on something, get more clothes... anything. And Michelle…” I glanced toward the stairs. “Michelle's too smart to ask.”

He turned onto his side, away from me, and faced the fireplace.

I couldn’t tell if he was too mad to look at me, half asleep and thinking he was dreaming all of this, or simply too exhausted to argue. Is he calling my bluff? Is he just over it? God, I was struggling to remember how this argument even began. Well, I can think about it in the car.

Kissing him goodbye seemed cheesy. Confusing, too. It was better to just leave.

My bags managed to hit each doorjamb on the way out. The latches sounded impossibly loud in the quiet house.

The cold air snapped me awake. Fuck! Has hell actually frozen over? I thought.

It took every bit of my energy to focus on which car was mine. At this time of night—well, morning—every car seemed to be a light blue Mercedes. My breath was heavy, as if I were carrying one hundred pounds under each arm. Puddles of melted snow seeped into my sneakers, my socks soaking wet. Why the fuck am I wearing sneakers to begin with?

My car suddenly revealed itself. Wedged between newer, cleaner vehicles, looking older and dirtier than I remembered. Nearly ashamed of getting into it, I plopped down on the frozen leather and turned the engine. The car roared to life, loud enough to wake the neighbors.

Pressing my foot on the gas would make noise. Should I get out and push it in neutral until I’m at the corner?

Don’t be ridiculous, my rational self screamed back.

After crawling to the corner, I turned onto Lafayette Avenue, leaving Cumberland behind.

I hadn’t really gone anywhere on my own since that drive to and from Long Island. It’s as if I forgot there was another world out there beyond my fairy tale.

Thankfully, there weren’t a lot of cars on the road, and before I knew it, I had made it to the highway. Still, the two-and-a-half-hour drive would be a long one. Nothing but the road and my thoughts.

This is the right thing, right? Just some time apart until this relationship felt special again, to both of us, and not an additional layer of burden in his already busy life.

Looking back, asking me to move in months ago was probably premature. Then again, if he didn’t want me there, why would he ask in the first place?

When I finally reached home, I had completely put my brain through the wringer. I was exhausted. Did these stairs get longer? Was my lock always this difficult to turn?

I had to rest. The longer I stayed awake, the more I tore into everything, and it was causing almost physical pain. I closed my bedroom curtains all the way, in an attempt to mimic darkness, and got under my comforter, hoping not to rise for however long. Maybe through the new year. I don’t even know where my phone is, but I don’t care. No one needs me.

When I woke hours later, my room was pitch black other than the light from my alarm clock. It read 7:00. Is that p.m.? A.m.? I was in a stupor. Freaked out that I had possibly been asleep for days, I rolled out of bed and pulled the blinds open.

Hm. That looks like 7:00 p.m. But wait, is it still the 26th? Is it tomorrow?

Worried, I searched my bags for my phone. Did I put my phone in my purse? Possibly. Great, and where is that? Don’t tell me it’s in the car. Ugh!

Down the stairs and to the street again, I had to recall where I had parked the car. Part of me didn’t even remember driving home. Walking, looking, walking, looking. I spotted it around the corner. Thank God.

Inside was my purse, with all its contents spread on the passenger seat and floor. I guess it tipped over while I was driving? How did I not notice that?

First off, I was actually amazed no one had broken into the car to grab all this stuff. I forget I don’t live in “the city” anymore. Second, my phone was stuck between the middle console and the driver’s seat. Only the most annoying place for a phone to be.

Bracing myself for what could be on the lock screen, I took a breath, but alas, nothing. No texts, calls, nothing.

Wow.

If this wasn’t just little crumbs from the universe telling me to end my life, I don’t know what is.

I locked the screen, then unlocked it again and stared, trying to will a message into existence. Something. Anything. Still nothing. Just the time and date glaring back at me in oversized font. At least it was still the same day. I hadn’t lost that much time.

Back in the apartment, I threw my phone on the charger and once again got in bed to continue my sleep-a-thon, but really to hide from the world. This world only upsets me. Why give it any attention?

Hours into sleep, I assume this is where the fever dreams started. I remember Michael, of course. I think we were having sex in the dream? His face morphed into Dylan’s, which honestly was so frightening it should have ripped me from sleep, but the images kept flashing. I was back at One World Trade at the Christmas party, and my dad was at the bar. That’s when I started crying in the dream.

And then in real life.

At 3:00 a.m., I sat up, my face wet with tears. The room swayed. Am I sick?

Yep!

I leaped from bed for the toilet but didn’t make it. Instead, I puked in the hall on the hardwood.

And back to crying.

I knew I was going to make myself sick. I just knew it!

Cleaning my mess was disgusting. Was more coming? Should I just wait?

Nothing.

When I felt it was safe to leave the confines of the bathroom, I grabbed my phone from the charger and sat in bed again.

Surprisingly, a text.

Michael: Did you get home ok?

He sent it at nine o’clock.

Shit. He probably thinks I’m ignoring him.

I do miss him. Not Brooklyn, though. I was over that.

Back in my own house, surrounded by my things and no one else’s, there was a certain peace to it. I was relaxed now. Safe. And despite the last twenty-four hours, I was thinking more clearly.

Maybe I will jump on the summer tour. It’s not like it’s forever. Maybe a little space isn’t the worst thing. I know if I stay here, I’ll regret it the moment I hear his voice coming from another country. There’ll be nothing I can do about the distance then.

Me: Hey, sorry. I’ve been asleep. Yes, I got home ok. Miss you.

Whoosh.

Immediately, the screen got brighter.

Michael was calling.

“Hello?”

“Hi.”

“Hey.”

Well, this already sounds awkward.

“You’re awake?” I asked.

“Yeah. I can’t sleep. I’m downstairs.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

There were so many pauses. It’s like we didn’t know how to talk to each other anymore. We had taken several steps back in the relationship. Or did we propel it forward to its end?

I felt like I could have been talking to Adam. That’s how this conversation was going.

“So, when do you think you’re coming back?”

“Um...”

Why can’t I answer this?

“...A few days? Before New Year’s? I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” he said, emphasizing the words. “Look... I’m sorry, Andrea. Sorry, I was an ass. Sorry I left you to carry my drunk ass home the other night. Sorry about everything.”

Michael sounded like he was pulling his hair out on the other side. For me, that’s all I needed to hear right now—the apology, not the hair-pulling.

And even though it wasn’t, I replied, “It’s ok.”

“So, like, just come home.”

As sweet as he was being, I wasn’t ready to return. I had just gotten home. Not that Michael’s house was loud, but my place was better at being quiet.

My type of quiet.

“Plus, you left your laptop here.”

Fuck me!

“Did Michelle ask about me?”

“No. Like you said she wouldn’t.”

“Oh. So you were awake. You heard all that.”

“You didn’t have that much to say.”

“If it’s alright with you...” Why the fuck am I asking him? “...I’ll be back there on the 31st. I want to get some stuff done around here.”

Michael sighed heavily.

Was that a sigh of anger or relief?

“That’s fine. My parents did ask what was going on. I made whatever up.”

More uncomfortable silence.

I’m not touching that.

I couldn’t care less about what his parents thought right now. Does this look bad? Weird? Sure. But it’s none of their business.

“Hello?”

“Yeah. I’m still here.”

“Are you falling asleep on me?” he joked.

“Uh, yeah. I’m sorry.”

“It’s ok. I’ll let you go,” he said, like we were friends. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Click.

That was so fucking weird.

It felt like we were reading from a script. No goodbye? Whatever.

I feel better about things.

Kind of.

It made me happy that he couldn’t sleep. That he called so quickly. And that he was giving me a few days to be alone.

Not that my peace should require his permission... Maybe I’m not ready for another relationship. The first real rough patch comes along, and I’m sleeping two and a half hours away.

I suck.

Feeling as relieved as I’d hoped, I drifted back to sleep after a cocktail of water and Advil.

When morning came, it took me a few seconds to recognize where I was.

Is this the cute little apartment I found weeks after leaving Adam? Yes.

For the first time in days, my head didn’t hurt. My stomach had settled.

The only thing hanging over me was guilt.

I feel like I shortchanged Michelle. I wanted to spend time with her, and I’m pretty sure she wanted to spend time with me.

I’m not ready to beat myself up about that just yet.

I can’t sleep anymore. That was plenty.

I walked to the windows facing the street. There wasn’t a soul about. It was freezing outside, and most businesses were closed for the holiday week. The sidewalks looked abandoned.

Oh no! My coffee place! It’ll definitely be closed too. Goddammit!

My bags were still by the door. It made me laugh that I couldn’t be bothered to drag them any farther into the apartment.

Yesterday felt like a dream.

My apartment felt familiar and alien at the same time. It was as if I had just moved in again, noticing all the little details and quirks of the building for the first time.

The hardwood floors were bordered by dark, contrasting inlays. Crown molding framed the ceilings. The cast-iron tub had probably seen a hundred years’ worth of different asses.

The appliances were all plugged in and running again. After all, I was pretty much back full-time.

And to think I was ready to trade all this for Brooklyn. I fell in love with that old brownstone within minutes.

How embarrassing.

It’s quite telling, really.

I fall hard.

I fall fast.

Everything had been cleaned before I left and sat untouched for months, but I decided to give it all another once-over anyway. Too much sleep had left my body buzzing with energy, and I had nowhere to put it.

Run the vacuum over the tiny living room more times than necessary? Check.

Clean the bathroom and sinks? Check.

Create a new Instagram account so I can stalk Michael while he’s away? Check.

No profile picture. No clever bio. No friends.

This was a lurker account only, pure and simple.

A quick sweep of Instagram revealed Lauren’s profile was private. Annoying. Jennifer’s was private, too. Michael hadn’t posted much since November. There was a picture from the set of The Late Late Show, and that was about it.

So I hadn’t missed much.

I loved that.

I hated that I felt the need to turn to social media just to feel somewhat connected to him again.

The chokehold social media has on me—my whole generation—is insane.

Pulling myself out of the Instagram rabbit hole before it got any worse, the TV went on, followed by a giant bowl of popcorn. While bingeing a horrible but oh-so-addictive reality series, the room slowly dimmed into evening. Completely lost on time. It was only 4:45 p.m., but the room was dark—no lamps, no lights at all. Just the blue glow of the television bouncing off the walls.

Everything felt recalibrated.

Amended.

This was the right decision.

The whole day went by with no further communication.

I’m not sure if this is a game or not, but we did technically speak today, just super-duper early in the morning. It’s honestly pathetic how much I miss him.

Sunday, the 28th.

The coffee shop was indeed closed today, but I dressed for my daily walk anyway. Without my hot latte waiting for me as motivation, I pushed myself harder than usual, walking down Warren Street to the St. Charles Hotel before turning around. I repeated the route several times until my legs felt like noodles.

The extra layers had me sweating in thirty-degree weather.

Goodbye, holiday weight.

By the time I got home, my face was bright red, my nose numb, and my stomach finally flat. Dehydrated, but feeling as light as air.

Michael and I had been texting back and forth. Teasing. Sexy talk, well, text. No actual phone calls.

I’m not sure if that was part of the plan. Maybe we were both trying to give each other space. Maybe we’d appreciate seeing each other more on Wednesday because of it.

At least, that’s what I hoped.

It’s fine.

I think.

December 29th.

I repeated my workout routine, dyed my hair myself with this awful box color, turning it a ginger brown.

Oh well.

I took my hour-long everything shower. Afterward, I figured this was as good a time as any to send Michael another sexy picture. My hair was dripping, my skin glossy with water and moisturizing oils. Full frontal this time. That’s how confident I felt in that moment. I gave him a courtesy heads-up, then snapped it.

Swoosh.

Off it went. And now I wait.

Ping!

Michael: Omg. You are killing me! 😂

Yay, I thought.

We were back.

Ping!

What—?

Dylan: Guess where I am?

Huh? A text from Dylan? This was the last thing I expected. Do I answer?

Me: Hi! Where?

Dylan: In your new neighborhood. I’ve been using the break to look at rentals, investment properties. Didn’t you mention you live here now? Did I hear that right? I was pretty buzzed at the Christmas party.

Really?

Please. In the neighborhood, shopping for investment properties? I didn’t believe that bit for a second.

Me: I think I did say that, yes. I’m on Warren, above the art shop.

Dylan: Oh! I just passed that. Hang on, turning around haha.

What?

No!

Don’t come here.

Don’t come here!

…

Me: Oh, ok. I just got out of the shower.

Oh my God.

I face-palmed so hard it felt more like a slap.

I thought saying ‘I had just gotten out of the shower’ would be some sort of deterrent. You know... leave me alone. I’m busy blah blah…

Instead, I somehow made it sound like a fucking invitation!

Dylan: Um, ok, lol. Want to get lunch?

My heart started pounding.

Butterflies.

Nervous butterflies.

What the fuck am I doing? butterflies.

I pulled on fresh clothes from my dresser, the ends of my damp hair soaking the back of my T-shirt.

His message sat there unanswered.

I knew I should say no.

It’s just lunch, right? Harmless. It’s daylight. There are people about. Plus, Dylan was just... Dylan. Yeah?

No.

Don’t do this. It’s not worth it. Stay in the apartment. Tell him to fuck off.

No, be nice! You work with the guy! It’s just lunch.

I wrestled with myself all the way down the stairs, as I turned the doorknob, and as I walked the alley leading to the street, until we were finally face to face.

Dylan stood watching the cars go by. Each one crawled down the street, careful not to slide on the black ice.

I’d never seen Dylan outside of work. He was always in business attire. Today, it was jeans, an old sweatshirt, and a vintage-looking sherpa-lined pilot’s jacket. I don’t know where the jacket came from, but he looked kind of cute in it, not gonna lie.”

Otherwise, he looked like any other guy on the street.

One who looked completely lost.

“Hey,” I called out.

“Oh my God, you really did just get out of the shower.” He laughed as he slipped his phone into his front pocket. “There’s no rush, you know? Do you want to go blow-dry your hair or something?”

I was shivering, arms crossed over my chest, half trying to preserve whatever heat my apartment had left, half hiding my icy nips. No jacket. I had run downstairs with no jacket! That’s how freaked out I was. How did this even become a thing?

“No. I just wanted to come down and say hi, but I’m not really feeling up to lunch. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, ok. No worries,” he shrugged. “Just wanted to see what was up. Go back upstairs before you get sick. It’s like twenty fucking degrees out here.” He waved me off with one hand.

“Yeah. Ok. Sorry.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for.”

He looked like he was freezing, too, just too macho to admit it. He just stood there. So, now what? Turn around and leave, right? So why did I feel like I owed him something more than that?

Am I really worth standing out here in twenty-degree weather?

Before heading back upstairs, I stepped forward and gave him a quick hug.

Well...

Maybe it wasn’t that quick.

My body couldn’t tell the difference between Dylan and Michael. I just knew it felt nice to be held for a second.

As I stepped back, the slow crunch of tires over snow caught my attention.

A small black sedan eased up to the curb.

It idled. A neon rideshare sign glowed from the dashboard.

Who the hell was getting dropped off in front of a closed art shop?

The rear passenger door swung open.

One boot landed in the slush.

Then the other.

Nice boots.

Whoever this guy is, he’s kind of—

...

No.

Michael?

I bolted from Dylan with such fucking haste I nearly ate it on the goddamn ice.

Why is Michael here?!

It is Michael...

...isn’t it?

It was.

He stood frozen beside the open door, one foot on the curb, the other hovering as if he wasn’t sure whether to get back in. His mouth hung open as his eyes bounced from Dylan… to me… then back to Dylan again.

“What the fuck is this?”

“Excuse me?” Dylan said.

Idiot. Dylan clearly didn’t recognize Michael. How “buzzed” could he have possibly been at the Christmas party? Maybe Michael wasn’t a face worth remembering to him.

“Michael,” I breathed.

My brain couldn’t form grown-up words. I couldn’t think of anything better to say. This must look so fucking bad! Why did I come outside? Why did I come outside?

Dylan looked between us.

“Oh...”

Dylan’s expression had changed. It clicked for him in that moment. Finally. Nice of him to join us.

“Oh, dude… buddy… this… this is nothing,” he said quickly.

Michael completely ignored Dylan’s voice. It was just him and me.

“Is this why you needed ‘a few more days’ at home?” Michael asked.

The rideshare driver turned in his seat and muttered something over his shoulder, but I couldn’t make it out. Losing patience, if I had to guess. Probably, Buddy, are you getting out or not?

I stepped toward Michael, ready to pull him out of the car. This needed an explanation, but not at the curb.

“Babe, please—” I begged.

“Take your shit,” he said, throwing my laptop at my feet. It hit the slush with a sickening thud before he pulled the car door shut.

I lunged for the handle.

Still unlocked, it cracked open.

For one ridiculous second, I actually smiled. Like this was a miracle, like stopping a bomb with one second left on the clock.

He’s letting me in, I thought.

No.

Michael yanked the door shut again, harder this time, almost catching my hand. I yelped as if it had.

Then I heard the lock click as the car began to pull away.

“Michael!” I shouted at the rear window.

“Dude! Really?” Dylan yelled after him.

This can’t be happening.

This can’t fucking be happening.

I stood there as the car turned the corner, watching the taillights disappear into the cold, and it hit me that my whole life had just driven away with him.

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Share After The Fall

Its glow kept me from rage-screaming into a pillow.

This has to be fixable.

Still, I’ll admit, I was tempted—so tempted—to sneak out the door and drive home in the wee hours of the morning. I’d rather spend Christmas alone than spend the entire day pretending. Faking smiles.

This whole argument—or whatever you want to call it—isn’t fair. Why is he mad at me? “What are we even doing then?!” That comment echoed between my ears. A voice I wanted to tell to shut up.

Giving up on us isn’t an option. Neither is giving up on myself.

I love Michael, but I can’t force myself to go. Maybe I'd love life on tour. Maybe I'd hate every second of it. There’s no way to know without trying.

What I do know is that becoming a burden sounds miserable, and turning into another band accessory sounds even worse.

A lot has happened in the last two months. A lot. One atomic emotional overload.

Throughout the night, every rustle or shuffle from the upper floors made me think it might be him coming downstairs to apologize.

But no.

Only his parents making their third or fourth trip to the bathroom. His father apparently couldn't travel from Point A to Point B without making at least three bodily noises. Gross.

Getting any sleep down here was hopeless.

By the time light started creeping through the windows, it had to be a little after seven. Somehow, an entire night of not sleeping had gone by surprisingly fast.

What time do his parents wake up? I can’t have them seeing me “asleep” on the couch. Fuck it. I’m going to bed. Let him kick me out. I don’t care. At least then I’ll have a better idea of whether or not I should stay.

The stairs showed me mercy. None of the boards creaked beneath my feet. Sneaking past the guest room without making a sound made me feel stealthy. Ninja-level stealthy.

The final flight wasn’t as quiet, though. Even so, my arrival in the bedroom didn’t seem to wake him. I lifted the covers and slipped underneath, still pathetically dressed in my Meet the Parents outfit. Michael was lying on his stomach, facing the opposite side of the room. I didn’t want to face him while trying to sleep either, so I focused on the windows facing east.

I must have nodded off and on for the next sixty minutes. The clock magically jumped to 7:55 a.m. in the blink of an eye. Or several.

When I turned over, Michael was awake, lying on his side with his eyes open and fixed on mine.

I’m not speaking first. I have nothing to apologize for anyway.

He reached for my face with one hand while propping himself up with the other. Caressing my cheek, he sighed. “I am so, so sorry, Andrea. I didn’t mean to flip like that. You just... pissed me off. I know you didn’t mean to, but can you understand why your decision upset me?”

“The decision you said you’d find a way to understand?”

“Yes.” He groaned. “And I’m sorry for calling you a princess too,” he said with a tiny roll of his eyes.

I needed to make him understand. My explanation clearly hadn’t been good enough before—probably because I’d left a bunch of things out. Things he needed to know.

Maybe after this, he’ll see my decision as a little more rational.

Here goes nothing.

“I never want to be apart from you, Michael. Especially not for long stretches like the summer tour, but… ” This is going to be bad. “Listen…I never brought this up to you, but there are other things that have made me a little uneasy about all of this.”

“Tell me.”

“Right. I am.”

My voice was shaking. It felt like someone had turned the heat up in the room.

“I had an extremely weird text exchange with John in Nashville, and I... I don’t know. He made things really uncomfortable for me.”

Michael narrowed his eyes, waiting for the punchline.

“And then there’s everything else. God. Ugh! See? This is exactly why I didn’t want to bring any of this up. None of it sounds serious when I say it out loud.”

I pushed on anyway.

“John won’t want me there. Samantha probably won’t care either way. I’m sure she needs the entire bus for that boho wardrobe of hers anyway. Plus, I think James and Joey will appreciate the extra space.”

Should I keep going?

“I don’t think I can handle all those personalities at once. Crammed. I’m sorry, I just don’t know how to fit into that world! They’ll get sick of me, like John already has, and I definitely don’t want to Yoko Ono this band. I’d rather be here missing you than trapped in a bunk, suffocating you, while wondering if everyone secretly wishes I’d stayed home.”

This must all sound so stupid to him. Am I being a princess?

He let out a small laugh—I think the Yoko Ono comparison was responsible for that—but I could tell he was already replaying my monologue in his head.

His hand shot up, as if to stop me—but I’d already said everything in practically one breath.

“Um—whoa. So, go back. What text exchange with John?”

“Well… right before the now-infamous TMZ bar brawl, he grabbed my ass and asked if I’d be interested in a threesome. Or was it a foursome?” I said, trying to piece it together. That night had already become a little hazy at this point.

“What?!” Michael shook his head. He looked like a robot about to short-circuit. “Why didn’t you tell me this?”

“Well, I knew he was drunk, and he claims he doesn’t remember any of it. That part I was eager to forget, but when I asked for some sort of apology, memory or no, he just said, ‘God, you’re so lame. Go back to Brooklyn.’”

“Are you fucking with me right now? This is a joke, right? You’re joking.”

I reached for my phone on the nightstand. Its battery was in the single digits. I didn’t bother to charge it last night. I was too distracted, and it didn’t feel important anyway.

I pulled up the text thread, scrolled to the top, and handed it to him. “See for yourself.”

Michael took it without hesitation and read the exchange. It wasn’t a long conversation, but he stared at the screen for a while, rereading it over and over, until I saw the phone shut down on its own.

“Here,” he finally said, handing the phone back. Even in the dim morning light, I could see his face changing color.

“See? This is why I didn’t want you to read it.”

“No, no. You did the right thing.”

Michael sat up in bed, folded forward with his elbows on his knees, and his face buried in his hands.

“It doesn’t feel like I did. What are you going to do?” I asked.

“I’ll figure that out when I see him next—”

Ding-dong.

“Holy fuck! Michelle? When did I agree to an 8:00 a.m. drop-off?” Michael snapped, glancing at the clock.

He hesitated, then started feeling around the floor for pants. Apparently, the doorbell hadn’t woken his parents either. Since I was more dressed than he was, I silently volunteered to head downstairs while he searched for something appropriate to wear. Not exactly the ideal night to be sleeping nude.

I ran down the steps and pulled open the front door, enthusiastic and ready to greet her—only to find Michelle standing alone on the last step. Huh?

“Michelle, where’s Mommy?”

She pointed toward the street corner. There, I saw Jennifer standing beside a car. The second she noticed I’d opened the door, she took it as her cue to leave. She clearly wanted to be as far away from this house as possible. Bitch!

Jen leapt into the car—presumably a friend’s—and sped off down Cumberland despite the icy roads, disappearing around the corner.

It somehow reminded me of a desperate mother abandoning her child at a fire station. The comparison made me furious, but I couldn’t show it. Not now.

I took Michelle’s hand, led her inside, and knelt down to hug her. “Merry Christmas, baby!”

“Merry Christmas!” she repeated brightly.

Michael came barreling down the stairs with enough energy to light the whole house, scooping Michelle into his arms as he shouted the same greeting back at her. Somehow, Michelle didn’t seem to notice the anger simmering beneath my smile over the fact that her mother had practically tossed her out of a moving getaway car halfway down the street. Am I hiding it well? Or is she just too distracted by the mountain of presents beneath the tree to notice anything at all? The second Michael set her down, she darted for the tree, picking boxes up, shaking them, then setting them back down. Tossing some that didn’t give a satisfying shake.

“Not yet, not yet,” Michael laughed. “Why don’t you go wake up Grandma and Grandpa first?”

Michelle gasped excitedly. She must have forgotten all about them. God, I wish I could forget his parents were here too.

She flew upstairs, calling for each of them. I’m sure they’re loving that.

I was not loving that they were all awake now.

Once she seemed far enough away, I quickly blurted to Michael, “So… Jen left her at our door and was halfway down the street before I could even get Michelle inside. Like, what the fuck?”

“She wasn’t with her?!” Michael fumed.

“Shhh, no. She was already halfway in someone’s car, peeling down the street…”

“Jesus fucking Christ!”

“Shhh!”

It looked like he needed to sit down. All the anger and energy he’d gone to bed with had now rerouted toward his ex-wife and her childish games. Was Jen trying to lose custody on purpose so she could go back to living the reckless life she felt she never got to have? I don’t know. It’s probably not that simple. I almost wish it were, though.

Was she thinking, You love my daughter so much? Then take her.

That’d be sick. She’s sick. Speaking of which…

Michael nearly looked ill.

“Are you okay? You look like you’re going to throw up.”

Before he could answer, footsteps started coming down the stairs, so we both quickly put on our happy, nothing-is-wrong Christmas faces.

Frank and Francesca didn’t look thrilled to be dragged downstairs half-asleep. Quite comical, really.

“Okay! Let’s see what Santa brought you,” Fran cheered with forced enthusiasm.

Frank still had creases on his face from his pillow. “Friggin stairs. We’re not used to stairs anymore,” he grumbled.

We all huddled around the tree, curious to see which gift Michelle would choose first.

We heard the front door unlatch, and Nonna stepped inside. “Merry Christmas!”

Everyone was wearing some sort of robe or pajama set, while I was still dressed in yesterday’s clothes. Yet no one seemed to notice. Or at least no one had the courage to ask.

All eyes were on Michelle—except Michael’s. His face looked permanently stuck in an expression of disgust. I could tell he was overwhelmed by everything: last night’s argument, John’s messages, and now Jennifer’s bizarre behavior. I just didn’t know which part was occupying his mind the most.

Michelle was frantically tearing paper off every box. She barely acknowledged one gift before reaching for another.

I scooted closer to Michael, who was sitting on the floor. “Hey, are you alright?”

“No. I’m not. I’m fucking pissed,” he whispered.

“I know. But can you try to forget about it for the next couple of hours? Don’t let any of this ruin Christmas with your daughter.”

With a nod, he agreed. He ran both hands through his hair and, like flipping a switch, forced on a smile before kneeling closer to Michelle, directing her toward which gifts were still hers to open and which belonged to Fran, Frank, or Lena. He gently pushed those aside, making sure none were destroyed in Michelle’s excitement.

“Slow down, Michelle,” Lena laughed.

“Whoops”, Michael got up as soon as he sat down, as though he’d forgotten something. Kneeling beside the tree again, he carefully pulled out a long box, handling it like one wrong move might send the entire gift pile crashing down. Gift-jenga.

“This one’s for you,” he said, handing it to me.

“Oh! Thank you!”

Both his parents were looking at me. It felt strange.

“Should I open it? Now?”

“Yes! C’mon!” he insisted.

With everyone’s eyes on me, I stripped the oblong box of its paper and opened it slowly.

With a nervous laugh, I snapped the box closed. “Wow, everyone’s watching...”

“Just open it!” everyone shouted.

“Open it!” Michelle screamed, immediately joining in.

I lifted the cover. Inside was a diamond necklace. It was every bit as blinding as the earrings I was wearing.

“Oh my God, babe...”

“It should match them,” he said, gently grabbing my ear.

“Very nice, Michael,” Fran remarked.

Christ. How much did this cost? All I bought him was a new watch and a pair of sneakers. Holy shit. Maybe I am lame.

Such a thoughtful, romantic gift after arguing only hours earlier. It felt undeserved, but I wasn’t going to let this wear me down either. I was still angry. I was in no rush to forgive him.

“Thank you so much. I love it!”

Ignoring the rest of the family, I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed him hard. Harder than I meant to for a kiss I wasn’t entirely feeling.

“Ew. Okay,” Michelle complained.

The room burst into laughter, cutting the kiss short.

Let’s leave the rest of the gifts for later,” Lena joked. “I want coffee.”

“I want waffles!” Michelle added.

Everyone shuffled toward the kitchen, leaving Michael and me standing alone in front of the cold fireplace.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. I was just excited to give it to you.”

He stared down at his bare feet, surrounded by bits of wrapping paper.

“Oh, it’s okay. You know I’m shy no matter what the situation is. Being awkward is inevitable.”

“I know you want to get through today and talk more later, but can you give me anything now?”

“Give you what?” I asked.

“Something. Anything. Like, how you’re feeling right now. I want to know… get an idea… can you forgive me? Can we forget it all?”

What a position to put me in.

No. Everything wasn’t magically fixed because I had a diamond necklace now. As beautiful as it was, it didn’t erase the conversation we’d had.

Still, I couldn’t exactly say that. He appeared nervous as hell, asking for something—anything—to reassure him. Sure. I’ll “give” him something.

“I’m...still thinking.”

“Oh. Okay.”

He tried to smile. Really tried.

“We’ll talk more later then,” he mumbled while heading into the kitchen to join everyone else.

Well, that certainly wasn’t the answer he wanted.

This day is going to be long, isn’t it?

It wasn’t. We ended up circling the table every few hours like clockwork. We were either eating, cleaning up from eating, or preparing to eat again.

First came Nonna’s breakfast. Waffles, eggs, bacon, if you could eat it for breakfast, it was out on the table. It’s like she was on a personal mission to empty Michael’s fridge. After all, he was leaving for tour in a little over a week.

Then came the little appetizers before the main appetizers. Pasta, salads, the ham… and so on.

I silently thanked past-me for changing my outfit to clothing with elastic.

Frank occupied the living room with a cigar while old vinyl records were swapped out or flipped every twelve minutes. Smoking in the house wasn’t my favorite thing, but it wasn’t my house either.

Michelle stayed busy with her new gifts. Barbies, books, puzzles, sketchpads—they were all in constant rotation.

“Michelle.”

Her head popped up from her drawing.

“Can you draw me something?” I asked.

She immediately tore off the page she was working on to reveal a fresh one. Her head went back down. Not sure how much thought she was giving it. She just started scribbling away. Truthfully, I wanted to stay engaged with her. It also gave me an excuse to keep my distance from Fran, who had been acting a little odd all day.

She, Michael, and Lena were in the kitchen discussing something—a conversation that didn’t feel like I should be included in. It wasn’t for me to know. I heard them drop words like “money,” “Jennifer,” and “petition.” Everything carried a serious tone. While Michelle sketched what looked vaguely like a house, I drifted from lightly listening to full-blown eavesdropping. My fingers were absentmindedly turning my necklace over and over while I kept an ear in their direction. But by this time, it grew quiet, and the talking ceased altogether.

Soon after, they joined us in the living room, carrying plates of cookies and transforming the coffee table into a miniature banquet.

“I feel like I didn’t get to enjoy the tree much at all today,” Michael said, setting down a plate of chocolate chip cookies.

Michelle sprang from the floor the second she spotted them. Once she saw those cookies, my drawing was over. It appeared to be a house. Or maybe a building? There was something that looked like a front stoop and a single stick figure sitting alone on the top step.

Was that supposed to be me? Or her? Maybe this morning had branded itself into her brain more than I thought.

I always said she was no dummy.

“Jesus, Frank, can’t you smoke that outside?” Fran complained.

Frank silently rose from his chair, mumbling nonsense, and headed toward the sliding doors for the courtyard.

Wow. Is that all I had to say? Thank God. Those cigars reeked!

“Andrea, come here.” Fran waved me over. “I want to see that necklace a little closer.”

I took my time, reluctant to step forward on her command.

This could all be in my head, but I felt something coming from her. Anger? Jealousy? Something I couldn’t quite figure out.

I braced myself as she slid her hand under the necklace, leaning in to inspect it. She squinted, then turned it slowly around my neck a few times.

Half of me thought she might rip it off me, like that scene from Cinderella. I knew she probably wouldn’t do anything so vile—but that was the vibe she was giving off.

“Very nice. And your ear seems to have healed well, too.”

“Yep”.

“Frank doesn’t buy me nice things anymore,” Fran said sadly, as she sat down in the chair previously occupied by her grumpy husband.

It was a rather awkward thing to say out loud, but she must have said it for our benefit, no? It wasn’t meant as attention-seeking, that I knew. No, it was genuine—a call for help. I recognized it all too well. Her tone, what she said—it reminded me of how I felt about Adam last year: drowning in depression. I would drop sad, ‘woe-is-me’ one-liners in front of Amara, Hektor, and Nicole, and I got the same response we were all giving Fran now: awkward nods, polite silence, acknowledgment without engagement.

“I actually didn’t catch you guys opening gifts this morning,” I said. “What did you get?”

I had to ask. I knew what she was going through. Silence doesn’t help. I wish someone had asked me questions, or pulled more out of me, when I’d dropped those vague, sad little breadcrumbs.

She looked up, genuinely surprised. Surprised, I cared.

“Um…”

Her attention went to the corner, where the opened gifts had been left. She sifted through them, pulling a few things out, then putting them back once she realized they weren’t hers. Then, finally…

“Ok! Um…this funny t-shirt…new gardening gloves…”

She kept looking, almost as if she expected more gifts to materialize.

“Did you move any of the boxes, Mom? Wasn’t there more?”

“No,” Lena replied.

“Well. Then I guess that was it, Andrea.” Fran laughed weakly. “A shirt and gloves. There you have it.”

“I’m making you a drawing next, Grandma,” Michelle announced through a mouthful of cookies. Crumbs falling from her mouth.

There seemed to be nothing else to ask. Or say.

I wasn’t going to jump up and down and cheer, “Yay! A shirt and gloves!”

She wanted us to feel her disappointment.

And shit—the T-shirt Frank had thoughtlessly bought was two sizes too big. It had a cute cat on it with a clever quote. Fran loves cats, so at least he remembered that much, but dude, don’t you know your wife’s own body by now? It was incredibly… lazy.

The conversation died after that.

Michael walked toward the record player and put on another one of Lena’s older Christmas albums—Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas by The Carpenters. Not exactly the cheeriest of songs, but it filled the silence.

He probably thought it would help. Lift her spirits, maybe.

Then he began to rekindle the fire, working hard to make the room feel like Christmas again. It was a solid attempt, but Fran looked upset now—regretful, embarrassed—like maybe she wished she hadn’t said anything at all.

She left the living room and went upstairs. A bedroom door shut a moment later.

Lena, with a heavy sigh, followed after her one slow step at a time up the narrow staircase.

Michelle remained completely absorbed in her markers, too busy, too young to have picked up on all that. One day she’ll learn. Almost all men suck.

Michael plopped onto the couch beside me.

“Do you see that?” he whispered. “I never, ever want that to be us.”

“To be like...?”

“Totally disconnected like that. Feeling tossed aside, or whatever’s going on there. I didn’t know my mom felt that way. I feel bad now.”

“It made me feel bad, too,” I admitted.

“Thanks for trying to talk to her.”

I nodded, but was totally perplexed now. I know I don’t want that for us. What do I do now? Should I still go home tomorrow and give us some space? Stay here and plead my case for why I am choosing my own life over being “that guy’s girlfriend.” Every hurtful thing he said last night was still sitting on top of everything else, whirling around in my brain.

Michael had given me that necklace with love, but in this moment, it felt like nothing more than a failed distraction.

“So, what will you do about John?”

Michael shook his head, incredulous.

“I’m still thinking, but honestly, Andrea…” Michael glanced toward Michelle, making sure she was still in her own little world before continuing, “Probably nothing. Not now, anyway. Like you said, he was drunk.”

Nothing?!

He’s choosing to downplay this. What a coward.

“Drunk or not, he did grab my ass.”

“So you said.”

Wow. The dismissal hit me immediately. Okay. So we’re doing this.

“If he does it again, I’ll break his arm,” he added.

“Then you’d be down a guitar player.”

We stared at each other. Neither of us laughed.

He reached up and adjusted my shiny, new necklace, turning the pendant until it sat perfectly centered.

“I really like the way this looks on you.”

Deflection. Absolute stonewalling.

I thought about Fran. The shirt. The gardening gloves. How someone could make you feel so unimportant.

“Yeah?” I said flatly. “Like a fucking princess?”

Without a word, he got up from the couch and disappeared outside to join his father in the dark.

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Nonna told me not to worry, but then why are we deep-cleaning the house and breaking out the “finer” china like we’re hosting the President?

I felt so useless in the kitchen. I stood on the sidelines while Nonna did circles around me, breading fish, peeling shrimp, barely stopping to think between tasks. She didn’t ask for help either. She was in her zone. I just felt in the way.

Michael was back quickly. The tree was small, but its scent filled the house instantly. Fresh spruce.

What’s that called again? The Proust Effect?

The smell triggered memories of Christmases back in Queens when I was little, when Christmas used to feel like the most important day of the year.

Funny. I can’t remember the last few Christmases with Adam.
Actually…not funny. Kind of sad.

Once my father went into the nursing home, things got quiet. No more big family gatherings. We all just kept to ourselves. Adam didn’t seem to mind. If anything, I think he preferred the disconnect, the slow fall of my family.

He liked my dad, but the rest of them—not so much. And by then, I had already checked out of our marriage myself, so eventually I stopped caring about those things too. It was pure misery.

So I guess I haven’t had a real Christmas in a while.

At least now, I’m in a better place. Figuratively and literally.

Michael set the tree down. “Nonna, I’m going to your place to get the tree stuff.”

“Ok!” Nonna yelled from the kitchen.

“Hey, wait up! Need help?” I asked. Grabbing decorations, I could handle. Because right now, in the kitchen, I was just taking up space.

“Sure. Yes, actually.”

I followed Michael into Lena’s apartment. It was always neat and welcoming, still carrying the smell of whatever she had cooked the night before.

“I’m looking for this bin of ornaments and the stand,” he said, already digging through the closet where she kept everything except clothes.

The tension from the night before hadn’t fully left. Even with the sex, it was still there somehow. Feeling somewhat unresolved.

He felt it, too. I could tell.

Was he upset at me for being upset at him?

I just couldn’t get the image of him being carried up the front steps by our Uber driver out of my head.

Just seeing him vulnerable like that. Drunk. Completely detached in a way I never thought possible. It gave me the ick. Why can’t I shake this?

Michael kept his attention fixed on the search for the decorations, using it as a distraction, I suppose, while he quietly gave me space to get over it on my own. I should say something, right?

“So,” I said, forcing something that almost passed for a smile, “is your phone still blowing up? Is the group chat ‘on fire’?”

“Oh. Um, yeah. I’m trying not to look at it, honestly, because it’s distracting. But I keep looking anyway,” he admitted. “Yeah. The response from last night’s appearance is just insane. It’s just like…wow. You know?”

“Yep. I’m so proud of you guys.”

“Thanks, babe.” He stretched his whole body to reach the back of the closet, pulling out a clean plastic bin of decorations. “Have you thought any more about what you want to do?”

“Do? Do what?” I nearly stuttered.

“Have you changed your mind about coming on the summer tour? Moving in? You know, staying in Brooklyn?”

Whoa. I thought I had answers for those, but being asked again, off guard like this, I had to rethink everything.

“Um—”

“You can tell me later. It’s ok. Forget it for now.”

Wow. He shut it down real quick, like he regretted bringing it up. He didn’t want to hear anything but a swift yes, I guess.

Hm. Now things feel off again.

“Alright, choose what you want to carry,” he added, setting two bins and the tree stand at my feet. For a split second, it looked like tears were forming in his eyes. He was under so much pressure. This added another layer.

“Ok. I’ll take this,” I said, picking up the tree stand.

We headed out and up the stairs. I stayed a step ahead of him so he wouldn’t see my face while processing all that. Did he think last night might’ve changed my mind?

It hadn’t. It only confirmed my decision. I don’t want to go on tour. Not Europe. Not across the country. Nowhere!

The idea of being stuck on a bus with no space and no escape, with John thrown into the mix… and whatever level of partying comes with it. Night after night. Drunk and sloppy. Samantha and her pretentious ass.

No, thank you.

If anything, I’m more confused than ever. I feel like I’m starting to lose myself trying to keep up with all of this, and honestly, I think I’m burnt out on Brooklyn. I miss my tiny place in Hudson, always filled with sunlight. My space. My things.

It’s strange. When I first got here, I didn’t think I’d ever want to leave this brownstone. Now I’m exhausted. My body feels worn down from having to be “on” all the time. To be perfect. And I didn’t even succeed at that.

Plus, what’s the point of being here while he’s on tour?

I don’t see Jennifer sending Michelle here with me alone, despite what she said months ago. And maybe it’s selfish, but I think I need to be alone again. To go home. Just for a bit. A break.

But I can’t tell him any of this. Not today.

Time was ticking, so once we got back inside, we got down to business. The tree was secured in its stand and filled with water. Lights were half-flung across the branches. Even though most of the ornaments were clearly keepsakes, personal and meaningful, we just placed them wherever they fit. There was no time for the stories behind each one.

There was one ornament, a tiny frame. Inside was an old picture of Michael, Jennifer, and Michelle. Baby’s First Christmas. I hung it closer to the middle of the tree, then nudged it behind a cluster of pine needles. Sorry, not sorry. I didn’t want Jen’s face in our tree, but it had to be put somewhere, right? It would be more noticeable if it were left in the box.

Michael plugged in the lights, and the whole thing came alive. The lights were older bulbs, the frosted glass ones from the seventies.

“Ok. Yeah? Is this alright? Or do we need to finesse it more?” he said, framing the tree with his hands like a camera.

“Looks good to me.”

Nonna broke from the kitchen to give an opinion. “Very nice. Small, though.”

Michael checked the time on his phone. “Well, you know, that’s all we had time for.”

His parents would be here soon. A few hours, but that still felt soon.

With everything prepped, Nonna Lena retreated downstairs to her apartment for a bit. In between sweeping up pine needles and fluffing pillows, Michael and I got dressed and ready. I wanted nothing more than to make a great first impression. I kept the makeup minimal. Hair up in a bun. My ear was healed enough that I could finally wear those diamond earrings. Black trousers. Then, there was this fucking sweater. It practically screamed Martha Stewart.

Why do I even own this? Why’d I pack it is the bigger question.

Ah, yes. Probably from that phase when I gave up trying to impress Adam. I started thrifting, being cheap, dressing really down. Not caring. None of it seemed to matter. I could be in lingerie or a trash bag, and Adam wouldn’t notice.

I thought I did a good job tossing all the old Andrea clothes away over the summer. This one made the cut? Ugh, I really need to go home.

He and I weren’t talking. Both of us lost in our own heads, probably about completely different things, but still carrying the same low-level nerves about his parents arriving, I’m sure.

To fill the silence, he started kindling the fireplace. It helped. Outside was still so dark with clouds, the room called for more light.

“Should we put on Christmas music, or is that too much?” I asked. “Too corny?”

“I know Michelle will appreciate some type of music tomorrow—”

Ding dong!

They’re here. Oh God. Already?

Michael went to open the door. I followed a few steps behind and stopped in the hallway, placing myself right where they’d see me the second they walked in. I wiped my hands on my pants, half straightening them, half wiping the anxiety-sweat from my palms.

“Hello! Merry Christmas!” they said in unison.

His mother, Francesca, pulled Michael into a tight hug as if he’d just come back from war. His father, Frank, waited behind her for his turn. Neither of them had looked in my direction yet.

She finally let him go and stepped inside. As she walked toward me, I opened my arms slightly, ready to meet her.

“Oh! The house looks amazing!” she said, veering past me toward the tree, leaving me hanging. Right. Ok. I put my arms down and behind my back. I held in my laughter as best I could.

She made her way throughout the living room, taking everything in. So easily distracted, it came off as strange. Was she high? It’s been years since she’s been in this house, but still, no hello first? Not the manners I’d expect.

I stayed where I was. I wasn’t about to follow her around for a greeting.

Then a shadow came over my face.

“It’s nice to meet you. You must be Andrea. Hi.” Frank extended his hand.

His grip was firm. Almost too firm. Ow!

“Yes, so nice to meet you. Finally.”

“Finally? Aren’t you new?” he said with a laugh.

Was that supposed to be a joke? Just the way he said it—so dismissive, like I was a temp.

Whether it’s been five months, five years, who cares? I’m in love with your son. I didn’t just walk in off the street! Plus, I’m spending Christmas Eve with you fools! That should count for something.

“Cuter than the last one, Mike. Taller too!” Frank yelled in Michael’s direction.

Ew! How creepy!

Okay. First impression? Not great.

“Jesus, Dad,” he muttered.

Michael exchanged a look with me and shook his head, clearly mortified.

There was a tap on my shoulder that I wasn’t expecting. When I spun around, it was Francesa, pulling me in for a tight hug. “Hi, I’m Fran. So sorry, I went right around you,” she added with a laugh. “I haven’t been here in so long. It gets me every time. Come.” Waving me into the kitchen. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Good things, I hope,” I said nervously. That very canned response.

“Yes! Nothing but good things. From Nonna, too.”

Well, of course. Nonna’s the best. I wouldn’t expect anything else.

Michael, though…what exactly had he said? And when? When everything was perfect back in October?

Right on cue, Nonna came up from downstairs. Perfect timing. I already needed a buffer.

She hurried in, moving fast for a seventy-something-year-old, and embraced her daughter.

We were all here now.

All four of them were catching up, corks being yanked from wine bottles, tall pours following. No one had really started a conversation with me yet, so I stood back and observed as they bounced questions off each other and spilled the latest family gossip.

Eventually, we all landed at the dining room table in our “assigned” seats. Nonna had made these little place cards. It was cute. Unnecessary, but cute.

The table was already set with an array of small bites—ceviche, cheeses, crackers—from end to end.

“We stayed up for the late-late show last night, Mike. It was awesome! Fucking awesome.” Frank said.

My dad never used words like “awesome”. Or “fucking” as an adjective, for that matter. Then again, Michael’s parents were in their mid-fifties. Not that much older than me, really. Closer to my siblings’ age than my parents’. Two Gen Xers who were old enough to remember the good old days but not old enough to qualify for the early bird special. His parents were dressed pretty casually, too. I felt overdressed now. I guess I was expecting this to be a bigger deal.

They came off exactly as Michael had described them: a little self-centered, a little self-contained. It explained a lot, like how they detached themselves when Michael was in need back in LA. He just wasn’t their responsibility anymore. He was an adult. Frank and Fran had their own lives, their city jobs, and the option to retire early, which they’d taken without hesitation. I couldn’t quite understand the appeal of Florida as a final destination.

“So, Andrea, what do you do?” Fran asked.

“I’m a UX/UI designer—”

“Michael, you couldn’t find a bigger tree?” Frank cut in, talking right over me. It was like I wasn’t even there.

“Dad, you just interrupted her.”

“I did? Oh. Sorry.”

I’m pretty sure his father wasn’t senile. Deaf, maybe. His voice was booming. I could tell Frank was incredibly anxious. He looked like he wanted to zip right through dinner and go to bed, weary from traveling on a holiday.

“Ignore him.” Fran waved him off, clearly embarrassed on his behalf. “And what is that?”

I hate getting this question.

“I design how apps look and respond. Keeping them visually appealing, while intuitive for the user…” I trailed off. I could tell I was already losing her. God, am I this boring?

“And how long have you been living here?” she added.

It wasn’t a hard question, but I still had to count the weeks on my fingers.

“She’s not living here, Fran. She’s staying here as long as Michael’s here, that’s all. She has a life and place of her own,” Lena said, a note of warning in her voice.

Whoa. Awkward.

I loved that Lena was my cheerleader, subtly telling her own daughter to back off. I wasn’t here for the novelty of dating a rock star if that’s what she was implying. I’m no leech. Or grifter.

“Oh, okay. Just curious,” Fran answered defensively. Thankfully, she dropped it and turned her questions back to Michael.

“And what does 2026 look like for you, Mike? Will we see you at all next year?”

“Um…honestly, I don’t know.”

“Oh”, with disappointment in her voice.

Hell, I didn’t like that answer myself.

“Those are nice earrings. Where did you get them?” she asked while putting her glasses on.

“Oh! They were a gift from Michael,” I said, turning my head from side to side to show them off.

Fran absorbed that and, ever so casually, responded, “Oh, Michael, don’t go spending all your money now.”

The three of us—Nonna, Michael, and I—just stared at her.

Michael appeared stunned. Embarrassed.

“Mom. It’s fine.”

Anything from you, Nonna? I thought. We could certainly use that cheerleader energy again.

“Fran, leave the boy alone. He was on The Tonight Show for Christ’s sake! He’s doing fine,” Frank said, suddenly more present.

“Well, the late-late show,” Michael corrected.

“Whatever.”

Yikes. So far, this dinner is worse than the one with Jen. Something I didn't think was possible.

I got up from the table and looked for something to do in the kitchen, just to get away for a second, but Fran kept firing questions at me from her seat.

“Are you going on this tour, Andrea?”

“Mom, please,” Michael pleaded.

“What? I can’t ask questions?”

“Europe? No, I’m not,” I answered, staring into the sink for something to wash. But nothing.

I didn’t need to see her reaction. I felt it—her surprise, her recalculation.

“Michael…” she started.

I turned back toward the dining room, grabbed what I could, and refilled the appetizer plates.

“…how long is that tour in January?”

“Not that long. Three and a half weeks, maybe.”

“Oh, okay. That’s not bad,” she said, giving me almost an apologetic look. “Does that mean Jen will have Michelle that whole time?”

Michael reached for more shrimp. “Probably.”

Fran made a face of disgust. When I saw that, I thought: Yes! Yes! We have a common enemy. Don’t you see?

But I stayed composed, my expression carefully neutral, like I didn’t have an opinion either way.

Frank muttered under his breath, “She sucks.”

I leaned forward over the table, immediately choking on my wine. Michael had to pat me on my back a few times, but I still couldn’t stop coughing.

“Frank. C’mon now.” Nonna Lena tried to sound stern, but she was fighting a smile.

Michael tried to keep a straight face, too, but failed. He and his parents ended up laughing anyway—more at what was said than who it was about. What a line from Frank. I loved it, but it seemed like that would be the only jab at Jen allowed for the evening.

Michael then steered the conversation toward something more current. Me.

He told his parents how we met. The incident at Pier 17 with the beer. Nashville. And, inevitably, my dad.

Each story seemed to ease them a little more, but it wasn’t until they heard about my father that Fran finally backed off with the questions and commentary. I thought Michael had already told them most of these stories. I pictured him calling them from day one, gushing about me. Guess not.

Asking Fran and Frank about themselves didn’t feel important. I hate to be mean, but there didn’t seem to be much mystery there. They weren’t like my parents—first-generation Americans shaped by a lifetime of stories you could feel even when they weren’t being told. With Fran and Frank, what you saw was what you got. Nothing more. No depth, no hidden layers. No real sense of experience, adventure, or even hardship. They were children of the early 80s—predictable, shaped by MTV, mixtapes, and Atari. Nothing I couldn’t picture.

I did toss some questions their way—I’m not a complete jerk. Easy things. Where in Florida are you now? Do you like it? What keeps you busy down there? And the conversations were great after that. We were all more relaxed. Any awkward tension vanished.

The night was winding down, now. The windows looked like frames filled with nothing but a deep navy sky.

The living room was lit only by the tree and a dying fire. We had all migrated in there, claiming spots around the room, drinks or phones in hand. Quite comfortable. Or, for the time being. I could have sat there for hours, alone, just staring at the old orange, blue, red, and green bulbs.

Fran stood near the tree, studying the ornaments one by one. Some seemed to catch her attention more than others.

Then she reached in, deeper than necessary, and found it.

Really?!

She pulled the ornament forward so it sat front and center on the branch.

“Did you hide this one on purpose, Michael?”

“What?” looking up from his phone. “No.”

I had to fight the urge to laugh. I brought my near-empty wine glass to my face to hide my evil grin.

“Alright. I’m going to bed,” Frank announced.
Francesca gave Michael and me each a hug before following Frank up the stairs. “Goodnight.”

Nonna was also calling it a night. “Well, that was fun,” she said with some sarcasm. “Goodnight. See you bright and early in the morning! Have your best ‘Santa was really here’ faces on for Michelle,” and slipped out the door.

I could exhale. It was just us now.

“Oh my God,” Michael said, both hands rubbing his face. “Well, that wasn’t that bad, right?”

“Yeah. Not so bad. I thought I was going to get grilled more. Thankfully, not.”

“What? About the tour stuff?”

“Sure. That and living here.”

“About that. What are you doing exactly? I know the Europe tour is out. No big deal. But what about the months I’ll be away—away?”

My throat got really dry. It was a struggle to form a sentence.

“So, I thought about it, and I think I am going to stay in Hudson.”

“The whole time? All summer?”

“Yeah. I think I need my—”

Michael shot up from the couch and leaned over the fireplace, resting his elbows on the mantle, holding his head.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, suddenly panicked.

“What are we even doing, then?!” he yelled, loud enough for his parents to hear.

“Shhh. What do you mean?”

“You won’t even consider coming along for a bit? I don’t get it. What did I do?”

“Nothing! You didn’t do anything…” A lie. Technically. But what else could I say? “I…just can’t do tour life.”

“Oh god. What a fucking princess!”

“What? Hey—hey! What happened to ‘if you change your mind, I’ll find a way to understand’?”

“I don’t know…” he said, staring into the fire, biting his nails.

There was a pause longer than I’d like. His eyes bounced from left to right and back again, trying to find where he'd once said that.

It was right before he left for Boston.

“I didn’t think it would be that big a deal—me staying behind, waiting for you.”

He barely moved or blinked. He looked like a living statue.

“Well, look, who knows? Maybe I will come for some of it.” Now I was really lying.

“It’s too much time apart,” he mumbled under his breath. With his right hand squeezing his temples, “Let’s do this. After tomorrow, why don’t you just go home?” It was more of a command than a question.

Like a punch to the chest, I was losing the ability to breathe.

“Michael—”

He brushed past me and retreated to the bedroom.

What have I done?

I sat down, desperate for air.

The living room was mine for the night, like I wanted. Well, not like this. I lay across the couch, staring at the tree. Too shocked to cry. Too confused to think.

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Share After The Fall

Michael was laughing, enjoying himself with everyone else. I just observed, like an outsider would—sneaking glances at the gorgeous guy at the bar.
Except that guy was Michael. And somehow, I felt like a stranger.

I had so many questions. Tonight wouldn’t be the best time to continue the conversation, but I wanted so badly to know what had caused his breakdown in the car—and how long he’d been feeling that way.

Was it because of today’s taping? Is he worried that once the episode airs, it will launch them into an even more frenzied level of stardom? If that’s the case, I can understand it.

Still, I know deep down that if he had to cut anyone loose, it would be me. Maybe he’s just too afraid to say it outright, hoping I’ll pick up on everything he’s been hinting at—waiting for me to be the one to suggest a break.

But a break? Already? After only five months of dating?

Devon—or was it Danielle—leaned in and whispered, asking if I was pregnant after noticing I wasn’t drinking. Of course, she went there. I assured her that wasn’t it. Even as a rumor, that kind of drama would send Michael reeling.

The band was getting a few looks, but no one approached them. Then again, this wasn’t exactly the kind of crowd that would throw themselves at Black Bloom. Maybe younger girls, some twenty-somethings—but not here. The crowd was older.

I had the time—and the sobriety—to scan every table, every face, wondering: Do they recognize them? Are they even paying attention? Most people seemed wrapped up in their own conversations, careless about work tomorrow. It’s Christmas Eve. Screw it. For most nine-to-fivers, tomorrow’s a nothing day anyway.

Around 10:30 p.m., I decided it was okay to interrupt Michael and his friends.

“Hey,” I shouted, trying to get his attention, pointing to the time on my phone. “Are we still watching the episode live with Nonna?”

Michael glanced at his friends, then back at me.

“I’m probably too fucked up to watch anything. I’ll catch it on YouTube tomorrow.”

He leaned back toward the bar, already trying to flag the bartender for another round.

I never pictured him pushing Nonna aside for time with his friends. Maybe I just don’t know him at all.

Tonight, he seemed completely uninterested in playing boyfriend.

After 11:00 p.m., I decided I was done and squeezed myself into the free space between him and one of the guys.

“I’m gonna head out. I’m so tired. I don’t know how you’re still awake,” I shouted into his ear.

“You’re leaving? Can you wait until I finish this? Then we’ll go.”

“Okay.”

Welp. Guess I’m here a little longer.

It looked like James, Samantha, Meredith, and Joey were all planning to Uber back to the hotel. Joey had flagged down someone on the wait staff for the bill. Jackets were going on once again. Steve…I had no idea where Steve went. I think he dipped hours ago.

“Goodnight and Merry Christmas,” Samantha said, opening her arms to hug me. “Will I see you in January? In Europe?”

I didn’t have the energy to mask my uncertainty, so I gave her a firm, “No.”

“Oh. Okay. That sucks. We’ll miss you.”

Highly doubtful.

I hugged each of them. “Safe flights back, guys. Merry Christmas.”

Hm. Will I ever see these people again?

“Can you order an Uber?” Michael asked, finally.

“Yeah, sure!” As much as I wanted to leave, I was dreading the ride home. Afraid of what I could expect. Before I could run all the prompts to complete our Uber order, more hugs and goodbyes.

Goodbye or Merry Christmas, they said one by one. Everyone looked particularly tipsy. Not me, though. I was as sober as the Pope.

“Call me, Andrea. We should all hang. Just us girls. Unless you’re jumping on the bus with them,” said Devon.

“I’m actually not.”

She took a step back. There was a minuscule amount of surprise on her face. Or was it shock? Shocked I’d be willing to part from Michael for weeks. I guess she expected me to go. It felt like an empty gesture, anyway.

Now, it was just Michael and me, seeking shelter in the entryway. It was too cold to wait outside.

Are you ok? He asked.

“Me? Yes. You?”

“Um, probably not. The room feels like it’s spinning.”

God. This is going to be fun.

This Uber took forever, and Michael was looking sicker by the minute. Leaning on me for support with his arm over my shoulder, using most of my strength to keep him upright. Why does he feel so heavy? God, I need to go back to the gym.

When the car finally arrived, I pulled open the car door and sat him in sideways. He folded in half like a rag doll. Surely Uber drivers see this all the time, right?

“Michael, can you move over?” I asked.

Nothing.

He was out.

I walked around the back of the car and got in on the other side.

We would be home in twenty-five minutes. Thank god. I scooted across the back seat to make sure he was breathing; he looked that lifeless, but he was. In fact, it started turning into a snore. When it got really loud, I would shake him on the shoulder a bit, and he’d sit up, but only to slump down again.

Finally, in Brooklyn, with Michael only partially conscious, I went full mom voice. “Can you walk the front stairs for me?”

“Mm-hmm.”

The lights were off in Nonna’s apartment. Not that she’d be much help right now, but I was holding out hope she’d be awake if nothing else than for company.

I wanted to cry from the stress of having to deal with this, tomorrow, Christmas day…I know there’s more.

The Uber driver saw me struggling and offered help. I found that super embarrassing, but sweet at the same time. Christmas makes everyone friendly for twenty-four hours, I suppose. Or was he pushing for a bigger tip? Pick one.

Michael leaned against him while I opened the front door, and then the foyer door. I certainly didn’t want this guy coming into the house. I held my arms out, gesturing for him to pass Michael over the threshold.

“I got it. Thank you so much for your help.”

I know I shouldn’t be, but I was angry. He had to drink his ass off tonight? Of all nights?

Once inside, it looked as if he had snapped out of it. Perhaps sobering up. Without any instruction, he sleepwalked to the couch and lay down face-first.

Fucking fantastic.

Think.

I covered him with a blanket, set the tiny bathroom trash bin beside him, and left a bottle of water within reach. I was over it, but I also couldn’t bring myself to go upstairs knowing he might need something. I shouldn’t just disappear. That’s not something he would do if the situation were reversed. Ugh, I’m such a shitty partner!

Unbelievable.

Standing over him, I whispered, “Hey, are you still with me?” while nudging his arm.

“Mm-hmm. Just leave me here. Sorry.”

Don’t mind if I do.

Is it safe to run upstairs and start crying now?

We made it home. Great. Fantastic.
Fuck the holiday—I want answers.

Does he want me to leave? Is that what this is?
Did he just say it out loud for the first time?

He said it sober.
He said it.

“I heard it.”

I’m actually talking out loud now.

Who cares? No one can hear me. I have the whole third floor. Let the crazy out.

“He didn’t mean it.”

“I don’t know. Maybe he did.”

“Then why say it?”

“Why backtrack?”

My stuff is everywhere. His bedroom. The bathroom. The closet.
Do I start packing?
Do I wait?
Can I just leave and come back after the holiday like nothing happened?

“Maybe he’s bored.”

“Maybe he wants someone else.”

“Maybe I’m just…here.”

I should check his phone.
No, absolutely not.

If I did, there’s no coming back from that. No “I’m sorry.” No second chance.

I’d be out. That’d be it. That’s how it ends.

And for what? What would I even be looking for?

Another girl? Messages? Proof of something I already feel?

I can’t get out of my head. “Help!”

Crashing onto the bed, I continued to yell at myself. “God! Go to bed!”

I’d have the whole king-sized bed to myself tonight. It felt wrong, yet I enjoyed every second of it. I guess I need space, too, I thought, before drifting into the deepest of sleeps.

My alarm had been set for 6:00 a.m., and it seemed to go off the moment my head hit the pillow. How can that be?

It was Christmas Eve morning.

I was nearly afraid to go downstairs. What should I expect? Just go!

I tiptoed down, not wanting him to hear me in case I decided to flee again. When I reached the living room, I peered over the back of the couch to see that he was in the same position he had been when I left him. The water was half empty, and the trash bin was clean.

Knowing Michael, the only thing that would instantly snap him out of this would be a sip of strong, black coffee. After weeks of being here, I got really good at figuring out this espresso machine, which I swear was given to him by aliens.

Having Michael drink this would be the equivalent of the scene in Pulp Fiction where John Travolta shoots Uma Thurman with a shot of adrenaline to wake her up. Only that was a way more serious situation than this.

Or is it? There was still a laundry list of things to do before his parents got here. Don’t panic. All we had to do was grab a tree from the nearest tree farm, wrap any gifts we hadn’t gotten to yet, start dinner, and expect a doorbell ring around 3 p.m.

I walked to the living room with this little espresso cup, arms outstretched to keep it as far from my body as possible. A safe distance in case I spilled it. It was boiling.

“Hey, Michael? Michael? Yoooo…”

Eyes were opening. He lives!

“What?”

“It’s Christmas Eve, time to get up.” I put the coffee right under his nose like it was smelling salts. It worked; he sat up like a human within seconds.

Better not to bombard him with today’s task list just yet. Curious as to what his first words are going to be, though. Like a baby’s.

“What time did we get in last night?”

“Sometime after midnight, I think. The Uber driver, whose name I don’t even want to try to pronounce, had to help me with getting you up the stairs.”

“Oh, my god. That’s so embarrassing. I’m sorry.” He said, rubbing his eyes. “I need, like, a lot of Tylenol or something.”

“I can get that.”

After a quick run up and down the stairs, I returned to find the living room empty. But then—okay, now he’s throwing up. Perfect.

I bet he gets stuck in that half bath. Then what?

“Mike? Are you okay in there?” I gently tapped on the door.

“Yes and no. I need a few minutes.”

I feel like I should be doing something other than listening to him hurl. There was still so much to do.

Knock, knock.

Who the hell—
Gotta be Nonna.

I looked through the glass doors for confirmation. Yep, it’s her.

I wasn’t fully dressed per se, but at this point, I needed help, and I didn’t care how I looked. She’s a woman. She gets it.

“Merry early Christmas!” she shouted as she let herself in—a little too loud for someone not fully awake yet.

“Merry Christmas!” I cheered, hugging her like I hadn’t seen her in years.

“I’ve been awake since 5 a.m. I can hear the toilet being flushed over and over again through the pipes,” she laughed. “What’s going on? Everything okay?”

“Actually, I could use some help sobering Michael up while I run a few errands.”

“What? He drank that much? I’ve never seen that before.”

She’s never seen that before? Really? Wow. Am I the first woman to make him go there? The first girlfriend who made him want to disappear?

“Go. Do what you’ve got to do. I’ll help him,” she added.

“Thank you.”

With that, I flew up the stairs. Dressed. Teeth brushed. Purse flung over my shoulder with car keys in hand as I fled the house. “Please, please, please don’t take my parking spot,” I begged while crossing the street. I am doing it again! Who am I talking to?

No one was up yet. I was talking into the dark. No cars. No people. Not even a dog walker. Just rows of dark windows and that early-morning blue, minutes from sunrise.

I plopped into the driver’s seat. It was so cold, the leather seats reminding me the second I sat down. I winced. Does this car seriously not have seat warmers? Too old.

The block was quiet. Hm, too quiet.

Wait.

I checked the time.

…Of course.

It was still so early. No way the tree place would be open already.

I let out a short, humorless laugh, my hands still gripping the wheel.

What did I expect? I banged my head on the steering wheel’s center, and it let out a little beep.

The realization of what I was really doing set in. Let’s face it. I wasn’t trying to get a start on things and take charge of the day.

I just didn’t want to be in that house. Around him. At least not yet. But there was nowhere to go, nothing to do but go back inside and wait for him to decide if he still wanted me. The car felt like the safest place to be, but I could only avoid him for so long.

Fuck. Right. Okay.

Engine off. Back up the stoop, pushing the doors open.

Nonna looked to be in the bathroom with him now. How’d she fit in there? And what was she doing? Holding back his short hair?

“Everything ok, Lena?” I was afraid of the answer.

“Yep, he’s ok. You ran your errands that quickly?” She asked, poking her head out.

“Too early.”

She glanced at the hall clock as if I’d made it up.

“Oh yeah. It is early. That’s what happens when you’re old and wake up before sunrise,” she joked.

Wait—who was she calling old? Me?

The only thing I could really do right now was wrap gifts, set the table, and straighten up the house.

Will he be happy I’m doing all this? Taking initiative?

Or will he be mad?

Abandoning Nonna again, I ran up both flights of stairs.

I took a seat on the floor of the bedroom and started pulling Amazon boxes out from under the bed. I just focused on Michelle’s gifts. I ignored the little things I got for Michael. Hell, they may not even matter now.

“Hey. What are you doing?”

I jumped.

Michael had magically appeared in the bedroom, it seemed. Did he fucking teleport?

“Wrapping gifts.”

“Can you put everything down for a second?” He asked.

Oh God, here it comes.

“Put the scissors down,” he added, half-joking.

Yep, he’s afraid I’ll kill him.

“Okay. I am so sorry I drank that much. I guess I just figured I wasn’t going to see my friends for a while after last night and wanted to keep it going for as long as possible, you know? Celebrate with them. I should’ve stopped earlier. I’m paying for it now, and it’s not the best day to be hungover.”

Hm, okay…where’s my bit? Where’s the apology for what he said?

Or was his ‘it’s not you’ bullshit all I was going to get?

He didn’t continue. He just started peeling off his clothes as he walked to the bathroom.

Right before the door shut, I called out, “Hey!”

“What—what happened?”

“Can I ask you something?”

By the look on his face, I could tell he was choosing between not now and I know what you’re going to say.

“Go ahead.”

Yikes. I didn’t like the tone of that go ahead.

Unsure if I should even say it, I blurted everything out anyway.

“If I am too much for you right now—at this moment in your life—you can tell me. I felt like that’s what you were getting at last night, but you took it back to save it for another day. Am I wrong?”

“Jesus. Um…”

He shut the door.

What the fuck? What—?

“Fuck these gifts,” I muttered, kicking them across the room—only to scramble and grab them again when I realized they were Michelle’s.

That’s not fair to her. I hope I didn’t break anything.

I couldn’t think straight. What do I do?

Wrapping. I’ll just keep wrapping.

Don’t cry again. Don’t cry. He’s probably still out of it. What if he’s not? What if this was him now? Calm and collected, his thoughts together. What happens to me now?

The shower lasted minutes. I was taping a bow onto a box when he came back out. Towel around his waist. I didn’t lift my eyes from what I was doing. Quiet like a mouse.

Michael attempted to kneel beside me, but changed his mind, worried he wouldn’t be able to get up again. His brain was still swimming in Jägermeister and whatever the fuck else. He chose to sit on the bed. A sturdier option.

“Hey. Sorry—I didn’t mean to just not say anything. I needed a minute. Well…the whole shower…to even figure out what you were talking about.”

“Michael, I’m asking about the stuff you said on the ride in—when you were sober. You didn’t speak to me the rest of the night. Are you pretending not to remember, or do you think I’m stupid?

“Whoa, whoa! Calm down.”

“No!”

He dropped his head into his hands, eyes squeezed shut, forcing himself to recall last night’s events.

“Oh! That? My freak-out?”

“Sure. Yes. Whatever you’re calling it.”

He looked pissed now—but also like he knew I deserved an explanation. It was all over his face. Defensive, but cornered.

“That? All of that was out of fear. Obviously. You have to understand—I love everything about my life right now. I’m just afraid I could lose it all. That I’m not strong enough to be perfect twenty-four seven. I was being open. I thought you’d understand. I didn’t think you were going to latch onto one sentence and turn it into me trying to dump you. Why does your mind do that?”

Oh, hell no! He is NOT trying to gaslight my ass!

“It didn’t sound like a mindless vent, Michael. It sounded like you were close to giving up. I know what I heard—and how you said it. You named me in your list of stresses after Jen for Christ’s sake!”

“Ok. Ok. I see. Um, again, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it other than everything just felt like too much. In that moment. Am I not allowed to have a panic attack? That’s not fair. You know how much dumb shit you’ve said to me before?”

Wooooow.

I could see this had the fuel to go back and forth for days. I’d just have to accept he was over-dramatizing and meant nothing of what he said. Talking it out to exhaustion might just prove his point. That he can’t handle me. Not while being on top of the world or however he’s visualizing it.

“Next time, I won’t vocalize it. Fuck.”

He got up and started rummaging through his drawers for something Christmas Eve–appropriate, his back to me.

I kept my head down. More wrapping.

To cut the tension in the room, you would have needed a nuclear weapon.

How badly could I injure myself if I were to jump for this window?

Michael pushed the drawers shut and dropped his shoulders.

He tried the kneeling thing again—and this time got through it.

It was hard to look at him, but I tried.

“Come here,” he said, even though there was nowhere closer to go. Scissors down. Tape on the floor. He put his arms around me and pulled my head to his shoulder, his hands in my hair. I wasn’t over it. It felt like he was petting me. I couldn’t tell if this was an act of love, apology, or berating me.

“I wouldn’t give up on you. Ever.” He whispered.

After he said that, I became the sniffle machine. Apparently, that’s all I needed to hear. I still didn’t dare comment. I had no idea how things sounded coming out of my mouth anymore. Out of all our disagreements, things we’ve said, or argued about, this was the conversation I wanted erased from my memory.

The more I thought about it, the more it felt…stupid. Like repeating a word over and over until it stops sounding like anything. Just noise.

“I know we have shit to do…are we good?” he asked.

“Mm-hmm.”

“Okay. Seriously, though?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” he said with a nod before he got up and walked to his closet, grabbing packages and bubble mailers. “I have to wrap some stuff too.”

I was relieved to move forward. Really, I was.

“I’m sorry, Michael.”

“Don’t—just forget it,” he said, laughing it off. “God, what’s on the list today?”

Oh, good. We’re talking about something else.

“First, we need a tree—”

“Oh, fuck. Duh.”

“Finish wrapping gifts. Clean the house. Defrost the ham for tomorrow…what else?”

“Shit. That’s a lot. Ok, so first things first. At 8 a.m., I’ll walk over to that place—Gardel’s—and grab a tree.”

Great! We sound like a couple again. Can you imagine the fresh hell I could’ve created if I’d snooped through his phone? I’m proud of myself for not taking it that far. Still, I wish I weren’t so psychotic. So paranoid.

Breathe.

We continued sitting on the floor, not exactly face to face, wrapping gifts, some of them for each other. Things were calm.

But the moment felt like it was missing something. Make-up sex, maybe. Why not, after all the grief we’d managed to cause each other?

He was so fixated on wrapping one particular gift that he didn’t see me coming. This was a surprise attack. One on which he didn’t fight back.

It was as passionate as it could be. I took the lead on most of it. After all, he still wasn’t feeling great.

Could this count as part of his Christmas present?

I didn’t get him much. I mean, what do you get a person who already has almost everything?

We were on the hardwood floor, still glowing in that post-sex haze. Sweating. The room was stifling now. I got up and cracked one of the bedroom windows open, and immediately heard him snoring again. Huh?

So much for the hangover being over.

It was kind of ridiculous. Kind of adorable. Quite comical, really.

“Babe?” I nudged him.

“Hm?”

Did he just fall asleep on me?

“Michael,” I laughed, “seriously, get up. Go get that tree!”

He made a noise. I couldn’t make it out, but it sounded defiant.

Michael sat up and grabbed his phone to check the time. Then his eyes went wide. He looked petrified.

“What? What is it?” I asked.

“I have hundreds of notifications,” he said, squinting at the screen. “Is my screen blurry, or am I still fucked up?”

“Can I see?”

He didn’t hesitate to hand the phone over. What a contrast from last night, when he barely let go of it while looking up Lauren’s profile.

All the notifications were congratulatory. Emails and texts from friends, family, and management, everyone who had caught the Late Late Show appearance. I read some of them aloud. There were endless tags and reposts across his social media. Clips were already up everywhere, across David James’ platforms, the Late Late Show’s YouTube, and the band’s page. Just…everywhere.

Black Bloom’s first television appearance was a success!

And it definitely wouldn’t be their last. Steve had texted a screenshot of the show’s ratings from last evening: Three million viewers!

I handed his phone back to him with care. He just held it in his lap, not really looking at it, still processing everything.

“Ah, this is crazy! I’m so proud of you,” I said, grabbing his face and squeezing it. “And your phone is not blurry. You’re still fucked up.”

He stayed quiet. Swiping, re-reading, tapping. Double-checking.

“I don’t even know what to say. Is this really happening right now?” he said, almost to himself.

It was kind of cute to see him speechless. His eyes were red and swollen, like he might cry again, only this time for a completely different reason.

He shook his head, snapping himself out of it. “Oh, my God. Okay. Shit.”

Time was ticking. It took longer than I would’ve liked for him to get up and get dressed. He was stuck in the moment, and I didn’t want to take it from him.

Ping. Ping. Ping.

Michael never took his eyes off his phone as he got dressed, managing to pull his shirt over his head with one arm. It was distracting, to say the least.

Ping. Ping. Ping.

“Jesus. The group chat is lit right now—”

“Michael!” I called, scooping up gifts.

“Okay, okay.”

We carried as much as we could down the stairs into the living room. I started placing the presents carefully on the floor where I assumed the tree would go—

A figure to my right.

“Oh shit!” I screamed, dropping half of them.

Nonna.

Sitting at the dining room table.

Coffee in hand.

Just…sitting there.

Fuck! How long had she been there? I forgot she was here!

And the whole time?

Oh my God. How embarrassing! Now I’m going to throw up.

My face went hot instantly.

“I—We… I’m so—” I started, already failing to land on a sentence.

“It’s okay,” she said casually from her seat. “I heard nothing.”

But it was so obvious she had.

I was absolutely mortified. Ew!

She’s been here setting up the table, the appetizers, everything! I guess she couldn’t wait for us. Now I was embarrassed and felt utterly useless.

When Michael saw her sitting there, it didn’t even register. Nonna’s comment, the implication, the whole thing just slid right past him. He was still riding the high, on cloud nine. No shame, no second thought, not a care in the world.

“Did you catch the show?” He asked her.

“I did! I’m so proud!” She said, getting up to hug him. Now we were all sort of crying. What a mess. They must have held that hug for a solid two minutes.

It was really sweet.

Michael then gently pulled away, noticing the table was already set for five people. “Nonna, please don’t go crazy. It’s just us today. Kind of,” Michael added.

Just us?

It’s not just us.

Michael didn’t think much of his parents flying in from Florida.

I did.

I was nervous as hell.

What were they going to think of me?

What were they going to ask?

Were they going to grill me with the same stupid questions Jennifer did? Examine me? Check boxes? Ask about Adam? I heavily doubt it. Judge? Does Michael even care what they think?

No.

He held some kind of grudge against them, and it made sense when I laid it all out. They were more embarrassed than helpful when he went through his divorce. They chose to move to Florida rather than assist while Michelle was still just a baby. Jen and Michael were racking up debt and living in almost squalid conditions. Who stepped in at that time? Not his parents, but his grandmother. Nonna. Whatever.

It was all kind of baffling. Who chooses their own life over their son’s?

“I’m going to get that tree. Be back,” Michael shouted from the doorway, and he was gone.

Time to get moving, Andrea.

I picked up his coffee and brought it to the sink. It felt like such a waste to dump it. After all, I’d worked so hard on it.

Looking out the back windows over the courtyard, it was dark, gloomy, and wet. It should’ve felt depressing, right? But it didn’t. It was Christmas Eve. It actually felt…comforting.

Nonna came up behind me and set her mug in the sink.

“Give me that. I’ll wash it. Go sit.”

“Oh, so bossy,” she said with a wink and a smile.

The realization that we were getting closer and closer to his parents’ arrival made me nervous. Panicky. Not a full-blown panic, exactly, but just enough that I kept washing the same mug over and over without noticing.

“Hey, Nonna.”

“Yes?”

“Do you think Frank and Fran will like me?”

I know. Frank and Fran. Fran, short for Francesca. How Italian can you get?

She shuffled back to the sink. “They are going to love you,” she said, leaning in and pinching my cheek like I was ten years old.

I hoped that was true. And even if it wasn’t, it was comforting to hear someone believe it.

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I tried to play it off as a joke, but even so, it didn’t seem like Michael appreciated me cursing at the top of my lungs in front of Michelle. Please. Living most of her life with her mother, I’m sure she’s heard that word hundreds of times, and probably worse!

The studio had no actual glasses. Just a sleeve of Solo cups tossed beside the microwave.

I crossed the room again, stepping over tangled cords and half-zipped instrument cases, waiting for what I hoped would be a generous pour from Steve, when Michael leaned in over the cooler.

“What the hell was that about?” he muttered.

“I’ll tell you later.”

Not exactly a satisfactory answer, but I couldn’t get into it—not yet. I could feel my face becoming flushed with embarrassment.

Steve raised his cup. The rest of us followed, our sad, rationed pours of champagne barely covering the bottom. A toast. A few quick, overlapping plastic clinks. Then down it went.

And just like that, it was over.

People started packing up. Fast.

“See you all later,” James’ parents called as they gathered their things. His sister, Meredith, hung back.

Jen was next. She shoved Michelle’s coat onto her, rougher than necessary.

“Say goodbye, Michelle,” she said.

“Wait—do you have to go so soon?” Michael asked.

“Yes, Michael. I have shit to do! It’s Christmas Eve tomorrow.”

I somehow doubted that. Jennifer had a way of being rude that felt almost deliberate now. I’d bet she had absolutely nothing to do. If anything, it seemed like she enjoyed hurting Michael.

We both hugged Michelle tight, telling her we’d see her Christmas morning.

But her little face—she didn’t look convinced.

That hurt. Your mom sucks, but we don’t, I wanted to tell her.

The door opened and shut behind them, the cold air from the studio slipping in for a second before it sealed again. It felt good. The room had been suffocating—too many bodies, too much everything! We were boiling.

Production assistants were already waiting in the hallway, ready to take over. Reset the room. Discard us.

Guess there really is no time to celebrate. What’s that line? You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.

Zippers rasped. Cases snapped shut. Jackets slid on. Steve tossed the empty cups into the trash without a second thought.

“Three points! Swoosh!” he shouted. I love Steve. He was trying to cut through the tension Jen had left behind, even if just a little.

“So, where are we going now?” Keith asked.

“Well, do you guys want to go for drinks at The Corner Store in SoHo?” Samantha said, swapping platform shoes for fur-lined boots. “I looked it up earlier. It seems kind of chill.”

“Do whatever. I’m going back to the hotel,” John announced.

It was like he had already checked out. He was over it. Or over us. Maybe he thought he was above all of this. Fuck him. Good. Stay away. What a prick.

Everyone looked to Michael like he was the decider. Probably because he and his friends were the oldest—aside from my decrepit ass.

“Um. I have to take my equipment home, and I’d want to change…” he trailed off, glancing around. “You know what? You guys go. We’ll do our best to meet you.”

No one argued. There wasn’t time anyway.

“Alright, let’s do it,” Steve said. “The cars should be outside.”

One by one, we filed out. The floor manager, who looked like she’d had one energy drink too many, suggested we use a side exit to avoid getting mobbed.

Security pushed the seemingly secret door open, and winter air rushed in with city noise.

I stepped out first with Meredith and the rest of us non-famous nobodies, hopping quickly into one of the waiting cars.

But when the guys and Samantha came out behind us—

Forget it. Like sharks catching the scent of blood, the crowd pushed forward. Screaming. Shouting. Phones in the air.

Girls were shrieking at John.

You would’ve thought they were the Beatles.

Security scrambled into place, already looking irritated, like this was an inconvenience more than part of the job.

Before John could reach the car, some tiny woman, a crazed fan, slipped through the barricade of arms—crawling, squeezing between bodies—until she planted herself directly in front of him.

That was actually scary.

She had a poster in one hand, her phone recording in the other. In one quick motion, she turned her back to him and snapped a selfie as he approached.

He actually smiled for it. His face perched right over her left shoulder.

And then—just as quickly as it happened—security lunged, pulling her back so violently she came crashing down in one clumsy tackle.

John didn’t react. He stepped over the mess and threw himself into the car, headed for the hotel.

Michael jogged toward ours, juggling his gear, his jacket slipping off one shoulder.

I should’ve helped.

I didn’t.

I suck.

“It’s just the two of us,” he said, slightly out of breath as he climbed in. “Fort Greene.”

The door slammed shut. More escape than exit.

And we were off.

I glanced back through the rear window as we pulled away, and I swear I saw Samantha posing with fans.

Like… really? Get over yourself.

Michael stared out his window. He looked exhausted.

The quiet was welcoming until it felt awkward.

“Hey,” I said finally. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Well… no.” He exhaled through his nose. “I’m kind of pissed Jen left so quickly with Michelle. But it wouldn’t have worked anyway. Not if we’re going to this bar or whatever. I don’t know.” He then turned half his body to me. “Did you think we sounded okay?”

“Oh my God, yes! We have to watch it tonight with Nonna—she’s going to cry,” I said, exaggerating a pout.

He huffed a small laugh.

“Is it weird that my friends are getting to this place without us?” he asked.

“No. They’re fine. We’re meeting them there, right?”

“Is that okay with you?”

I wanted to say no. Once I get home, there’s a good chance I’m not leaving again. It’s not like Fort Greene and SoHo were neighbors.

But this was his day.

“Of course,” I said.

Michael raked his fingers through his hair. He looked somewhat puzzled.

“What the fuck was up with your friend—your coworker?” he asked.

“She’s pissed. I don’t know what she expected, attaching herself to John all day. But once he said he had a girlfriend…” I shrugged. “She kind of fell apart.”

“Yeah… I don’t know why he said that. Maybe he didn’t want to admit he was single.”

“But that’s what fans want to hear, isn’t it?” I said. “The idea that he could be single…it’s more exciting. Sometimes it turns into this weird, parasocial thing, sure. Sometimes it’s just a game. I don’t know—” I shook my head. “It just… works.”

He looked at me, amused. “You sound like an expert in this.”

“Well, not to completely humiliate myself,” I said, “but after we met that night in Hudson, I immediately stalked your Instagram to see if you were single.”

“Okay…” he said, half-laughing. “I wouldn’t have approached you if I was taken.”

“Well, you’re the exception. Some guys don’t care.”

I should stop talking before I make it worse. I learned my lesson months ago—in that restaurant, when I pushed too far about him talking to other girls online and ended up insulting him.

Change the subject, Andrea!

“Is it weird that John’s not coming out?” I asked quickly.

“No. He has a red-eye to Nashville tonight.”

Hm. A thought popped into my head: Am I reading too much into John’s actions? The things he says…

Sure, we had that rude text exchange, but there seemed to be an explanation for almost everything else. The night he touched me, he was drunk, he announced he was in a relationship today to get out of Lauren hanging on him, and now what I thought was some sort of retaliation or protest—returning to the hotel—made calculated sense. He has a flight to catch. Makes sense.

Maybe I really am the problem. Maybe I need to change. Maybe I’d made most of these misunderstandings up all by myself.

Once home, we dropped everything at the door, literally, and got ready for the few hours we were going to spend downtown. I didn’t change, but instead downed an energy drink, hoping it would wake me up a bit. The house was dark. The couch was calling my name, but Michael was ready in minutes. So fast, we should have told the car to wait for us.

I’ll admit, I was annoyed about leaving the house. I was exhausted, the temperature had dropped, and it had started to sleet. It made me want to suggest we stay in, but I stayed silent. I wanted to appear supportive and easy-going. I really should check myself on all the complaining I do and what I say out loud.

Even so, Michael looked irritated throughout our ride back into the city. I just couldn’t read as to why.

I thought about texting Lauren. Maybe a hey, are you okay? kind of message. If she’s over it—I don’t want her to get upset all over again, but I doubt she is.

Idea! I started typing:

Hey Lauren, hope you’re okay. We are heading to the Corner Store in SoHo if you’d like to join us.

The message went green. Shouldn’t it be blue? Did it not go through?

Weird. I’m pretty sure we had the same phone. I am not going to resend it.

Was this enough to kill herself over? No. Don’t be silly.

Even if she did, I doubt her cell would already be taken out of service.

Oh my God, how dark am I? I’m probably just blocked. The fucking audacity.

I felt my anxiety spiking, believing something could be wrong.

“Hey, can I borrow your phone for a second?” I said, turning to Michael, and breaking our silence.

“Uh, why?” He asked.

“Or you can do this for me, maybe. Can you go to Lauren’s Instagram account and look for proof of life?” I laughed, although I was concerned—legit terrified, as she’s usually so quick to reply to a text.

“What’s her name on Insta?”

“@Lauren_Stoli”.

I appreciated that he was going to do this for me, but this man had both hands on his phone with a grip. I couldn’t grab it from him even if I wanted to. In fact, I’d never seen him so protective of his phone like this. He leaned away when I attempted to peer over.

“Is this her?” He turned his phone, the screen facing me.

“Yes. Can I look at her posts from today?”

There was a brief pause—long enough to make me second-guess asking. He looked reluctant as he handed it over, slow and careful.

“Thanks,” I said, taking it without taking my eyes off him. “Is there something on here you don’t want me to see?”

“No. I just know how you easily turn nothing into something. Are you really looking for Lauren? Or is this a trick?” There was no sense of teasing, kidding, or joking in his tone.

“A trick? No. Do you want to look for me?”

“No.”

Okay, now I didn’t know which thing to be more curious about: Lauren’s disappearance, Michael’s mood—the way he was watching me tap through stories on Lauren’s account.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Okay. She posted a bunch of photos to her stories. Some from the studio, and the one with John. All were posted only an hour ago. That made me feel a little better. So there it is then, most likely just blocked.

I then, nervously, plopped the phone in the space between us. Childish? Yes.

“All done. Thanks,” I said.

“You didn’t have to drop it.”

“Oh, my God. Really?”

The backseat of the car grew tense. He was acting so strange.

Now I wish we had stayed home—if Brooklyn was still my home. Or was Hudson my home? Have I worn out my welcome? I don’t know where I belong anymore. Truly.

“I’m sorry,” Michael said, letting out a long sigh. “This has nothing to do with you. I think I’m having a nervous breakdown or something.”

What? He was having a nervous breakdown? Usually, that’s something I say. I never thought I’d be on the other side of it.

“What? What do you mean? Why?” I asked.

He placed his hand over his eyes, squeezing them tight, on the verge of tears.

“No, no, no,” I said, scooting across the back seat to hold him. “Don’t do that. I’m here. You can talk to me.”

Whoa. I’d never seen a grown man cry before. For some reason, I’d thought Michael was somehow impervious to it.

And, ugh! I hated that there was no privacy window between the driver and us. I hoped they weren’t paying any attention. Eavesdropping.

Michael wasn’t loud, sob-like crying—more like small sounds, but mostly a silent cry. He then took a deep inhale, sucking everything back.

“Michael—”

“I’m sorry. I just have this fear that everything is going to fall apart as quickly as it’s happened. And then what? I can’t coast for very long on the money I’ve been saving. It’s 2025. Bands don’t make a shit ton of money these days like they did thirty, forty years ago. I’m afraid I won’t see my daughter at all in 2026. Honestly, I don’t think I can juggle this anymore. Jen… you…”

I felt the blood drain from my face when he said “you.” I also caught that he referred to Michelle as his daughter. Not that it wasn’t accurate, but it was like I didn’t exist there either. I don’t understand. He said it had nothing to do with me, but it feels like I’m somewhat in it. Even just a little.

Dear God, he’s spiraling.

I honestly had no idea what he was getting at. Was he venting? Was this a breakup argument?

Michael composed himself quickly, then fell still, staring out the window as we drove down East Houston Street, as if the mini-crisis hadn’t happened at all.

I wasn’t letting him off the hook completley. No way could he leave me hanging like this.

“Michael, what can I do?”

“I don’t know. Just be here,” he said, finally turning into the hug I had been holding.

“I am not going anywhere,” I said.

“I am so overwhelmed right now,” he continued. “I’m so tired. I won’t be around much next year, and I feel like I am abandoning half my life for this. There’s Nonna, too—looking after her, whether she needs me or not. I don’t know how much I can carry anymore.”

Millions of thoughts ran through my insecure, fucked-up head.

Was this over? Did he choreograph this just now to distract me from asking about his phone? Was I the push that sent him over the edge?

Me, me, me. I always find a way to make everything about me.

Maybe this was just a moment of weakness. Maybe he felt comfortable enough to break down like this in front of me, needing to let it all out.

But in the car?

I didn’t push.

That would make it worse. I just held him for the rest of the trip until his body relaxed into mine.

As we pulled up along the restaurant, Michael sat up, did a quick wipe of his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket, and got out, keeping the door open for me.

But I felt paralyzed. Part of me wanted to stay in the car and ask the driver to reroute me to Hudson.

“Are you coming?” Michael asked from the sidewalk.

“Mm-hmm. Thank you, and Merry Christmas,” I said to the driver before stepping out.

Michael shut the door behind me and turned toward the restaurant entrance.

“Hey,” I said, pulling his arm, “before we go inside, are you okay?”

“I think I need to just get fucking wasted tonight.”

My heart sank. I felt helpless.

I truly didn’t know how to comfort him. I had never heard him say he intentionally wanted to get wasted before. Who was this guy?

I guess I’d need to be the strong person tonight. Stay alert.

His emotions were already all over the place, and he was sober. What would he be like later?

The place was packed, understandably so—it was Christmas Eve-Eve.

Our friends—Steve, the guys, Samantha, and family—took up half the bar area. We all hugged as if it had been ages since we’d last seen each other.

Michael was all smiles now.

I couldn’t tell whether he was acting, genuinely feeling better after all that word vomit, or had already forgotten about it entirely.

But I wouldn’t forget it. I couldn’t.
My face probably read: just got the worst news ever. I’m terrible at faking emotions. I don’t even know how to play pretend in moments like this. And it was obvious.

“Is everything okay?” Samantha asked, pulling back from a hug.

“Me? Oh, yeah. Just tired.”

“Well, let’s fix that!” she yelled over the noise, waving down the bartender.

I didn’t want a drink.

I wanted to leave.

I wanted out.

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I woke up shortly after 7:00 a.m. I thought that was early enough, but Michael was already running around the house like a madman. Rushing. Trying to figure out what to wear. His cell phone seemed to vibrate or ring every few minutes.

A car was coming to get us at 11:00 a.m.

After a while, I felt guilty watching him bounce off the walls while I stayed horizontal. So I dragged myself out of bed and showered in the other bathroom, so I wouldn’t slow him down.

What do I wear for something like this? It’s not like I’m going to be on camera or anything.

As I stepped out of the shower, I heard him yell from upstairs.

“Andrea, did you put my fitted black shirt somewhere different? I can’t find it.”

“Check the small dresser!” I shouted back.

I heard his footsteps pounding above me, running across the room.

My God. He’s going to tire himself out before we even get there.

I went downstairs in sweats, my hair soaking wet, and poured myself some coffee. I was so excited for him, but I could already feel the weariness creeping in from being on edge. In a way, I couldn’t wait for this to be over.

I know, that’s mean.

There were snow flurries outside, and everything was quiet. Peaceful. Pretty.

The silence didn’t last.

Within minutes of turning on my phone, it started blowing up with texts. Mostly from Lauren.

Where should I meet you?
What time are you getting there?
What are you wearing?
Does John know you’re bringing a friend?

I really didn’t want to answer any of those questions. She’d never stop once she started.

Maybe just one.

Just text me when you’re outside, and Steve will come get you, I typed.

Who’s Steve?

Ugh. It was still so early. I had no patience for this. Or her.

Then more texts.

One from Samantha, sending a picture of what she planned to wear today, punctuated with a: Can’t wait to see you! I hadn’t seen her, James, or Joey since September.

September feels like a different life.

I suddenly felt like I had to audition for friendships all over again.

Buzz. A text from Dylan: Wishing you an early Merry Christmas!

I hadn’t heard from him since the string of pictures he sent after the holiday party. Four days later, another text. I’d assumed that was the end of it. On the surface, it seemed casual—friendly, even harmless—but something about it didn’t feel that way to me.

I didn’t want him thinking we were going to be pals again. I didn’t think Michael would appreciate that either. Ignoring it completely would only make it more noticeable.

So I reacted with a thumbs-up. Neutral. Somewhat distant.

Then I closed the thread.

Hide. Contain. Move on.

Michael walked into the kitchen fully dressed, fancy watch on, smelling like he’d used nearly an entire bottle of cologne. He was wearing his usual black, but this was the elevated version—well-made, practically tailored to his body.

He looked good.

In fact, I realized in that moment that I had never seen Michael look bad. Or messy, I should say. Yet he had seen me at my worst many, many times—in every possible way.

When does he get that day?

When does he feel not enough?

Or am I just the hot mess in this relationship?

Michael placed both hands on the kitchen island and took a massive exhale.

“Okay. I am so ready to do this.”

“Are you nervous?” I asked.

“Yeah. A little. More excited than nervous, though.”

“Are we going out after? Should I dress up?”

“Not one hundred percent sure, but let’s plan for that.”

We had been looking forward to today for so long, it felt like Christmas wasn’t even happening. It was secondary.

Today felt like Christmas.

There was still so much to do. Wrap gifts. We didn’t even have a tree up yet. We have to do that tomorrow. His parents would be here, staying with us. Michelle would be dropped off Christmas morning by, I’m sure, a very cheerful and pleasant Jennifer.

Another holiday had crept up on us.

Unbelievable.

I must have spent two hours in the bathroom doing my hair and makeup, staying in my house clothes until the very last second so my outfit would be fresh.

At exactly 11:00 a.m., the car service arrived.

Michael had packed a bag full of personal items—his snare, crash cymbals, sticks. Everything else the show was providing.

It was surreal, and honestly quite thrilling, to watch it all finally come together. From the group chat with the guys, Samantha, and Steve, it looked like we were all going to arrive at the same time, sending each other updates about traffic and location as we got closer.

And we did.

One by one, our cars pulled up along the entrance of the Ed Sullivan Theater, like a perfectly timed entrance we hadn’t even rehearsed.

The marquee read The Late-Late Show with David James. That’s when it really started to feel real.

There were already fans outside. Small groups clustered near every door, bundled up against the cold, scanning each car that turned the corner. They didn’t know which entrance we’d use, so they covered all of them—just in case.

That was wild.

Security had formed a path for us, men lined up on either side creating a narrow human corridor as we were ushered inside. We still had to go through screening before entering the studio, of course. Standard procedure. A wand swept us up and down. Bags were checked.

Even the guys had to open their equipment cases for inspection, as if one of them might have accidentally packed a bomb between guitars.

Could you imagine?

It was a little overdramatic; I had to laugh.

We didn’t have a moment to say our hellos until we were all in the green room with the door closed behind us.

I gave everyone a quick hug—except John. That part was mutual.

We just nodded at each other.

“Sup—”
“Sup?”

Samantha, of course, looked the part of a rock star’s wife. Flowing layers, dramatic sleeves, hair perfectly undone in that intentional way. She was giving Stevie Nicks. Maybe even Florence Welch.

It struck me now how obnoxious it kind of was.

I mean, she wasn’t even an artist. Or the artist. But she loved dressing the part. It was like performance art or something.

I could never lose myself like that.

Today I was dressed extremely muted. Dress shirt, dress pants, heels.

How I am right now—that’s me.

I tried too hard once, with that leather getup months ago. I’ll never do that again. Anne did me a favor. That beer brought me back to reality.

I will never be cool.

And I certainly shouldn’t try.

“Oh my God, it’s been forever!” Samantha said.

“I know. You look great.”

“You too.”

No sooner had we finished catching up than my phone started vibrating wildly in my pocket.

It was Lauren: I’m outside.

I was pretty sure I told her to come closer to taping, like 3 p.m., but here it was, barely noon, and she was already here.

I should have expected this.

Steve volunteered to go get her. I walked with him as far as security would allow before I’d have to be rechecked all over again.

“What does she look like again?” Steve asked.

“Oh. She’ll find you,” I said.

“Is she crazy?”

“We’re about to find out.”

Security cracked open the side door on 53rd Street just enough to peek outside, and in true horror-thriller fashion, Lauren’s face was right there.

A full-on Here’s Johnny moment.

I burst out laughing. Loud. I didn’t even care. She was cracking us both up without trying.

“Lauren?” Steve asked cautiously.

“Yes!”

“Okay, come with us.”

He handed her a visitor pass and led her through security for a quick scan.

The second she cleared it, she jogged straight toward me. There were tears in her eyes.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“Yes! Sorry. I’m just excited. Where are they? Where are we going?”

“Well, we honestly just got here ourselves. The boys are settling in. I wouldn’t exactly want to jump down their throats at this very moment.” I lowered my voice slightly. “Can you hang with me for a bit before I introduce you?”

“Oh. Yeah, sure.”

I didn’t trust her.

She was in another world. She never once looked at me while I was talking. Her head kept scanning side to side, searching for John.

Jesus. Calm down.

I glanced at her outfit.

A painfully tight black bodycon dress. Aggressive for noon. It wasn’t doing her any favors, but she wore it with the confidence of someone convinced today was her day.

Please don’t be rude to her, John, I thought.

At one point, Steve and I caught each other’s expressions when Lauren wasn’t looking.

A shared, silent yikes.

When we entered the green room, we accidentally stole the room’s attention. The producer was mid-welcome speech when we walked in — right through the center of it.

Perfect timing.

I mouthed sorry and physically pulled Lauren toward the opposite side of the room. I actually had to tug her.

The second the door opened, and she saw John sitting there, she froze. Stiff. Completely unresponsive. She went full opossum on me.

Her mouth parted slightly. It was like watching someone go into mild shock.

I waved my hand in front of her face.

She blinked, finally, and let me guide her out of the main walkway.

“Anyway,” the producer continued smoothly, “we’ll run rehearsal in about an hour. Audience loads in around three. We usually start taping at 3:45 p.m. Questions? Does anyone need anything?”

“Um, hang on,” John said, surveying the room and the craft table, clearly checking that everything on their rider was accounted for.

It was... awkward. Maybe even rude. He’d become such a diva overnight. It was such a turn-off.

Not to Lauren, though.

She hadn’t taken her eyes off him once. She was in heaven.

“Yeah, everything looks good,” he concluded.

The entire room exhaled. Even Steve.

Once the producer left, Steve closed the door and clapped his hands lightly. “Guys, if you need something, ask me before you ask the producer, okay? If you need all your M&M’s to be brown, run it through me first.”

Clearly, that joke was meant only for John—a friendly reminder to stay grounded.

When the room quieted again, Lauren started drifting toward him.

I yanked her back.

He was mid-conversation with his guitar tech, handing over his instrument for another tuning.

“Not yet,” I whispered. “Just... give it a minute.”

I felt like I was holding a Rottweiler on a leash.

I needed help. Samantha walked over, officially making it the girls’ corner.

“Hi, I’m Samantha,” she said warmly, extending her hand.

“Hi! Lauren. So nice to meet you.”

“Likewise. Are you excited?”

Samantha was speaking to her the same way I had earlier. Parental.

She could tell Lauren was a bull in a china shop waiting for the door to open.

I inched toward Samantha. “When would be a good time to introduce her to John? I don’t want to overwhelm him.”

It was difficult to say that without rolling my eyes.

Samantha glanced over at him, assessing. “For a quick intro? Now’s fine. Anything longer than that — after rehearsal.”

Lauren frowned instantly. Let me loose already, her eyes said.

Samantha took her hand and led her toward the couch where John was sitting.

This was it!

Lauren took the most careful steps. Trying to appear light.

“Hey, John. This is Lauren — Andrea’s guest. She wanted to come say hi.”

John looked up. There was a split second — a look of annoyance? Surprise? — before he arranged his face into a polite smile.

“Oh, nice to meet you. Glad you could be here.”

“Yes — oh my God! You don’t know how much this means to me to be here.”

Whoa. That was... a lot. It wasn’t what she said, more like how she said it.

John’s eyes widened just slightly. “Well, we’re happy to have you.”

His tone was friendly, though his eyes were screaming.

“Would you mind, um... if I took a picture?”

I could practically hear John’s internal monologue from across the room. He did not look picture-ready. But he agreed anyway.

Samantha took Lauren’s phone, offering to play photographer. Lauren leaned in close — real close — her head nearly touching his.

Snap.

“Okay. Cute,” Samantha said, handing the phone back.

Lauren immediately reviewed it on the spot, zooming in.

“Thank you,” she said, floating back toward me.

Honestly? She handled it better than I expected. I thought we’d have to pull her away, but she voluntarily gave him back his space.

Once that box was checked, she actually relaxed. Like she’d completed the mission.

“So,” she said, turning to me suddenly, “how are you and Michael doing?”

As if we were that close or even deserved that information. I reminded myself why she was even here: Nashville.

“We’re good,” I said simply, looking over at Michael. He was deep in his zone, glasses on, adjusting cymbal stands, completely unaware of any of this.

“Did you want to meet James and Joey?” I asked.

“Nah.”

Wow.

No curiosity. No interest. No attempt.

Was she really a fan of the band? Or just John?

This wasn’t admiration. It wasn’t excitement. It was fixation. Obsession.

Anytime I caught myself feeling sorry for John, worrying she might embarrass him or get under his skin, I thought about him touching me and calling me lame.

Fuck him.

It felt safe to leave her here for a bit. When I checked last, she was editing the picture of her and John, adding filters. Preparing it for what would be the social media post of her lifetime.

I abandoned her in her world and crossed the room to Michael. Surely I didn’t have to babysit her the entire time.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” he said.

“Ready?”

“Yeah. As ready as I’ll ever be. How’s your friend?”

“Oh, she’s on another planet.”

“Is that all she wanted? One picture?”

“I’m sure she’s not done with him. I think she was testing how close she could get.”

“God.”

“I know.”

The door pushed open.

“Okay, guys, we’re heading to the stage,” the show producer announced.

Production assistants filed in. Gathering up instrument cases and ushering the band out.

“Guests — follow me.”

For rehearsal, we were told we could watch from the house seats. The studio was freezing and half the size I’d imagined. A movie theater was bigger.

Before we split off, I hugged Michael and kissed his cheek. It wasn’t even time to tape yet, but I wanted to congratulate him in every small way I could. Besides, Jennifer was still coming. I didn’t need her presence diluting this moment.

We were seated. Samantha to my left. Lauren to my right. The boys were already running through a mic check.

I thought this would be a good time to gently bring up the John story to Samantha.

I tilted toward her. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Has John ever...flirted with you? Or gotten inappropriate?”

She laughed. “Where the fuck did that come from?”

“I’ve been meaning to ask you. I was hoping to catch you alone, but that doesn’t seem likely today.”

“Um. Okay.” She hesitated. Something sat right behind her teeth.

“He’s like...”

Oh my God. Just say it.

“He’s a poacher,” she said, laughing lightly.

“What does that mean?”

“It’s part of his narcissism. Every girl is a game to him.”

“And you knew this?”

“Yeah. It’s happened before.” She cleared her throat and looked straight ahead at the stage.

Before?

“Before how?” I pressed.

She didn’t look at me, but I kept on.

“With who?”

Still nothing.

“So why hasn’t anyone put him in his place?” I asked.

She inhaled like she was about to answer — but the rehearsal started. The music came blaring back in the house monitors. A heavy chugging of a guitar riff. Testing output volume. The control room lowered the house speakers immediately after.

A voice came over the speaker, “Do not stop,” the producer kept repeating. “Treat it like we’re live.”

A side door to the studio opened. Steve walked in with Michelle and Jennifer.

I had never felt so relieved and irritated at the same time.

Michelle waved wildly at Michael, hoping he’d see her, but there was too much happening on stage. She gave up and ran to me instead, climbing into my lap for a hug.

I glanced at Jennifer.

Nothing.

No reaction. No smile. She looked almost high, or already checked out. She gave me a half-wave, smiling at Lauren like she wasn’t sure who she was, then sat beside Samantha.

Within minutes, Jennifer had Samantha’s full attention. The two of them huddled together, whispering throughout rehearsal. I guess they were closer friends than I had thought.

I didn’t dare try to talk to Lauren. She was glued to the stage anyway, absorbing every second like this was a private concert.

So I sat there — half watching, half braiding Michelle’s hair to keep my hands busy.

Jennifer and Samantha had a history. They’d been on this ride from the beginning.

I hadn’t.

I felt outside of something that had already been built. Lonely, in a room full of people I knew.

Lauren leaned into my ear. “So the woman who just walked in — she’s not John’s girlfriend, or anything, right? I thought he was single. He is single, isn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“That makes no sense.”

“Maybe he’s been saving himself for you,” I said, my voice heavy with sarcasm.

“Whose kid, though?” She inquired.

“Michael’s,” I answered, without looking at her.

“Oh wow. You’re a mom now, huh?”

I ignored that. She said nothing else.

After one full play through, the host of The Late-Late Show appeared. David James. Very Jay Leno — if Jay Leno were being impersonated by Jiminy Glick. Corny. Over-smiling.

Everyone gathered in a circle, shaking hands.
“Thanks for being on the show.”
“Happy to have you.”
“Let’s run it again.”
The usual choreography.

David James stood on an “X” onstage, facing Camera 1. He ran through his cue cards.

“Performing ‘Monster,’ from their new album The Shadows We Keep, please welcome Black Bloom!”

The lights lifted on them, and after a quick drum count, they all started at once.

A second play through, and when they were done, they had to do it again.

I’ll admit it — Michelle and I both zoned out somewhere in the middle. Lauren was busy taking pictures on her phone. I wasn’t even sure if that was allowed, but I didn’t care enough to stop her. Samantha and Jennifer had finally stopped whispering and were now side by side on their phones, scrolling.

Band Intro. Song. Repeat.
Same lighting cue.
Same drum count-in.

Again and again. Looping.

After what became the final play through, the show’s producer returned to the cold studio floor.

“Perfect, guys. Perfect. We’re good!”

Steve waved for all of us to head back to the green room. Michelle slid off my lap. Jennifer reached across Samantha to grab her hand, but Michelle was quicker — she darted straight to Michael instead.

Moments like that, I love. Every second of them. I’m evil.

Michael picked her up and carried her toward the green room. When Jennifer was far enough ahead, I grabbed Samantha’s hand, trying to get her to slow down without making it look weird.

“Okay. You’ve made me really curious now. Is this actually something John does? The poaching, as you call it?”

I could tell I was making her uncomfortable. But if she would just tell me, I’d drop it.

“He’s just really insecure,” she said quietly. “Despite how he acts. He couldn’t get his own women — or at least he used to have that problem. And yeah... he’s hit on friends’ girlfriends before. I know. It’s gross.”

“Do the rest of the guys know?”

“No! God. Let’s keep it that way.”

That felt loaded.

So was she talking about herself? Did John try something with her at some point? That had to be it. Why else would she shut it down so fast?

“So he’s made passes at you?” I asked.

“No,” she said firmly. Immediate.

Ok, I give up.

It was exhausting trying to pry a straight answer out of her. I let it go.

But, if not her, who? Perhaps I could ask someone else.

Jen?

No. That would be stupid.

Assistants kept stocking the craft table with more food. More of everything, really. More people started coming in, too. James’ family drove in from south Jersey, and to my surprise, Michael had also shared the invite with Chris, Ashley, Keith, Danielle, Kevin, and Devon. The Brooklyn friends. When I saw them, I jumped off the couch and gave all six of them hugs. These were my people. The normal people. My girls.

Now it was a full house.

I had never seen Michael so happy. Everyone he loved all in one room. The only person missing was Nonna. And his parents, I guess. Who couldn’t make the trip up one day earlier? Don’t get me started. Nona Lena had said something like, “No one will want an old lady around killing the mood,” or something like that. I’m paraphrasing. She’s staying up late to catch the show. Who knows, by that time we might even be home to watch it again together.

“So how are you doing, girl?” Devon asked.

Devon was probably my favorite of the three. We had the same sense of humor, watched the same trashy shows, and also disliked Jen. We even had a similar look. Honestly, we could pass for sisters.

“I’m, you know. Hanging.”

“Did you delete your Instagram? I went to share something with you a few days ago, and your account was gone.”

“I did. I was getting a lot of hate messages and comments.”

“Oh, just ignore those people.”

“I wish it were that simple.”

My eyes were following her left hand. She had this giant rock of a diamond on her finger. Or maybe it was moissanite. Either way, it was beautiful.

And stupid me had said back in Nashville that I liked things the way they were.

Stupid. Stupid.

And Michael hadn’t even realized what he said in the elevator after the Christmas party. He had been too drunk.

The countdown to showtime was ticking quickly.

Eventually, we all broke off into smaller groups. Some people disappeared to find the bathroom. Others made the craft table their headquarters, stuffing their faces. I ended up sitting next to Michael while he caught up with his friends, Michelle beside me. Jen had stepped outside for some air. Or a cigarette.

Ask me if I cared.

John was on his phone, ignoring most everyone. Joey was FaceTiming his friends in Nashville, giving them a tour of the studio. Samantha was doing her best to film behind-the-scenes content for the band’s socials so she could post stories.

This would probably be the last time she’s allowed to do this.

I heard they were getting an actual content manager starting in January.

It’s about fucking time.

“Are you excited to see Grandma and Grandpa in a few days?” I asked Michelle.

She just nodded.

“I am coming home with you and Dad tonight, right?”

“Oh. No, sweetie. Early Christmas morning, though.”

“Oh.”

The hurt in her voice broke my heart. I think she was starting to feel like her time split was getting unfair, something I had noticed myself the last couple of weeks.

The host knocked as he opened the door, and we all froze like we were in trouble.

“Whoa. Packed house. I love it. How are all of you guys doing? Excited? Ready?”

“Yeah—yes!” the boys said together.

“Great. I was just told we have some extra time in the show schedule, so after your performance, we’d like to have you come over to the desk. I’ll introduce you, ask about the upcoming tour, stuff like that. How’s that sound?”

“Fuck, yeah,” Joey said. Everyone waited a beat to see if it was okay that he just said the word fuck.

“Well then, okay. Awesome. The audience comes in around 3:00 p.m. I think Paul, our producer, mentioned that already. You’ll be able to watch the taping on these monitors here,” he said, pointing to the two giant flatscreens on the wall, like those could possibly be missed. “You guys are closing the show, so hold on to that energy for me, okay? It’s going to be awesome!”

He finished and started shaking all the guys’ hands, ruffling Michelle’s hair, and giving the rest of us a nod. I mean, yeah, there were fifteen of us in here.

I was so excited and nervous at the same time, I thought I might throw up. I had been eyeing this bottle of champagne in the cooler for the last hour, but I was pretty sure it was meant to be opened after. Damnit.

Lauren, this whole time, had been sitting on the arm of the sofa where John was. It was painfully awkward to watch. She would comment here and there if he was playing something on the guitar, or even if he wasn’t. She was trying so hard to hold a conversation with him. He would just nod and give those typical responses people use when they aren’t really listening to someone’s long story.

“Oh yeah?”
“Get out of here.”
“That’s crazy.”

Lauren still had no interest in meeting anyone else.

I was regretting offering this.

Fuck it. Tell everyone about Nashville. Send the TMZ link to everyone at work. Because somehow this felt more painful to experience.

We started hearing a lot of movement outside the door in the hall. Other guests were being brought in, each with their own green rooms. I wondered if the actors got the fancier ones, although this room was pretty nice.

Then we saw it on the screens.

Audience members were filling the seats.

Our room got quiet.

Nerves and disbelief spread across everyone’s faces. Michael was pacing, playing some rhythm on his legs with his sticks as he walked up and down the room.

Jennifer had come back and took a seat on the couch. So now she was next to me. Great.

Taping had started. There was David James’ walkout, his little jazz band soundtracking his entrance, the satirical monologue, which was extremely cringe. He then announced all the night’s guests, but when he ended with “And Black Bloom is here,” there was legit screaming and loud applause. Mostly women.

All of us in the green room thought that was pretty funny, although it only made John appear more nervous. Disgustingly biting his nails.

Lauren had also clapped with a “Whoa,” like she was out in an audience chair. I had to exchange looks with all the other girls without Lauren seeing. Michelle had put her hands over her ears, bracing for more.

Oh God, I hope Lauren isn’t going to be one of those people who sing aloud while they are playing.

Everything happened quickly, back-to-back. After the monologue, an actor from whatever new streaming series came out. Looking gorgeous. I didn’t see the guys get any make-up treatment. Do they do that for men?

Act 2, a comedian who was there to promote his stand-up tour, even gave everyone a preview of the show. He was funny. I had no idea who he was, so I had to Google right then and there, but the door flew open instead, jolting all of us.

“Ok! Black Bloom! Here we go!” The producer shouted with excitement, waving them out in single file.

Some fans in their seats started screaming, and the audience coordinator had to get them all to hush.

“Holy shit. This is really happening,” Kevin commented.

I was sweating. Samantha, for some reason, was recording the green room monitors with her phone. She’s going to miss this moment, I thought.

The audience got quiet as instructed and were told to hold applause until the signs started blinking.

On the screen, the camera cut back to the host at his desk. He shuffled his cards, smiling toward the stage like he was letting the moment breathe.

I don’t know about anybody else, but my heart was pounding out of my shirt.

“Ok, tonight, we have some very, very special guests here, promoting their new album, The Shadows We Keep, Black Bloom!” David James then pointed stage right.

For half a second, nothing happened.

Then the music started.

“Look!” Michelle pointed at the monitors. “Dad!”

It was cool to see the feed coming straight to us first, watching it unfold in real time before anyone else across the country would see it. We all gravitated toward the TV screens, no one even thinking about sitting. Everyone crowded into that part of the room, shoulder to shoulder.

All of us, even Jennifer, watched with tears in our eyes. James’ parents and sister were actually crying, their hands clasped together in a prayer-like pose. Michelle started jumping up and down, landing on my foot a few times.

I noticed how the close-ups were mostly of John or Michael. Maybe because Joey and James’ hair was all up in their faces, and no one could get a clean shot. And of course, I am being biased here, but Michael looked fine as hell. There were wide shots, overhead angles, and the camera sweeping across the crowd.

It felt exciting, like we were watching history happen in real time.

Which was great, except now I was ruining my eye makeup.

I was just so proud of them. So happy for them.

Oh my God, how will I be when they’re actually on Saturday Night Live in the summer?

Will I explode?

When the song ended, I guess we all took a page from Lauren’s book because all fifteen of us were clapping and jumping up and down. I even hugged James’ sister, although we had never talked before. I even almost hugged Jen, but I turned my body so quickly that I grabbed whoever was closest, which was Danielle. And because Jen was too slow, I picked up Michelle. She was still tiny enough to place on my hip like a toddler.

We all seemed to have forgotten that the guys were going to be interviewed before the show wrapped, just for a few minutes. We all got quiet again, reforming our half-circle around the monitors.

Meanwhile, production had quietly added three more seats to the stage, all under the cover of darkness, I suppose.

“Wow! Wow!” The host said while clapping. The guys quickly walked across the set and took their seats. I am sure they were going to cut that out from the broadcast.

Ah! I just realized who the host reminds me of. Late 90’s Drew Carey. That was driving me nuts.

The audience coordinator let the fans quiet down on their own. It appeared as if this last bit was going to be handled pretty lax.

“Ok. Guys, I love it, I love it.” David James then faced the crowd, “You all love it, right?” The audience cheered for almost a minute more.

He continued, “So, names. Some of us need names.”

“John.”

“Joey.”

“Michael.”

“James.”

Oh god, I was turning red for them.

The host then placed the vinyl sleeve on his desk, facing it to the camera. “Now, this album came out in July, right, or August, but it just hasn’t stopped. Does that sound about right to you?”

“Yup,” John answered. Girls screamed.

“First “Monster”, which you guys just performed, now “My soul,” is also everywhere. And the tour...?”

“We have a brief stint in Europe in a few weeks, but the North American tour starts in mid-February. Yeah, guys?” John asked, looking for confirmation.

“February 15th,” Joey answered.

I was watching the screen so hard, my eyes crossed.

“Now, when you guys arrived here today, you had some gorgeous, gorgeous women with you. Who are they, and are you accepting a 5th member? I can play a mean tambourine,” David James joked.

Samantha and I both looked at each other. How uber cringe. And embarrassing!

“That’s my wife,” James said while raising his hand. Back in the green room, Samantha just shook her head, her hand across her eyes while trying to hide her blushing face.

“And my girlfriend,” Michael followed.

Ew. The word girlfriend has officially pissed me off. How juvenile. I am also nearly forty-fucking-years-old. Too old to be a girlfriend.

John and Joey stayed quiet.

“Wait,” the host paused, you guys have a room full of people back there and no dates, huh?”

They both laughed embarrassingly. Women in the audience screamed as if they would volunteer. Be their escort for a night. This audience, well, the women, were thirsty as hell.

“Well, no, no, my girlfriend just couldn’t make it today, is all,” John replied.

Groans came from the seats.

All of us backstage snapped our heads back. Confused.

Lauren gasped, her hand over her mouth, her jaw practically a foot long.

In a come-together type of moment, Jen, Sam, and I formed a smaller circle. “He has a girlfriend? Since when?” I asked. “No way. He’s lying.” Jen quipped. “It’d be new to me,” Sam added.

I lowered my voice to a whisper as I could see Lauren was becoming visibly upset, retreating to a couch.

“Why would he lie about something like that?” I asked, perplexed.

“Honestly, he’s probably embarrassed that he’s single. Or trying to get out of something. Who knows?” Jen answered.

Hm, that may make sense. Lauren had been hanging on him every minute since she got here. She was basically throwing herself at him, and now, he’d found a way to put a stop to it and return to the room unsmothered.

The three of us were so consumed with that bit of information that we missed the rest of the segment.

“Black Bloom, thank you! The Shadows We Keep in stores, Spotify, and Apple Music!” The camera swept over the audience. David James shook their hands one by one before a small fade to black, and what I’m guessing turned into a hard cut to commercial. Or it will anyway,

When the guys entered the room, they were immediately embraced by almost all of us. No one knew who to kiss or hug first. There were hands on shoulders, back slaps, congratulations coming from every direction.

In the chaos, I accidentally hugged John, and he let me. For a split second, we must have both forgotten that we hated each other.

Eventually, the room settled, and I found Michael again, with Michelle squeezed between us.

A loud pop cracked through the room.

We all jumped.

Of course, being in New York, the first thought is always gunshots? But no. It was just Steve opening that bottle of champagne I’d been eyeing hours earlier.

We were going to need a lot more of that. For real.

The celebration barely got started before David James walked in once more.

“Thank you, guys. Incredible. I wish you all well.”

He dipped out as quickly as he’d dipped in.

“Okay! Are there even fucking glasses in here?” Steve asked, looking around and laughing. “I am not using a Solo cup.”

I didn’t care—I’d drink it out of a Dixie cup.

I was rummaging through the craft table when I felt a hand touch my shoulder.

“Can you come to the bathroom with me?” Lauren said, her voice cracking.

“Oh. Um. Sure.”

We slipped out of the room together. We already knew there was at least one bathroom back here. It was a one-stall setup, but big enough to congregate in. I’m sure it still looked strange, the two of us going in together—like a mom dragging her kid into a fitting room.

The door closed behind us.

Then she screamed in my face.

“You said he was single! I feel like a fucking idiot!”

“Whoa, whoa—calm down. We honestly all think he just said that—”

“Why? Why would he lie about something like that?”

There was no way I was going to repeat Jen’s explanation. Plus, it was a guess at best.

“Is this why he wasn’t reacting to me?” she stammered. “I—I feel so fucking stupid. You really fucked this up, Andrea.”

“What? Excuse me? Fucked up what, exactly?”

“You embarrassed me. You could have said something if you knew. What a torturous game! Was this because of my Nashville comment?”

I shook my head quickly, blinking rapidly, trying to keep up with her. But she didn’t give me another second to speak.

She unlocked the bathroom door, yanked it open, and stormed out.

Through the door, I heard someone—a production assistant, maybe—ask, “Miss? Looking for the exit?”

She was probably going the wrong way.

I waited.

I wasn’t going back out there until I knew she was gone. I stood there listening to the sharp stomp of her fucking heels fading down the hallway.

Finally, I grabbed the handle.

The door flew open from the other side, just missing my face.

“Oh my God, I am so sorry! I’m sorry!” a man said, apologizing profusely.

It looked like the comedian.

Honestly, I would’ve loved to talk to him too, but instead I hurried past with my head down, trying to find my way back to the green room.

I cracked the door open, looking to see if Lauren had, in fact, left. Once I counted everyone and confirmed she wasn’t there, I slipped inside.

“Where did you go?” Michael asked.

I thought I had started talking, but no sound was coming out. Now I was upset. Not crying, just flustered. I had to go straight to the source.

John was yucking it up with James’ sister, whose name I later found out was Meredith.

“Excuse me,” I interrupted whatever bullshit he’d been telling her. “John, you have a girlfriend now?”

“What? Fuck no. I panicked. All I could think about up there was that if I said ‘yes’ to being single—or not with anyone today, whatever—your friend would eat me.”

Again, I threw my head back. Surprised by such a childish answer. Are we on the playground right now?

“She’d eat you?”

“Dude...”

Yeah. I was being called dude now.

“...seriously, she was a nice person, but she was practically on my dick,” he continued.

“She wasn’t that bad, John. C’mon.”

“So what’s the problem, exactly?” he asked, looking straight into my eyes for an answer.

“She... she just wanted to pretend, I guess. But she flipped, cursed me out, and left.”

“She left? Oh, thank God,” he said, high-fiving Meredith, although I don’t think she had any idea what he was high-fiving her for.

I was dumbfounded. Flabberghasted.

Leave it.

Something that was absolutely not my fault—something I had no control over—and she freaks out on me? What does this mean for me now? I guess I won’t find out until we all return to work on the 2nd.

So fucking immature of her to react that way, truthfully. What a fucking baby. You want to get me fired, Lauren? Do me the fucking favor. Please!

“WHERE ARE THESE FUCKING CUPS AND CHAMPAGNE?” I shouted to the packed room of family and friends.

Click here for chapter art and more!

Entering the house together had a new feeling. Like we were christened as an official couple. I don’t know. That comment and the earrings felt like they had projected us forward a bit, even though the titles hadn’t changed. It felt different.

A good different.

I felt like a wifey.

But even that feeling, as sweet as it was, already had a thinness to it. Like something delicate that could tear if pulled too hard. Like something I was holding too tightly because I knew it might not stay that shiny for long.

I still hadn’t said anything to Michael about John and our little text exchange. I was on high alert, wondering if he’d write again and continue the thread. I just wanted it to disappear. Is it worth possibly breaking up a friendship? A band?

I felt like a woman who had been sexually assaulted by a friend but never reports it to the cops or tells her family. Of course, it wasn’t on that level of seriousness. That’s just how my mind works—catastrophizing. Replaying conversations in my head while I lay awake at 3 a.m., thinking of how I could have tilted the narrative just slightly to produce a less hostile outcome.

Logging on to work the next day was daunting. I almost had to remind myself what it was I even did. It took me a full minute to remember my password to unlock the damn laptop. Every day, I was losing passion for this job more and more, but it was the only part of the old Andrea that still existed. I loved having a career, but it was as if I no longer found it interesting. I was becoming restless with it.

And that scared me.

I was far more interested in Michael’s life. It was exciting. It changed daily. Ups and downs. There’s no time to get bored if you try.

But I was starting to see the other side of it—the waiting, the unpredictability, getting involved in the chaos somehow.

A week passed, and it was almost as if we were living in separate homes. He was busy with band stuff, constantly leaving the house and returning when I was already in bed. If I was able to go with him on any band-related errand or appearance, I did.

Clinging to him and the excitement.

All my social media was still deactivated, so I felt like a lone soul. I almost had no idea how to entertain myself anymore. The world felt smaller without it. Quieter.

Too quiet.

On days Michelle was with us, I fully invested myself in her—taking her to and from school, helping her with homework, and watching some type of family film together before bed. She kept me busy. I even improved my cooking.

Some days I felt like a girlfriend.

Other days, I felt like an assistant.

It was starting to lose the magic. So quickly, I would think to myself.

As we approached Christmas, things slowed down a bit, and I cautiously started signing in to one social media app at a time: LinkedIn, Reddit, Facebook. But for Instagram, I logged in, reactivated the account, just so I could permanently delete it. Fuck it. All it did was bring drama. Truth be told, after those few weeks without it, I realized I certainly didn’t need it.

Cutting it loose felt empowering.

I was looking forward to Christmas break so badly. Family time. Michael had promised to give me his full attention between Christmas and early January before he left for the Europe tour. That’s all I wanted.

His full attention.

It struck me that I was now scheduling intimacy around tour dates. Depressing.

But first, I had to get through three more work days.

On Friday, the 19th, I was logged in but already checked out. I spent half the morning just seeing how many times I could spin in my desk chair without touching the ground.

Then, Ping—

Ugh. It was Lauren. Fuck.

LC: Hi Andrea, can I call you for a second? Quick Question.

Before I could type “Sure,” Teams was ringing.

I almost hesitated to answer, but there she was—bright-eyed and a face full of makeup. I could never.

Her voice exploded through my speakers. “Hey! How are you?!”

“I’m good,” I said.

“Oh! Cute background. Is that new?”

“No,” I said, glancing behind me. “I’m at my boyfriend’s.”

Her eyes widened. “Wait—like Black Bloom’s drummer boyfriend?”

“Yes,” I said. “Michael.”

She smiled too much. “Are you coming to the holiday party tonight?”

Fuck me. That was tonight? I had completely forgotten about it. I never went to those things—I’d rather scratch my eyes out. The last one I went to was back in 2022. But now I was in management, which probably meant I’d be expected to show up. It would look bad if I didn’t, I suppose.

“You can bring a guest,” she added pointedly.

Ah. There it was.

Whether she knew it or not, Lauren had me by the imaginary balls. To her, I was a link to John—nothing more. She was good friends with my Supervisor, which meant that if I didn’t deliver, she could easily make my life miserable at work.

And suddenly the shine of all of this—dating a drummer, backstage access, the glamour of it—felt less like a fantasy and more like leverage. Less romantic. More transactional.

Maybe if I could convince John to do some lame cameo video for her, she’d back off for a while. Hell, it might even earn me a few extra good words with my boss. Maybe even a promotion. As ridiculous as it sounded, it was worth considering. If something that stupid helped my career, I’d take it. Though I don’t think John would do dick for me now after Nashville.

“I’ll see,” I said. “Not sure I want to subject him to that.”

“It won’t be boring! It’s at ASPIRE this year!”

She wasn’t looking at me so much as behind me, like maybe she’d catch Michael in the background, walking around naked or something. Perhaps she thought John was here, too. Her favorite. Quickly glancing in every corner—it was sickening.

“Well, I’ll let you know,” I answered.

“Oh. Okay.”

This was officially getting desperate. Time to change the subject.

“Anyway, did you have a question for me?” I asked.

“Oh my God,” she laughed. “I don’t even remember what it was now.” She paused, searching. “Oh! Yes! I see that Black Bloom is going to be on the late show next Tuesday. I just saw the post about it. I have to ask, are you allowed to bring a guest?”

“I don’t know. I am a guest myself,” I shrugged.

“Oh ok. Just curious.”

“Yeah, sorry.”

An awkward silence. We were barely looking at each other at this point until she looked up, caught my sightline, and asked, “So, how was Nashville?”

I tried to keep my face as blank as possible, but my heart was pounding. This bitch! Here it is. The blackmail. I knew she saw it. I knew.

“Nashville?” I asked, stupidly.

“Yeah.”

We were staring each other down pretty hard now.

“I’m not — hang on. Can I put you on hold for one second?”

“Sure.”

I shut my camera off and muted myself.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”

I got up from my chair, pushing it so hard it nearly reached the other side of the room. I walked into the other bedroom. Michael had his headphones on, practicing on the e-kit. I started waving my arms in front of him to get his attention. I startled him. He quickly took the headphones off and placed them around his neck.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“I need two favors.”

“Um, Ok.”

“Would you come with me to my company’s Christmas party tonight? I completely forgot about it, and I need to make an appearance. Even if it means slipping in and out all within thirty minutes.”

“Ok…” he said nervously, waiting to hear what the second favor could be.

“Also, can I bring a guest to the late show on Tuesday?”

“Oh, um, I don’t see why not. Text Steve and run it by him, but it shouldn’t be a problem. Who are you bringing?”

I didn’t even answer. I stomped back to my desk, unmuted myself, and turned the camera back on.

“Sorry, Lauren, I had to run downstairs to the kitchen. Um, yes, I’ll be at the party tonight. We can talk more then. I should have an answer by then, too, about the Late-Late Show.”

“Oh my God, awesome! Thank you!” she squealed. “So, cool, I’ll see you at the party!”

“Yep, can’t wait,” I replied while performing my fakest laugh ever, then quickly hit the “Leave” button to end the call.

“Bitch!” I screamed at the ceiling.

Michael came running in. “Hey, what was that about?”

I let out a heavy sigh. “Well, my coworker has me up against a wall right now. She saw the Nashville video.”

“Fuck. Is that why you want to invite her to the taping?”

“No. I don’t want her there at all. I hate this girl. She’s inviting herself. I don’t know if she would really do or say anything about that clip to people at work, but I don’t want to take that chance. All she wants is to meet John. Then poof, she’ll magically forget about Nashville.”

“Wow, that’s fucked up.”

“Yep!”

“So what do I have to wear to this thing tonight?”

I had my elbows on the desk, my hands holding my head. I was so mad I could have started trashing the room. It was easier to sit there. My right knee bouncing up and down, my body ridden with anxiety.

This is such high school bullshit, I thought.

“Um, just dress nice. Like what you wore to the restaurant in Nashville, or something.”

“Ok. You got it. Don’t worry. I’ll charm this bitch tonight. She won’t say anything.”

I laughed out loud. I had never heard Michael say the word “bitch” before. He was always so polite. He leaned over the back of the chair, his arms crossed over my chest, his head on my shoulder.

“Don’t let this girl get to you. It’s an empty threat.”

“Oh yeah? You’re so sure?”

“Trust me.”

While he was still holding me, I picked up my phone and started texting Steve. Michael was watching every word I typed.

Hi Steve, it’s Andrea. I had a question for you. Would it be possible for me to bring a guest to the studio on Tuesday? It’s a coworker, and to make a long story short, she’s holding the Nashville/TMZ story over my head.

Oh fuck. He replied. God. Yeah. Just tell her yes. Sorry, Andrea.

Thanks, Steve.

With another heavy sigh, I mumbled, “You know, sometimes, being your girlfriend sucks.”

He let me go immediately, standing up quickly.

“What?” he asked in total surprise.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. You know I love you.”

“Funny way of showing it, but Ok.”

He walked out of the room, back to his kit, and shut the bedroom door.

Why did I say that?

I think I was unraveling.

Maybe it was the quiet reminder of my father’s absence creeping in with the holidays—the way grief gets louder when the world insists on celebrating. Maybe it was Jennifer keeping Michelle longer and longer, knowing it cut a little deeper every time. Maybe it was the fact that I had somehow become the default manager of the household without ever officially applying for the job.

Somewhere in there, all the things I had once prayed for—a loving boyfriend, a family, an exciting life—had started to taste metallic. Surely it wasn’t all meant to fade this quickly.

Reality was kicking my ass. I was completely overwhelmed. I hadn’t had a second to sit still long enough to actually feel anything—not the grief, not the exhaustion, not the anger. These last few weeks had wrung something out of me. I could feel myself wearing down. Thoughts of losing my independence. My identity.

Every time something special happened, something stressful seemed to follow right behind it.

It was like my nervous system never got a chance to breathe. Never got to settle. I was always bracing for the next thing. I was tired. I was done.

And now I had just wounded the one person who wasn’t actually trying to hurt me.

I shouldn’t have said that. God.

Maybe I need to increase my meds. Or try therapy again. Because this version of me—snapping, spiraling, crying at a desk at two in the afternoon, doesn’t feel stable.

I pushed the laptop forward and rested my forehead on the desk.

My eyes welled with tears.

How the hell was I going to show up to this party tonight and pretend I was happy to be there?

I didn’t want to go at all.

The idea of small talk, forced smiles, parading Michael around—it exhausted me.

I don’t know.

Maybe I should quit. Get a job somewhere else where no one knows me. A job where no one listens to music. A place where our relationship could keep its autonomy.

Or maybe just quit being the version of me that keeps bending so everything else doesn’t break.

I started getting ready for the evening right after logging off at 5 p.m. I wanted to get there early, do one lap around the room, and leave. I was dreading this.

When I opened the closets and drawers, I realized I had nothing to wear—unless I recycled my funeral outfit.

Ugh. No.

There wasn’t even time to run out and buy something.

I went out the front door and down the stairs, semi-frantically knocking on Nonna’s door.

“Coming!” I heard through the window.

I know it sounds strange, but Nonna had really beautiful clothes. Everything was simple and modern—timeless enough that you couldn’t tell what was new and what was twenty years old.

“Yes? Hi, dear,” she said, pulling the door open.

“Hi! Sorry to bother you—”

“You’re not a bother.”

I laughed. “Do you have anything I could wear to a corporate holiday party tonight?”

It was such a specific request that she laughed, too.

“Come see.”

I moved quickly through her closet, pushing clusters of dresses side to side, sliding hangers up and down the rod. And then I saw it.

A simple, long black velvet dress.

It would probably brush the floor on her. On me, it hit mid-calf. It was perfect—elegant, understated, safe.

“Oh my God. This will work. Thank you so much!” I gave her a quick hug and ran back upstairs.

I took the fastest shower of my life and started getting ready. Michael was dressing too, begrudgingly.

“I’ll make this quick, I promise,” I said.

“No worries. Free food, I’m there.”

Okay. Good. He sounded lighter. Maybe he had already moved past my shitty comment.

“Can you help me with this necklace?”

The second the words left my mouth, I felt that familiar cringe.

Me, again, asking him for something. I always sounded so pathetic. Helpless.

I knew it was irrational to think this way. He had taken me to dinner. He bought me beautiful earrings. He did plenty. But every time I needed him to show up somewhere, to fix a clasp, to accompany me to something that wasn’t his world, it felt like another obligation I was stacking onto him. Another favor. It wasn’t fair to him.

Even though I had been managing the house, cooking more, handling Michelle, trying to keep everything afloat, it still felt uneven in my head. It wasn’t enough from me. I was the one always needing, so much so that it overshadowed everything I tried to give in return. This is how I felt.

Maybe it was because I’d been called “clingy” before. “Dramatic.” And “too much.”

I’ve been traumatized by those words.

“This is Nonna’s dress?” He asked in surprise.

“Yep. I know, right? It’s perfect.”

We called an Uber and headed toward One World Trade Center. I hadn’t been down that way in years, and I hadn’t seen most of my coworkers in just as long. Once we were officially allowed to remain remote in 2020, a lot of people took the offer and never gave it back. The company sold off half its space and downsized to a smaller footprint.

On the ride over, I started mentally making a list of people I’d need to schmooze before disappearing. Lauren, obviously. My supervisor, Leah. Our Senior Director, Luke. All the L’s.

Fuck everybody else.

In and out.

When we stepped out of the car, I tilted my head back to look up at the spire. It almost made you dizzy if you stared too long, but I had to. The building always amazed me—so sleek, so sharp against the night sky. I’m such an architecture nerd. Even when I’m miserable, I can appreciate good design.

It wasn’t until we were in the elevator shooting up to the 102nd floor, our ears popping with the speed, that I really looked at Michael.

Jesus.

He looked good. Again. Suddenly, the idea of parading him around didn’t feel like a burden. It felt exciting.

I was definitely going to get questions. Not everyone knew about my divorce.

No time like the present, I guess.

When the elevator doors opened, Michael and I both laughed.

We were the only people there, aside from the staff.

“Well, you did say you wanted to get here early.”

“Yeah. Fuck. Maybe this was too early.” I pulled out my phone. It read 6:58 p.m. “Oh my God, the bar’s set up though. Let’s get a drink.”

“Lead the way,” he said, smiling.

The room was actually beautiful. Soft lighting. Clean lines. The city was glowing beyond the windows like it was part of the decor.

And then I saw the Christmas tree in the corner.

For a second, it made me feel warm and fuzzy.

And then it made me sad.

It was such a blatant reminder of time.

If I walked it backward—seven months since the final argument. Five months since meeting Michael. One month living together. Nearly one month without Dad.

Everything had happened so fast.
The tree suddenly didn’t feel festive.
It felt like nothing but a cruel timestamp.
Proof that life had bulldozed forward, whether I was ready or not.

Standing there, staring at it, I realized I hadn’t actually stopped moving long enough to process any of it.

And tonight, apparently, wasn’t going to be the night either.

People started filing in around 7:15 p.m. The lights dimmed further, and the DJ began with ambient atmospheric music, sneaking in a Christmas song here and there. It was such torture.

“Thank you again for coming with me at the last minute. If it weren’t for that Nashville comment, we’d be home.”

“It’s okay,” he said. “I definitely want to meet this chick, though. That’s fucked up,” he added under his breath, taking a sip of wine.

Two empty glasses later and seven Christmas songs in, Lauren finally walked through the door. She had brought a friend as her plus-one. You know how everyone has that favorite single friend they drag to parties? Lauren made it very obvious she was single, also in other ways. She was the vague-Facebook-status, “know my worth” type, followed by painfully awkward thirst traps. No pictures anywhere as proof she’d ever been in a relationship with a guy, let alone hurt by one. It looked like a complete act. It was kind of sad.

She and her friend were heading toward the bar when she suddenly noticed us. I wasn’t even waving her down. It was like she sensed us.

“Oh my God!” she screamed, dragging her friend behind her. She wrapped her arms around me in a tight hug. It was weird—we weren’t close, and here she was hugging me like a sister. I also don’t like being touched, so I pulled away quickly. I stepped slightly in front of Michael, just in case she tried that on him.

“Andrea, you know Celia, right?” Lauren asked.

I didn’t.

“No, but nice to meet you.” Shaking Celia’s hand.

“Lauren, Celia, this is Michael. Michael—Lauren, Celia.” Light handshakes between the three of them, and me watching like a hawk.

Lauren wasted no time. “So,” she began, already blushing, “I don’t know if Andrea told you, but I am a huge, huge fan of yours—and the band’s. I saw you guys in Vegas in October,” giggling to Michael.

“Oh, no way. Get out of here. That was a great show. Thank you.”

Michael knew how to handle fans, but I could hear the strain in his voice. He was being polite, but he was uncomfortable.

Ok. I have to get to her before she gets to me. Time to disarm her with sympathy and a surprise.

“It’s actually so good to see everyone,” I said quickly. “With all the remote work, I’ve felt really disconnected the last couple of weeks. You know… losing my dad and taking two weeks off. I missed this.”

That last part was a lie. I did, in fact, NOT miss this.

Lauren and Celia both gave sympathetic “Aw”s. Lauren placed a hand on my shoulder.

“I know. We were all so sorry to hear.”

Before she could pivot back to herself, I added, “Oh—and we asked. You can absolutely join us at the taping on the 23rd.”

When I tell you this girl screamed—the DJ almost killed the music. It sounded like someone was being attacked.

I didn’t care that I’d said it in front of her friend. I don’t even think Celia knew who Michael was, and I wasn’t about to start inviting the world just because someone threatened to recycle the Nashville clip. I wasn’t giving her that. I was done letting people hold things over me.

“More wine?” Michael cut in, already angling his body away from the squealing.

“Oh yeah, that’d be great,” I said.

I knew it was an exit strategy. A polite one.

“I want to hold our place in line, too. I’ll go with you,” Celia shouted.

And just like that, she slid beside him like they had been best friends forever or something.

Lauren and I were left by the window, arms crossed in accidental synchronization, nodding at each other. All the while keeping my eyes on this “Celia”.

I wasn’t threatened. Not by her. Not by either of them.

But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t lose it if I saw her touch him.

“I am so fucking excited,” she said. “Wow. Thank you so much. Did you have to beg to get me a pass?” She laughed.

“Huh? What? No. It wasn’t a big deal.”

I was distracted.

Because that’s when Dylan walked in.

Oh my God. Dylan. How could I forget?

I hadn’t seen him in five—almost six—years.

Dylan was what you’d call my “work husband” back when we were all still in the office. I used to think he was gorgeous. Effortlessly so. I would complain to him about Adam, and he’d counter with stories about what an incredible husband he was to his wife. He cooked. He cleaned. He did housework without being asked and never once complained—because he actually enjoyed it.

I’d never heard a man talk like that before. He felt ahead of his time, like he’d unlocked some mature, evolved version of marriage I had tried striving for. Our flirting at work was obvious. It made some people uncomfortable, even, but somewhere along the way, I started developing feelings for him.

And every time I went home—to the sink full of dishes, the clothes on the floor—I would just compare more and more with resentment building to an all-time high.

Dylan never crossed any line. And neither did I.

But I think he had feelings for me, too.

If I’m being honest, it was my first emotional affair.

If he was attracted to me then… what would he think now?

He looked exactly the same. Tall. Dark hair. Blue eyes. Disney-prince energy. And a little older.

I shouldn’t go up to him.

If he sees me, he sees me.

The only problem was that Lauren caught me staring.

And he wasn’t with anyone. That was strange.

“Oh, shit. Dylan’s here,” Lauren said. “This should be interesting.”

“What does that mean?” I asked, half laughing, half defensive.

“Nothing. But you know. You know.”

I didn’t entertain that. I needed her to stop with the commentary before Michael and Celia returned.

Don’t look. Don’t look.

“Oh shit! Andrea!” Dylan exclaimed, already approaching, arms open.

Too late.

“Oh—hi! Wow. It’s been a while.”

He hugged me. Tight. Too tight. I really hate that.

I stiffened a bit. He lingered just a second too long. When he pulled back, he didn’t step away. He stayed close. Close enough that I had to shift backward.

“Jesus. Where have you been?” He asked.

I almost forgot how to speak. His quick entrance and hug took me completely off guard. I felt like I was blushing, or maybe that was the wine.

“Um. Well, ya know. Once you go remote, you never go back.” I wasn’t sure if I was trying to be funny.

“Well, I guess so, because now that I think about it, yeah, what, five years or so give or take?” He asked.

“About that. Yeah”

“Are you still in Queens?”

“No. I’m in Hudson now.”

Lauren stood there, her eyes bouncing between us. Dylan hadn’t acknowledged her once, which I found slightly amusing.

And slightly unnerving.

He was talking to me like I was the only person in the room.

I glanced at his left hand.

The wedding ring was gone.

I tried to remember his wife’s name. Sheila? Shirley?

“Where’s the wife?” I asked, immediately cringing at myself for calling her the wife.

“Oh, yeah. Unfortunately, we’re currently separated,” he said, his eyes dropping to his shoes. Like he couldn’t say it while looking at me, or else it would mean something.

“Sorry to hear that,” I replied.

But my mind was already racing.

God. If this had been even a year ago… I would’ve been in trouble.

I’d had a crush on him for years. He used to torture me with that “just got out of the gym” body, or those “have to get home and start dinner” stories — the kind that made me ache with envy and want at the same time. Back then, he felt like a unicorn. The gold standard. The almost.

And now he was standing in front of me. Ringless.

Available.

I’ve since learned that there are other great, considerate men out there.

Michael being one of them.

Still… it felt like something was still there.

“What about you?” He asked.

I didn’t want to answer until Michael came back, because I knew as soon as I say the word divorced, he’s going to jump all over that. I could feel it. Holy shit, this was tense. But Lauren answered for me.

“She’s dating a rock star now,” Lauren said, with a cross of her arms and a click of her tongue with what sounded like jealousy. Or perhaps she was saying it more matter-of-factly in an attempt to save me.

“Really?” Dylan looked back at me. “Wait. You were married, weren’t you?”

“I got divorced this past summer.”

“No shit. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

Michael returned then, sliding in between us and handing me my wine.

“Actually, here he is. Michael—this is Dylan. Dylan, Michael.”

“Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you.”

“Well, I’m happy for you, Andrea,” Dylan said. “You’re a lucky man, dude.”

“I know,” Michael replied evenly. Curiosity all over his face.

“Well, I’ve got to hit the line,” Dylan said. “Nice to meet you. See you later.”

Bye, Dylan, nice try.

“Text me the details for Tuesday,” Lauren added before leaving with him. She looked to be interested as soon as he said the word “separated”. She was going to go for it. Whatever. She and Celia can fight over him.

“Ok. And will do,” I yelled back.

When they were out of earshot, I exhaled.

“Sorry.”

“For what?” Michael asked.

“Lauren fangirling. And that dude all up in my space.”

“Yeah. Who was that?”

“Well, a coworker obviously. We used to work in the same department. We were friends.”

“I was watching from the line,” he said. “He had some flirty energy going on.”

“Yes,” I admitted. “I was hoping you’d come back quicker. It was awkward.”

“Oh well, it’s over now. Leave it. I don’t feel like murdering anyone tonight,” Michael said.

That pulled another laugh out of me. I was hearing things from him I’d never heard before — sharper, territorial. And I have to admit, the jealousy felt really good.

It did something to me.

Before I could overthink it, I grabbed his face and kissed him. Right there. I didn’t care that it was a work party. I didn’t care who saw. I wasn’t about to let a moment like that slip past me.

His hands tightened at my waist.

When I opened my eyes over his shoulder, I saw Dylan.

Pretending he wasn’t looking.

But he was.

And he’d seen enough.

I’m not trying to start anything. This wasn’t some calculated move. It was an honest moment. I had every intention of letting it be known I was taken again — long before I knew Dylan would be here.

Still… I didn’t miss the timing.

A good two hours had passed. Way longer than I’d planned to stay.

But somewhere between the free drinks and the endless trays of appetizers, Michael and I were actually having a good time. It felt like that rare night when parents escape the house and remember they like each other.

Not that Michelle is the child in this scenario.

More like the band.

The vibe had transformed. The DJ had finally found his sound. The Christmas songs were mercifully over. Something slow-ish came on — the kind of song that makes couples glance at each other and coworkers grab their plus-ones like it’s expected.

People started drifting toward what I guess was the dance floor.

Within seconds, Michael was on his feet, pulling me up with him, leading me toward the center of the room.

“No, no, no. I don’t do this,” I pleaded, digging my heels in — but not that hard.

“What? Anyone can slow dance. We just kind of circle, right?”

He was a little tipsy. So was I.

I saw Dylan circling the room, slowly making his way toward the table where Michael and I had been sitting. So it was either dance with Michael… or stay and wait to be approached.

Dancing it is.

While we spun lazily to whatever slow song was playing, I caught Leah and Luke in my line of sight. Oh good. We each mouthed a hello. I gave a small wave, too. As far as I was concerned, that counted. We were now socially cleared to leave.

“Hey,” I whispered to Michael, “I think we can get out of here now.”

“Okay. Are you in a rush?”

His tone had a tone. Slightly pissy. He must’ve had too much to drink. I couldn’t imagine he actually wanted to stay. Maybe this was his first fancy company party. I mean, the raffles were decent, and yes, the music was finally getting good — but I felt so damn uncomfortable.

When the song faded, we started back toward the table. At the last second, Michael excused himself to use the restroom, leaving me to return to our seats alone.

Dylan was only a few feet away, chatting with some guy near the tree.

Like clockwork, the second I sat down, Dylan wrapped up his conversation and slid into Michael’s seat.

The fucking nerve.

“So, Andrea,” he said, placing his hand on my knee and giving it a small shake, “what’s going on?”

As if we hadn’t already covered that earlier.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? Come on.” He pushed. Waiting for me to spill secrets.

“Tell me. Who ended the marriage — you or your husband?”

Wow. Direct.

“I did, I guess?”

“I knew it. I always knew you were unhappy. Figured you’d pull the plug eventually.”

“Oh, you did?”

Where the fuck is Michael?

“Yeah. And this new guy — you just met him?”

“Back in July.”

“Oh. So, what was that — immediately after the divorce? Damn. You must’ve checked out pretty early to move on that fast.”

“Well, you said it yourself. I was unhappy.”

“And you actually like this new guy? Mark?”

“Michael. And yes.”

“Mm-hmm.” He paused. “You should come back to the office. We all miss you.”

“Who’s we?”

“Me.” He smiled.

Before I could let this go any further, I saw Michael walking toward us with that unmistakable I’m about to step in look.

Dylan took his time getting out of the chair. Intentionally slow. So fucking rude.

“Alright,” Dylan said, squeezing my knee again, “see you guys. Bye, Andrea. Think about what I said,” brushing Michael’s shoulder.

Michael sat down and leaned into my good ear. “Okay. If that guy touches you again, I’m going to kill him.”

“Oh my God,” I laughed.

“And what did he tell you to think about?”

“That I should come back to the office. He said he misses me.”

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

Shit. When I said it out loud, it did sound ridiculous.

“No. I’m not.”

Michael dragged his hand down his face, resetting his expression from almost amused to instantly irritated.

“I’m ready to leave now,” he said flatly.

Five minutes ago, he was criticizing me for wanting to.

“Okay. Let’s go.”

He wrapped his arm around my back — tight. Possessive. I knew exactly who that was for.

He looked past me and gave Dylan one last stare-down. Eye to eye.

Dylan answered with a smug little smile and a wave.

Yeah.

We’re done here.

We walked into the elevator in silence, ears popping as we dropped down the city.

“So… what did you tell this guy?” Michael asked.

“About what?”

“About us. Who did he think I was? A brother? He was talking to you, touching you, like he didn’t even see me there.”

“I told him we were together, of course!”

“Ok. Guess he doesn’t respect the boyfriend–girlfriend thing.”

I had nothing to say. I didn’t want him stressing about it—it was stupid. I was embarrassed that I ever had a thing for Dylan. I saw him totally differently now. I bet he didn’t do any of that shit at home for his wife. I tried to convince myself it was all just flirting, painting him as the complete opposite of Adam, so I’d like him.

“You’re not thinking about going back to the office, are you?”

“Fuck no.”

“Ok, good. I’d feel a little uncomfortable if you did. If that guy was going to be around you… I would definitely have to put some type of ring on your finger before you did that,” he said, like it was the most casual thing in the world.

I started coughing, choking on air. What the fuck did he just say? Was that all it took? It’s like he didn’t hear himself.

One guy. ONE guy flirts with me, and now proposing isn’t such a crazy idea? I was beginning to question how Michael valued being married. I’d be on board either way, but, Jesus, think for a second.

My heart was racing. Sure, I could joke about going back to the office and call his bluff, but I wanted to leave it. I was speechless anyway.

I spent the car ride home zoning out, fantasizing about how he’d do it. And where? I couldn’t sit still or stop smiling.

We must have hit every red light on the way home. Despite my earlier excitement, the wine’s buzz was fading fast. I was anxious to get home and ready to fall asleep. I could save the proposal fantasies for tomorrow. My head started dropping in the car. My body slumping to one side.

A buzz jolted me before I could close my eyes. A text.

I peeked at my phone. It should have been obvious who it was.

Of course. Dylan. Drunk texting, sending pictures of himself—sometimes with coworkers, sometimes just close-ups of his face. Trying to get me to respond. Apparently, the company party had gone off the rails. We’d left just in time, I thought.

Buzz.

Buzz.

Another selfie. Another message: “You up?”

Ew. Should I block him? I looked over at Michael; his eyes were closed, peaceful, unaware. He was passed out. Good.

What do I do with this? I began to panic.

Where did you go? He messaged.

Ok, definitely drunk. Acting a fool, as they'd say. I didn’t want to answer. At this point, I’d have felt safer trapped in a car with John. It was unnerving, like he was trying to follow me home through my phone. I didn’t reply. I shut my phone down and slipped it back into my bag. Let’s pretend that wasn’t happening.

I rested my head on Michael’s shoulder, telling myself the world beyond the car window didn’t exist, until we finally reached Cumberland Street.

Click here for chapter art and more!

All I wanted was to stay wrapped in that plush, comfortable bed with Michael all day, but my body was still stuck in fight-or-flight. Wired from the night before.

I slipped out of bed and was immediately reminded of how cold Nashville could be, and how low we’d kept the heat. The house was freezing.

In the bathroom, I took stock of the aches and pains, then made a fresh inventory of my face, using the high-tech touch mirrors to examine myself up close. This place was full of cool little features like that, scattered everywhere. I just hadn’t had time to play with any of them yet.

The thermostat, apparently, included.

I leaned over the sink, nearly nose to glass. My left cheek was slightly swollen, marked with a deep scratch already beginning to scab. Make-up should cover it for now, I hoped. My ear throbbed like hell.

Removing the makeshift bandage we’d thrown together last night made it clear it hadn’t been enough. It was stuck to my skin, still bleeding. Panic crept in as I carefully peeled it away, wincing as it pulled free, leaving behind a torn, angry-looking wound—one that suddenly felt permanent.

I need to get this fixed. Now!

Careful not to wake Michael, I tiptoed back into the bedroom and grabbed the extra coat and scarf I’d packed for no reason at all, until I had one, plus my phone from the charger, and went to the kitchen to search for the nearest urgent care or something similar. Whichever was closest. God, I hope they take Apple Pay.

While the Google results loaded, my screen was attacked with Instagram notification banners.

What now? No one receives that many notifications over nothing. I was completely terrified.

Tapping any of the notifications opened the app, and there it was—nearly one hundred tags or mentions. It was a video of the fight from The Underground. A moment that lasted only seconds, but someone had been quick enough to catch it. John was tagged. Michael was tagged. The band’s main account was tagged. Panic set in as I tried to figure out whether this was nothing or something really bad for the guys. And Steve.

That wasn’t even the worst part. Some die-hard Black Bloom fan had gone full FBI, somehow identified me, and tracked me down on Instagram. I was tagged and mentioned in countless reshares.

I wanted to crawl under a rock. How embarrassing is this?

The only saving grace was that the video didn’t show what happened on the ground—just the scuffle on the surface. The clearest moment was when I was lifted and tossed over the security guard’s shoulder, and even then, my face was barely visible. It all happened so fast. My hair was everywhere. The lighting was terrible, which should have worked in my favor.

And yet, someone still found me.

How? Most likely by stalking Michael’s account until they connected the dots. That’s a level of fan dedication even I had never attempted. Never underestimate the fandom.

Or maybe Anne saw the clip and contacted the original poster, offering them my Instagram handle.

Somehow, that felt more believable. But no, that’s reaching. Right?

I got dressed quietly, deciding to Uber myself to CareNow. Alone. I didn’t want to wake Michael. He didn’t need to come. It would just waste his time. Plus, I felt so ashamed, I wasn’t ready to see his reaction to this. He might care. He might not.

As I pulled on my heavy coat and tied my sneakers, I felt it—
the long, insistent vibration of my phone.

Fucking Instagram. Again.

@BlackBloom_John has reposted a video you are tagged in.

Why? What a prick! He reposted the video to his account’s stories, a string of laughing emojis trailing behind it. Again, why? What was the point of keeping it alive?

Then another post appeared.

I tapped through. This one was a clip of him dancing with the bride after I’d been kicked out of the club. He looked smug—like he’d swooped in and saved the day, like some benevolent hero. Blessing her with his attention. Giving her a story to take home.

I hated him in that moment.

It had been humiliating enough in real time. This—this would only invite more unwanted traffic to my account. It was still private, but the idea of the whole world circling my existence, laughing along, made me ill.

Shaken and embarrassed, I left the house without saying a word. I’d text Michael once I was gone—tell him where I went. I just couldn’t look him in the face yet.

I considered calling John from the car, but I didn’t even have his number. And I definitely didn’t want anything permanent in writing if I sent a DM. I just wanted him to take it down. Quietly. Immediately.

So lost in my own thoughts, I barely noticed the Uber driver talking to me.

“Um—what? I’m sorry. Can you say that again?” I asked.

“Beautiful morning, isn’t it?”

“Oh. Yeah. It is.”

Oh my God. One of those drivers. Kill me.

I hadn’t been tracking where we were going when suddenly we arrived. It was so close I could’ve walked. Springing from the car, I pulled open the door and checked myself in at the front desk. So many people were here. But it’s so early, I thought to myself.

Buzz.

I hesitated before looking, but it was just a text from Michael. I must have woken him up when I left the house only moments ago.

Hey. Let me know how your visit goes and where you’ll be. I’m heading over to John’s with Joey. You may have to remind me to grab our stuff. I’ll try not to be long, but you’re always welcome to come by. XOXO.

Aw—Joey was coming? I liked Joey. Big teddy bear energy. James was sweet, too. So, how was John the complete opposite of all three of them? Why was he so vindictive?

I’m sure you woke up to a million Instagram notifications, I typed. How bad is this? I’m so embarrassed.

The reply came almost immediately.

That? Eh. It is what it is. Steve says any press is good press. It made it to TMZ. Did you see that yet?

Panic bloomed in my chest, right there in the waiting room. I briefly considered changing my intake form to experiencing cardiac arrest.

What? No. I answered.

Yeah, he replied. FIGHT BREAKS OUT OVER BLACK BLOOM MEMBER AT NASHVILLE BAR. It’s mostly about the fight itself. They don’t mention names—yours or anyone else’s. Total clickbait. I wouldn’t worry.

I took a pause. Making sure to be careful with my responses and how I word them.

I do feel a certain type of way about John reposting it, though.

Oh well, Michael wrote back. You know he can’t stand anything not being about him. I’ll talk to him.

“Andrea?” the nurse called.

Thank God. That hadn’t been a long wait at all. I really didn’t want to spend my Saturday here.

As I walked toward her, my face was still glued to my phone, TMZ.com typed into the search bar. I was completely engrossed—trapped in it. Load! Load!

She started asking questions. Her voice came through like I was underwater, or something similar to Charlie Brown’s teacher. I had to ask her to repeat herself.

“Sorry—what?” I said, barely looking up.

“Are you allergic to any medications?” she asked again, this time with a hint of irritation.

Stuttering, “Oh—n-no.”

She ran through a few more generic questions, then leaned in to examine my ear. I was still clutching my phone with both hands, pressed to my chest—close enough to hide it, but not close enough that I couldn’t keep reading.

“I’m sorry,” she said, gently but firmly. “Can you put that down for just one second?”

“….”

“Miss? Please.”

I heard her. I just wanted to finish scanning the blurb before closing my phone. It wasn’t even an article—just a stupid headline. Clickbait, like Michael had said. No names. Just woman and bride.

Still.

So fucking embarrassing.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” I said, placing my phone face down on the exam table.

She looked annoyed.

Great. She’s going to hurt me now, isn’t she?

The nurse sighed softly and leaned back in, pinching what was left of my earlobe.

“Ow!” I yelped.

“Yeah, sorry. I have to clean this and close it quickly,” she said. “You’ll need about two or three stitches.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously,” she laughed.

“Is it going to hurt?” I asked, immediately hating how small my voice sounded. I was such a baby with this stuff. I’d never had stitches before.

“It won’t be bad. No earrings for at least three months. Even then, you may need to get this ear re-pierced.”

“Really? Ugh.”

I winced and muttered “ow” every time she touched me, gripping the table and pulling back more than once. I could feel her patience thinning. She probably couldn’t wait to get me off that table.

“Hold still, please. Almost finished.”

I wanted to tell her to go fuck herself.

A few minutes, some Tylenol, and four hundred dollars later, I was free.
Free to explore Nashville by myself.

Back on the cold sidewalk, I pulled my hair to one side and snapped a selfie, making sure to include my newly bandaged ear. Pouty face. Proof of injury. I sent it to Michael.

I didn’t expect an immediate response. They were probably already jamming.

I shoved my phone deep into my back pocket. I was starting to hate the thing. After last week—and last night—I wanted to disappear. Go phone-free. Or at least rewind time to before social media turned everything into spectacle and insecurity.

I decided today was going to be an “Andrea” day. A treat-yourself day. I permitted myself to take my time and explore the city. Why rush back to an empty Airbnb?

I needed some serious retail therapy, so I walked all the way to The Gulch. Wandering alone felt exciting in that vacation way, even though this trip had been anything but relaxing. Nashville was still beautiful. I’d made a short list of things to see while I was on the plane, and the angel wing mural was on it—the famous one.

The wings were painted white on the side of a black, brick building, wide and dramatic, meant to frame a body perfectly. Meant to make you look lifted. Saved. Chosen.

Maps told me I was only steps from the mural when I noticed a line. There was a line for this thing?

Of course, there was a line. It seemed to grow every minute despite the cold, like the weather wasn’t even a factor. Nothing would deter anyone from a fun snap.

I almost turned around. Standing in front of something designed to be photographed felt like the opposite of what I needed right now. I wanted to put that stupid video and all the paranoia behind me, yet every few minutes, there was some type of reminder pulling me back into it. A buzz. A look. A screen.

I truly had nowhere else to be, so I stayed in the line, waiting.

I watched people step up to the wall and smile automatically, like the wings did the work for them. Everyone looked lighter for a moment, like whatever mess they were carrying didn’t follow them into the frame.

I wondered what it would look like behind me. Last night, I shoved a drunk girl to the ground and slapped her friends around. Now I was about to brand myself an angel. The irony was laughable.

As the line got shorter and shorter, bringing me closer, I repositioned my beanie, pulling it all the way down on the sides. As far as it could stretch. It helped hide my fucked-up ear. My sunglasses covered most of the scratch. I felt like I was disguising myself in plain sight.

My phone buzzed, and I jumped, but the rhythm told me it wasn’t a notification. It was a call.

“Hello?”

“Hey! I just got your picture. I’m sorry,” Michael said. “I didn’t think you’d need stitches. I suck.”

“Yeah,” I said. “You’re a shitty doctor.”

He laughed. “Where are you now?”

“Standing in line for the angel wing mural.”

“Oh God. You might be there a while. I have our stuff, and hang on, John wants to talk to you.”

No.
No no no no no.

“Hello?”

“Hey, John,” I said, forcing enthusiasm.

“Hey. Sorry about last night. I don’t remember much. Just that we had a shit ton of tequila.”

“Mm-hmm.”

I had about a thousand things I wanted to say, starting with how I don’t remember much was the laziest morning-after excuse in existence.

“Do you remember what you asked me last night?” I asked.

“Uh… no. We said a lot of shit.”

I rolled my eyes so hard it almost hurt.

“Did you bring that girl home? The one in the orange shirt.”

There was a pause. Even through the phone, I could feel him trying to piece it together.

“Oh. I stayed out with her for a bit, but she didn’t come back to the house. I’m not bringing any girls back to this shithole. Why?”

“Never mind. It was apparently a goal of yours last night. Good for you.”

“Are we playing a game? I’m lost.”

“Forget it. Can you put Michael back on?”

“Okay.”

“Wait!” I blurted.

“Yes?”

“Can you at least tell me why you reposted the video of me being carried out of the club?”

“Oh!” he said, too brightly. “I thought it was funny. C’mon. You can’t even see your face. And hey, you got us on TMZ, so thanks for that.”

The passive-aggressive tone pissed me off to no end. I wanted to reach through the phone and slap him.

There was another pause, then the sound of the phone being handed back.

“Hello?”

“Hey.”

“So I’ll be here for a bit,” Michael said. “I’ll text when I’m on my way. Do you want to go out for dinner tonight?”

“Oh my God. Yes. Please.”

“Okay. You packed something nice, right?”

“Uh oh. Where are we going?”

“I’m trying to get us into The Standard around eight. Might have to bribe someone.”

“Aw, okay. I’m also happy staying in or going somewhere small.”

“No,” he said firmly. “Not tonight.”

I couldn’t tell if that was said for John and Joey’s benefit, hinting that he wanted a just-us night, or if he had something secretly planned.

“I gotta go. See you soon. Love you.”

“Bye, I—”

He hung up.

Wow. Okay.

My turn at the mural was up before I could spiral any further. Up close, I realized it was definitely not a selfie situation. With a phony-sweet voice, I shamelessly asked the person next in line to take my picture.

This woman went above and beyond, stepping back, moving closer, switching angles. Portrait. Landscape. Like she was trying to find the best version of me before handing my phone back.

“Wow. Thank you,” I laughed, quickly glancing at the last shot. From what I could tell, they came out really good.

“You’re welcome,” she said brightly, stepping aside to join her family.

I looked down at the screen.

For a split second, the pictures almost worked. The wings sat perfectly behind my shoulders. If you didn’t know any better, you might think I was fine. Untouched. Floating above it all.

How very convincing.

Me? An angel?

What a lie.

I locked my phone and slid it back into my pocket. Enough of that.

I proceeded to wander all over, crossing Broadway, going down Church Street, and eventually took a seat at the Frothy Monkey on Fifth Ave N. Just a place to sit and people-watch, two things I did best.

My body needed a latte. Bad. I must have looked like a tweaking addict waiting for the barista to call my name. It had almost been two full days without some decent coffee.

I claimed a booth, completely hogging it even though I was a party of one. It felt good to relax, even briefly. I pulled out my phone, excited to post my snaps from the morning’s adventures, careful to share them only with my close friends list. That excluded coworkers and randos. Just a few people I trusted, and Michael, of course.

I felt guilty enjoying the moment, especially as emails came through from my sister about what was left to do with Dad’s documents. I swiped the notifications away. That life would have to wait until I got back. Why can’t anyone just give me a minute?

I only got two sips in before my phone started buzzing. An L.A. number. Unknown.

Who do I know in L.A.? Clients don’t have my personal cell.

Something told me to answer.

“Hello?” I asked nervously.

“Andrea! It’s Steve!” Cheerful. Friendly.

“Steve? You have my number?”

“Well, no. I got it from Michael.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Listen, Andrea, I need you to do something, okay?”

“I’m listening.”

“I need you to deactivate your social media accounts for a while.”

“What?”

“I know. My phone has been ringing nonstop from every media outlet you can think of, asking for information, trying to do a deep dive on the situation—on you: who you are, your full name, stuff like that.”

Oh my God. It just hit me. John had reposted that video. Lauren, my coworker who made it very clear she was a Black Bloom fan, definitely followed John. She would see it. She would know it was me easily. I can’t let my job see this. I’m on bereavement leave! This looks so bad.

“Why would they do this? Why do they care?”

“Slow news day for them, I guess. They’re looking to stretch it. You’re being called the girlfriend. They’re using words like unhinged, wasted, and instigated. And the bride, poor thing, there’s already a rumor that her fiancé called off the wedding. They got to him fast and fed him whatever bullshit for information.”

My stomach dropped.

“So please, deactivate everything for a bit. A couple of weeks. I need Black Bloom out of TMZ’s mouth right now. I’ve spent most of the morning doing damage control, untagging the band and the bar. Andrea, I’m doing this for you, too. With your accounts down, they have nothing to dig through. No pictures. No tags. No way to message you directly. Pull your LinkedIn, too. The event was almost a positive thing, but these papparazzo, their joy from wanting to tear people down is insane to me…”

He was rambling now.

“Steve! Stop! Stop.” I laughed. “I’ll do it on one condition.”

“One condition?”

“John has to take the video down, too.”

“It’s still up?!” he yelled. “Christ! I am going to kill this kid! He’s going to put me in an early grave!”

Steve referring to John as a kid made me chuckle. He was around their age, maybe younger, but far more mature. He must be a dad, too.

“Steve, I don’t care about TMZ. I just don’t need anyone at my job seeing that.”

“Exactly what I’m trying to avoid. Give me five minutes. John’s reshare will be gone. Promise. And if any unknown number calls you today, do not answer. Danny, the bar manager, got the same instructions.”

“Got it.”

“I’m really sorry this became a thing,” he said, exhaling heavily. “See you at the late-late show taping, if I don’t have a heart attack before then.”

“Take it easy, Steve. Don’t die. Oh, and one more thing: Tell John to never, ever touch my ass again!”

Steve answered that with a massive sigh, muttering “This fucking kid,” before hanging up. I don’t know if I was meant to hear that, but I had to laugh again. I like Steve.

God, how could something so stupid cause this much chaos? “Damage control”. Really? Over what? What narrative could they possibly paint from just a few seconds?

All I cared about was that video disappearing before Lauren saw it. If she had, she definitely would’ve messaged me by now, right? Would she show other people at work? The thought of that happening made me feel sick.

Buzz.

A text from Steve.

It’s down.

I let out a huge sigh, loud enough that the table across from me gave me a look, disrupting whatever moment they were having.

I then held up my end of the bargain. Instagram, Facebook, Bluesky, X, Threads, Snapchat, LinkedIn, all deactivated. I barely used half of them anyway. The apps didn’t make it easy either. Prompts to do so were buried under menu after menu, using double negatives, so you wind up not deactivating the account.

Buzz.

“Oh my God, what now?” I grumbled to myself.

Did you really have to tell Steve about that?

I didn’t have John’s number, but it had to be him with a question like that.

John? I replied.

Yeah. And the story is fucking down, okay?

Time for my scolding reply.

You shouldn’t have posted it in the first place! I could be fucked if someone at my job recognizes me. The article says I was wasted and hit her repeatedly, even though she fell into a stool and busted her face herself. You know this.

Jesus Christ! Stop being so dramatic. You’ll be fine.

Being called dramatic triggered me a bit. Adam had called me dramatic in our final argument.

Wow. You don’t have to be a dick, I answered, hitting the keys hard now with both thumbs.

You’re so fucking lame. Please, go back to Brooklyn.

Take your fucking meds, asshole!

Just try not to get your ass kicked by someone half your size tonight. 😘

🖕 My final reply.

Oh my God. Did that just happen? I’m with Steve. I’m going to kill this kid. I know this—I will not apologize. He can kiss my ass.

Part of me almost hated that John might be right, that it wouldn’t escalate any further. At least not for him. In fact, I think I’d feel like even more of a loser if this were the last time we ever heard about it. I know that doesn’t make sense. I just wanted John to be wrong. I wanted him to admit his careless regard for other people.

This day was officially a waste. I tried to enjoy it. I really did. But eventually, I gave up.

The coffee shop had been a brief safe haven, but that was over. I called for a car and went back to the Airbnb. I peeled off all my layers the second I walked in. Now the house felt like a sauna. I paced the kitchen, circling the island for what felt like an hour, practically wearing a groove into the hardwood.

I refreshed every celebrity news site I could think of, hunting for updates, corrections, anything—changes, lies, retractions. So far, nothing.

I remembered how alone I’d felt in those first few weeks after Adam kicked me out of the house. It was such a horrible feeling, and now, disturbingly, I found myself wishing for it again. I just wanted to be left alone. I missed my phone not ringing. I missed not having to apologize to people for being myself.

Hours passed like that. I worried myself into exhaustion, completely forgot about dinner plans, and eventually fell asleep on the couch with my phone set to Do Not Disturb.

I was in such a deep sleep that I didn’t even hear Michael come through the door. I only felt someone grabbing my shoulder, shaking me gently, then less gently. It took a few seconds for my eyes to open. I think he thought I was dead.

“Andrea, helloooooo.”

It took me longer than it should have to realize where I was. I didn’t recognize the Airbnb at all.

“Hey. You okay?”

“Oh my God,” I said, rubbing my eyes. “I am so completely out of it. What time is it?”

“Seven. Can you be ready in an hour for dinner, or would you rather stay in?”

I didn’t want to disappoint him. He’d clearly put effort into getting us into this place tonight.

“Um… if I don’t wash my hair, yeah. I can be ready.”

“Alright. Come on,” he said, pulling me up from the couch. “Hurry.”

“This is me hurrying.”

The house had two bathrooms, and it felt easier, less distracting, to get ready separately.

I was ready before him. I’d packed a fitted black dress, tights to match. I dry-shampooed the hell out of my hair, teasing it bigger, mostly to cover my ear. I waited at the kitchen island, scrolling through texts, emails, work emails—paranoid, bracing for anything about that stupid article. But still nothing. Without social media, my world was indeed quiet again. It was kind of nice.

Then Michael walked out of the bedroom, and I actually forgot how to breathe.

Usually it’s the other way around—like in the movies. I’d never really seen him in formal clothes before, unless you count the funeral, and this was different. Better. This was for something happy. A date. He looked serious in a way that made my stomach flip. Add a tie, and he was practically dressed for the altar.

“Ready?” he asked, buttoning his left cuff.

“Um. Yeah. Wow.”

“What?”

“You look… really good,” I said. It came out almost predatory. God, I’m a creep.

“Well,” he said, already moving toward the door, “you look really nice too. We just really have to go.”

“Oh. Okay.”

And just like that, the night suddenly felt like it might mean something.

It was strange. He was a little reserved, like something was weighing on him. It almost read as frustration.
Had I missed something?

We sat close together in the back of the Uber, close enough that it took real effort not to start unbuttoning things. I kept my composure.

“Did you guys finish that song?” I asked.

“No, not really. It’s going to become something or nothing. We’re stuck on it at the moment.”

“Oh.”

And that was that. We rode the rest of the way in silence.

When we pulled up to the building, I was genuinely confused. It looked like an abandoned warehouse, or something close to it. Apparently, it was one of those secret, elite places. The restaurant itself was public, but if you didn’t know it was there, you’d never know it existed.

Inside, everything felt old in the best way—high ceilings, intricate moldings, that deep, polished-wood smell you don’t get anywhere new. It was so old. Not creepy old, more like impressive.

The rooms glowed softly, the tin ceilings catching the light from the fireplaces. Multiple sitting areas that must have heard a hundred lifetimes of conversations.

What surprised me most was how big it felt once you were in it. The space kept unfolding, one room leading into another, staircases curling upward, corners that made me wonder what else was hiding just out of sight.

For a moment, I let myself believe this was the kind of place where people got proposed to. Where someone cleared their throat, reached into a pocket, and changed everything. Why else would we be here? We could have gone anywhere.

We were seated in a smaller room with only a few other tables around us. Michael pulled out my chair, and I immediately felt undeserving of it—yesterday’s behavior still plaguing my mind. And this place was so fancy. I didn’t belong here. It was way too classy for me. If I mispronounced something on the menu, I’d instantly out myself as poor. Well, poor by their standards.

I leaned forward over my menu. “This place is so nice,” I whispered.

“Yeah. Do you like it?” Michael asked.

“I feel like I don’t belong here.”

“Oh, stop,” he said, putting on his glasses to get a better look at the wine list.

It all felt too adult.

It was as if Michael had studied the menu and specials beforehand; before I could say a word, he ordered for both of us—several appetizers, several entrées. The server disappeared quickly to put the order in. He didn’t write anything down. We had to trust he’d memorized it like he promised.

“Are we celebrating something tonight?” I asked quietly. Even with other people around us, the room felt hushed. Faint piano music drifted in from somewhere beyond the walls.

“No, not really,” he said. “Just something I think we both needed. The next couple of weeks are going to go by really fast, and then we’ll be in Europe. I just wanted to do something nice.”

“It is. It is nice. Thank you.”

We reached for each other’s hands, then immediately pulled back as the server reappeared out of thin air to open and pour the bottle we’d ordered, like it was some kind of performance. His left wrist steadied the pour from his right.

Oh my God. Hurry up.

When we were finally alone again, we clinked our glasses—no speech, no ceremony—just holding each other’s gaze. Not much needed to be said. At least not by me. Unless he had something to ask. The question.

“So, when I handed John my phone today—”

Oh my God. Please tell me we are not talking about John right now.

“—he apologized, right?” Michael continued. “For being an ass? For resharing the story…?”

I wasn’t going to ruin this moment. I didn’t want to make Michael angry by repeating what John had actually said, or bringing up what we’d texted each other earlier. That was probably what John wanted anyway—to send me back to Michael with our conversation.

“Yep,” I said. “He did. It’s squashed.”

“Okay. Good! Sometimes he does things that don’t even make sense to me, you know? He’s fucking wild.” Michael shook his head and blinked slowly, like he couldn’t wrap his mind around it.

It didn’t need to make sense right now.

I was more curious about where this dinner was going.

It was a quiet dinner. We spent most of it exchanging looks—looks that said I love you, I want you, I don’t want to go back to New York tomorrow.
Or at least, I was thinking that last one.

I ate slowly and carefully, trying not to ruin my lipstick or, God forbid, get something stuck in my teeth. I kept pulling all my hair over my left shoulder to keep the bandage out of sight.

“So what do you think of this place?” he asked again.

“It’s definitely interesting. It’s so old. I love it.”

He looked satisfied with that answer.

“And you had fun today by yourself?” he added.

“I want to say yes, but considering everything… I don’t know. I could have. First the ear, then the stupid video, shutting down all my socials. It was a little much.”

“Yeah. I’m sorry about that. I guess this trip didn’t go as planned.”

“And what was the plan?”

“Well… not anything you just said, that’s for sure. But also, I don’t know. I feel like we didn’t spend any real time down here together.”

“Well, there’s tomorrow morning before the flight.”

He nodded. Disappointment crossed his face like he had failed at something, as if he’d done something wrong. It was really all my stupid bullshit that kept things from being perfect.

Then, just as quickly, his expression changed, from near sadness to something bright and nervous.

“I got something for you,” he said, pulling a small blue velvet box from his jacket pocket and placing it on the table.

My heart jumped straight into my throat.

This can’t be. Not like this. Right?

With my heart pounding, I asked, “Um… what’s this?” My voice was shaky as hell.

“Oh!” He let out a small, mortified laugh and covered his face with one hand. “It’s not—God. I’m sorry. Just open it.”

Okay. So it wasn’t that.

Still, my hands were trembling as I lifted the lid.

Inside was a pair of diamond stud earrings, exactly the size I liked to wear. And real! They caught the light from every angle, sparkling like they were alive.

“Oh my God, babe. These are beautiful! Thank you!” I stood and leaned over to kiss him. The kiss lasted longer than it should have, long enough that I could feel the other tables staring.

“When did you do this?”

“Today. We finished up earlier than I told you.”

“You sneak.”

I sighed softly once I was back in my seat, staring down at them.

“What?” he asked.

“Just that… I won’t be able to wear them for a while.”

“I thought about that,” he said. “But I did tell you I’d buy you new earrings. They’re not hoops, but I liked these better.”

“I just feel so…” I hesitated. “I don’t know. Undeserving?” I said it like a question.

He frowned slightly, like the idea genuinely surprised him. “Hey. No,” he said softly. “That’s not true.”

“You know,” he continued, “even though I knew you were nearby today, I really missed you. I missed you not being at John’s. Admittedly, you would’ve been bored as hell. But still. I wish I could do more. I wish we had more time.”

Wow. One day without me, and he missed me enough to think I deserved diamonds.
Not a ring. Earrings.
I digress.

What mattered was that he meant it. There was an ache on his face when he said it, something honest and exposed. Seeing that, feeling that, mattered more to me than anything. It was what I had always wanted—to be needed, to be someone else’s oxygen.

“Aw.” I smiled. “I don’t know what else to say.”

“Are you disappointed it wasn’t the other thing?” he asked, nodding at the box.

And to my own surprise, I answered, “No. I’m not. I love them. And I’m quite content with everything the way it is right now.” I gestured to the space between us. “Just this.”

“Me too,” he said, reaching for my still-ringless hands.

We mouthed I love you to each other, trying to be discreet enough not to make everyone else want to change tables.

But we were both wearing smiles we couldn’t wipe away.

Even though, in that moment, I think we had just silently agreed to be boyfriend and girlfriend forever.

And I already knew—
it wasn’t going to be enough.

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With nothing else to do but think, my mind drifted into uncharted territory. Dark places, fueled by grief and my own insecurities. I wasn’t ready to lose my dad. I wasn’t ready for Michael to “meet” my family that way. I wasn’t ready for him to hear what my extended family thought of me, how easily they branded me a loser, and how little they cared if it hurt.

I knew Michael loved me. I believed that. But grief has a way of sharpening doubt until it feels like fact. After being quietly humiliated in front of my family, I started to wonder if he was second-guessing my importance. If he was realizing what they seemed so sure of.

That I was a loser.
That I wasn’t a girl worth fighting for.
After all, no one else ever had.

When I told Michael who he had been sitting next to, chatting so easily with my ex, he couldn’t have cared less. He didn’t think anything of it. Not an ounce of jealousy.

That must be nice, I thought, because even after everything, I still felt Jennifer could be a potential threat. The way she watches him, hovers when Michelle is present, the looks she gives me. She’ll always be around. She’ll never fully disappear. She lingered in the back of my mind, haunting me with a constant stream of what-ifs.

I wondered if Michael understood that feeling at all. If the idea of another man close to me would ever unsettle him the way Jennifer unsettled me. If there was anyone who could make him get protective, make him feel like he might lose something.

Adam clearly wasn’t a threat. Adam was history. Finished.
But Jennifer wasn’t.
And that was the difference.

I convinced myself this was all deeply unfair.

I had the rest of the week off from work for bereavement. Just thinking about opening my laptop, pretending nothing had happened, and then returning to normal life after the single week America allots for grief made me feel nauseous. The idea of functioning on command felt obscene.

Around the same time, the honeymoon portion of Michael’s break ended. Sort of. He was constantly on the phone, on conference calls, always talking to management, the label, or sometimes just the guys. More tour dates were added for the summer of 2026, stretching the tour from three months to five. I wasn’t ready to think about that yet, so I didn’t.

He practiced in the third bedroom on his electronic kit, which felt like twenty-four seven. My noise-canceling earphones were useless. Even with the room semi-soundproofed, the sound found its way through the walls, vibrating through the house. It disrupted everything, even my depression. I couldn’t fully sink into it with that constant noise reminding me the world was still moving.

Actually, Michael, being so busy, quietly forced me to function. Not because he asked, but because things needed to be done and no one else was doing them. I couldn’t lie in bed all day forever.

I cooked. I cleaned. I ran small errands. Simple meals, but ones I trusted myself to make without screwing up. He appreciated it. Sometimes he ate quickly and disappeared back upstairs. Other times, when he knew he was done with band stuff for the day, we went out to eat. Those nights felt almost normal, which somehow made them harder.

By Thursday night, I was on the couch, half watching TV, half scrolling on my phone, when he came downstairs.

“Hey,” he said. “How would you feel about going to Nashville tomorrow? Just for the weekend.”

The thought of leaving the couch sent my anxiety through the roof, but getting out of the house felt like something I desperately needed, even if it scared me.

“Or do you need more time?” he added. “I don’t want to force you.”

“I would love to go,” I said quickly. “Is this for John’s thing?”

“Yes.”

“Awesome. And you said tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Too soon?”

“No,” I said. “I just seriously have to pack.”

“Don’t go crazy. It’ll just be two days. Unless you want to stay longer?”

That was tempting, but it was winter. How much could you really do in Nashville in December?

This last-minute trip gave me something to look forward to. Without even finishing the show I was half-watching, I went upstairs to pack. What to pack, though? I wasn’t even sure what I would be doing. Sitting there? Going out? Existing quietly in someone else’s space?

One thoughtful, carefully planned carry-on quickly turned into a giant, absolutely-will-need-to-be-checked piece of luggage. I had completely overpacked.

When Michael came upstairs and saw me stuffing nearly everything I owned into one of his massive hard-case suitcases, he laughed.

“What are you doing? It’s two and a half-ish days.”

“Two and a half-ish?” I said. “Don’t tell me that. This is only everything for two days.”

I delivered it deadpan, waiting for him to realize I was kidding. Eventually, he got it.

He walked over and assessed the damage. “Jesus. Okay,” scratching his head.

Later, when we climbed into bed, I felt lifted, happy, excited. I considered throwing myself on top of him, but then thoughts from last weekend crept back in, and I killed the mood before it even had a chance.

Instead, I streamed the rest of my series from bed until I fell asleep.

I should probably snap out of this soon, I thought. I didn’t want to ruin any more of his time at home. Maybe he needed this trip as much as I did. It had to be exhausting, being endlessly supportive for this long. He was probably already over it.

The flight to Nashville was rough, to say the least. The turbulence had me praying, and I’m an atheist.

We checked into a posh as fuck Airbnb. The place was gorgeous, like it had been designed by Joanna Gaines herself. White walls with black trim, vaulted ceilings, reclaimed wood beams. The location was perfect too, close enough to Broadway but not too far from John’s place.

I was already falling in love with the house. I am painfully easy to impress.

Unfortunately, we didn’t get to enjoy it. Not right away. We were whisked off to John’s in a private car. After just a few miles, it felt like we were deep in country country. John lived on a few acres, his main house a ranch with a small guest house tucked away on the other side of the property.

How did he manage a place like this?

It was freezing when we knocked. The wait for the door to open felt endless. A few flakes drifted down, our breath visible. When John finally opened the door, he greeted Michael with a bro hug and a cheerful, “Hello!”

I got a low, enthusiastic, “Sup?”

Not exactly the welcome I was expecting.

Did he not want me here? Was it considered lame to bring your girlfriend to another guy’s bachelor pad? Was I a distraction? Was I keeping them from sitting around, being dudes, talking about girls?

Michael didn’t seem to notice anything off. John was moody. Manic. Most brooding singer-songwriters were. Still, I felt it. Quite tense and uncomfortable. Did he not know I was coming, maybe?

John’s main house was completely gutted. It was essentially one massive studio with a kitchen and bathroom. He slept in the ADU, which was really his house, I suppose.

With most of the walls down, the space felt enormous. Michael already had a twin kit set up that he kept here. Everything was intentional and convenient. No neighbors to worry about. It was the perfect hideaway for a band.

We took off our jackets and quickly realized there was nowhere to put them. We tossed them onto an empty chair. As Michael started tuning his drums, John finally turned to me, removing a guitar pick from between his lips.

“I heard about your dad. Sorry.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

“That sucks.”

“Yeah. It does.”

“Can I get you something to drink before we start?”

“Sure. What do you have?”

He stared at the ceiling, like he was doing complicated math.

“Uh. Not much. Water? Tea? Coffee? Oh, wait. No coffee.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m good.”

He looked slightly insulted, which confused me. He had just admitted he didn’t have much. I already felt like my presence was cutting into their time.

He shrugged, clearly working up the courage to ask something else.

“So,” he said, “how are things going between you two? All good? Did you meet Jen?”

I immediately didn’t want to answer that. Not the Jen part. It felt like he was fishing for something, something juicy. What would he get from that? I wanted to kill any chance of gossip before it could take shape.

“Yeah, we’re good. We’re great. And yes, I met Jen.”

“And?”

“And that’s it, I guess.”

Unsatisfied, he nodded and walked away. I caught him slightly rolling his eyes as he turned.

So fucking weird.

While they jammed and brainstormed, I wandered the property. It was plain. Boring. Expansive in a way that felt empty. How did he come up with anything out here? Was that why he needed gossip? Did he mine other people’s relationships for inspiration?

I wasn’t interested in becoming anyone’s muse.

I took a seat in the only other empty chair and pulled out a book I grabbed from the Airbnb, one of those Chicken Soup for the Soul types. Something easy. Something that didn’t ask me to think too hard. With the house barely furnished, the sound bounced violently off the walls. Louder than any concert I’d ever been to.

Reading was probably not going to happen. I needed a break. So, I threw on my jacket, hat, and gloves and stepped out back onto the wraparound porch. It needed a little love, but it was still beautiful. Quieter out here. Snow began to dust the grounds, and I was buried under so many layers that the cold barely registered. I must have sat on the steps for a good hour before going back inside.

I entered on tiptoe when I realized they were actually trying to track something. I debated going back to the Airbnb and taking a nap, but that would look rude, wouldn’t it? Even though the house was huge and practically hollow, I felt in the way. At this point, I was just counting the minutes until we left for the day. I had no idea what the plans were, or if we even had plans.

Buzz.

Who could be texting me? Everyone I know is here, I joked to myself. It wasn’t a text. It was an Instagram notification. A friend request from Adam.

Suddenly, I felt exposed. On display. I wanted to hide before doing anything at all. I walked calmly to the bathroom, which was disgusting, by the way, and closed the toilet lid before sitting down. I realized I was still wearing my hat and gloves. It got hot fast. I was sweating now, staring at the request.

Why would he be so quick to add me? Was I getting a pass now that my father had died? Had whatever resentment he held dissolved under the circumstances?

Screw it.

I accepted.

And in return, followed him also.

Bracing myself for what I suspected could be a setup, I clicked through to his profile. Nothing new. Nothing had been uploaded since that cat picture. Maybe he just wanted to be friends again? It had been almost six months since we’d existed in each other’s lives through social media. I checked my own profile, making sure there was nothing there that could possibly upset him.

Wait. Why am I doing this? Why do I care? He sees what he sees.

Why couldn’t I stay mad at him?

Buzz.

In real time, he hearted one of my most recent photos. That POV shot of the fireplace in Michael’s living room. My face flushed with embarrassment for reasons I couldn’t even explain.

Knock, knock.

Startled, ripped from my thoughts, the phone slipped from my hands and clattered onto the install-it-yourself tile.

“Andrea, are you in there?” Michael asked.

“Yes,” I said. What a stupid question.

“Okay. How long are you going to be? I need to—”

I pulled the door open before he could finish.

“All done.”

“Thanks.”

Before I could slip past him, he saw too much.

“Whoa. Were you outside? You’re all red.”

“I was. You didn’t notice? I disappeared for a bit.”

“Oh. Okay. Don’t disappear again,” he said, adding a little wink.

What the fuck am I doing? I was epically confused.

Four hours had passed. I had run out of conclusions as to why Adam wanted back in my life. My mind wandered constantly, attention drifting in and out, yet somehow I still managed to finish the book.

The tracking session continued, and after a while, everything I heard sounded the same. I wasn’t sure if they’d written a whole new song before my eyes or not. At one point, a single measure played over and over on a loop. They sat there with their eyes closed, really listening, deciding if it was worth building on. John’s MacBook sat at the center of it all.

I wasn’t the one to bring the day to a close. Hunger did that. John and Michael were starving, and we started packing up to leave for dinner.

Finally. Please get me out of here.

“Let’s go to that place in East. You know the one I’m talking about?”

Michael slid into his jacket, zipper halfway up. “Uh, yeah.”

“Cool. Not really in the mood to get mobbed right now, but we can definitely hit Broadway after. Andrea, you’ve never been, right?”

“No. I’d love to go. If that’s cool with you guys. Just… not if you think you’ll ‘get mobbed.’”

“I know. What an asshole thing to presume, right?” John laughed.

I laughed too, but it was forced. My God, the fame was already going to his head. Now we were ducking and hiding in pockets of the city? It was funny enough that he’d hired a private car service to pick us up in the first place. It was all a little much. Almost laughable.

Let’s see what happens.

John drove us to his favorite Nashville hot chicken spot in the band’s first-ever van, which looked like something straight out of Scooby-Doo. He parked it five blocks away. Again, more stifled laughter. We crept through the city. Michael was quiet. Almost like he forgot he existed when John was around. That was the effect John had, a spotlight so strong it sucked the air out of the room. Too much personality, too much presence. Best not to encourage it.

He did play the broken-hearted musician well, though. His hair was a mess, jeans ripped at both knees, flannel layered over everything, Docs on his feet. Maybe he thought it made him blend in. It didn’t. If anything, it made him impossible to miss.

We got a few looks as we entered the tiny food joint, but being a party of three seemed to throw people off just enough. Surprisingly, we were able to eat in peace. It had only been a few weeks since the end of the tour, yet John and Michael were catching up like they’d been apart for years.

“Where are we going after the late show taping? We have to celebrate,” John said.

“Good question. Maybe Steve has something planned.”

Steve was their manager. I’d never met him, but his name came up constantly. They both spoke highly of him, and that was enough for me.

“Okay, but what about tonight? Tootsie’s? Aldean’s?”

Michael looked over at me, mouth closed, intensely focused on chewing a massive piece of hot chicken.

“Um, you choose, John. You live here. I trust you,” I said, answering for us.

“If it’s up to me… Nashville Underground.”

Within seconds, I was pulling out my phone to see what kind of place it was. It looked like every other bar on the strip, loud and interchangeable. I couldn’t decide either way. I gave in. It wasn’t like I had suggestions.

“Sounds good,” I said. “Can we go in what we’re wearing, or do we need to change?”

“Nah, you’re fine.”

Michael was still chewing. Please don’t choke.

We both looked at him, partly as the final vote and partly to make sure he was still alive. He flashed an enthusiastic thumbs-up mid-chew. That settled it.

Once again, John parked far enough from Broadway that we could’ve just walked from his house. I was biting my tongue again. Despite the cold, we left our jackets in the car. Warmth became the motivation as we merged into an already chaotic Friday night. Broadway was closed off at both ends. People chose outfits over comfort, skin exposed to the cold like a badge of honor. Trolleys packed with bachelorette parties rolled by, every girl dressed in white. White boots. White cowgirl hats. It was impossible to tell who the bride was.

That is something I never want to do again. Bachelorette parties. Even a fun one. Even in Nashville. I’d always found them loud and pointless, this ritualized panic over the so-called end of fun.

Everything was so bright and colorful. I can’t remember if I’ve ever been surrounded by this much neon. As we got closer to the action, there was major foot traffic. We were single file now, squeezing between people, keeping our heads down.

A massive line wrapped around the building.

Absolutely not was written all over my face as I stood there in a T-shirt, shivering uncontrollably. John pulled out his phone and called Steve. This was where fame came in handy. Less than a minute later, the bar’s assistant manager emerged, waved off security, and escorted us inside.

Cool. For about five seconds.

People in line noticed immediately. The looks intensified. Who were these people cutting ahead while everyone else froze? Then it happened.

Loud gasps. “John! JOHN!”

A girl screamed his name from the line, high-pitched and frantic. Others joined in. One shrieked so close to my ear that it physically hurt. I slapped my hand over it as Michael nudged me forward. He looked like he wanted to crawl out of his own skin.

We were ushered inside, and John lagged behind us.

He turned back toward the line and waved. Smiled. Let it land. Let it stretch.

He loved this. Me now deaf.

Inside, the bar was packed, at least on the first level. Luckily, the noise was so overwhelming that no one could possibly hear the screams for John outside. Once we were in, our anonymity returned almost immediately. My ear was still ringing as the door closed behind us.

There was a band playing covers, at least two bachelorette parties, and just about every type of person you could imagine. In stark contrast to the cold outside, it was blazing hot inside the Underground. I felt a small surge of pride for leaving our jackets in the car. It’s the little wins.

We made our way to the upper floors, away from the press of bodies below. A DJ was at the deck, lasers slicing through the smoke. It had an old-school vibe I couldn’t help but enjoy.

John vanished to get us shots. How he managed to maneuver through that many people so quickly felt almost superhero-like. Batman, if Batman wanted to disappear one second and command everyone’s attention the next.

I spun slowly in place, taking it all in, every tight cluster of people leaning in close to be heard. The place felt alive. Electric. Brooklyn suddenly seemed dull in comparison, and Hudson—Hudson didn’t even stand a chance.

“Would you ever move here?” I shouted into Michael’s ear.

“I don’t know. Probably not. Not with my family and everyone back in Brooklyn.”

Right. Of course.

I should have seen that coming. I’m so fucking selfish. Once Michelle turns eighteen, surely we will no longer be tethered to Jen, right? Nonna won’t live forever. His parents are in Florida. I don’t get it.

“What about, like, having a second home here or something?” I added quickly.

He smiled. “You like it that much, huh? You’ve barely seen any of it.”

With a shrug, “Just curious.”

And there it was. The moment I heard myself. The way I sounded. As if every new, shiny thing could instantly become a future. As if liking a city for ten minutes meant wanting to build a life in it. If I kept going like this, he might start to think my feelings worked the same way—impulsive, fleeting, disposable.

I wasn’t in love with Michael because he was the first man I’d laid eyes on since my separation. This wasn’t a rebound. It wasn’t novelty. It was love at first sight. I hope he knows this.

I shut up. I knew I needed to dial it back. Especially considering I was still recovering from the embarrassment of asking him to marry me last Friday. The fantasies. The imagined timelines. Every surge of excitement didn’t need to turn into a life plan, I told myself.

John squeezed in between us, appearing almost out of thin air. Both hands carried three shots. Golden. Tequila, most likely. He handed them out, glasses filled to the brim and already spilling.

He raised his. “To… 2026.”

Okay. 2026, I guess.

I knew he meant the band. The tour. Their success. But my mind went somewhere else entirely. Michael and me. Whether I could last. Whether I could keep my sanity as his girlfriend if this was what life looked like now. Only 2026 would tell.

We clinked glasses, sloshing expensive tequila onto the floor, and threw them back.

“Okay,” John said, coughing slightly. “I’m getting more.”

And just like that, he was gone again.

Michael and I laughed because there was nothing else to do. We both couldn’t dance.

Within seconds, I felt it. The buzz rushing in. That dangerous, convincing feeling that nothing would ever be better than this exact moment. Everything was beautiful.

John reappeared by ducking under a couple dancing nearby. More shots. No toast this time. No pause.

We pounded them back. And then more.

The rhythm felt deliberate. Drink. Disappear. Return. Drink again. Like this was the whole point of the night. Like sobriety wasn’t invited.

Again.
And again.
And again.

By the time I noticed how quickly everything was blurring, it already felt too late to slow it down.

After four—or was it five?—shots, I felt incredible. Loose. Fuzzy. Also kind of horny. That happens sometimes. Without thinking, I pressed myself into Michael and started making out with him, right there on what I think was the dance floor. My eyes were closed. For all I knew, John had already reappeared with more shots or vanished to another floor entirely.

About a minute in, Michael pulled back slightly, just enough to look around.

Some guys were staring. Lingering. Thirsty bridesmaids who looked like they wanted in on the fun. Whoops. I didn’t mean to create a scene.

“If you want to keep this going,” he joked into my ear, “maybe we should head back.”

“I definitely want to keep this going,” I said. “Just not ready to leave yet. More shots?”

“Oh God. Are you sure? Your eyes are already glassy.”

I hated it when he sounded like a rational adult.

“Okay. Maybe water, then.”

“We can do that.”

He turned toward the bar, gently pulling me along. It was only then that I noticed how many people were watching us, even after the show had ended. Fuck off, I thought. Or maybe they were counting. Confirming whether all of us from Black Bloom were present.

When we asked for water, the bartender laughed. Actually laughed. Kind of rude. Then the assistant manager appeared, the same one who’d let us in earlier, and leaned in to whisper something. The bartender nodded, posture changing immediately. When the manager walked away, the bartender stood straighter, slid two tall glasses of water toward us with exaggerated care, and asked if there was anything else he could get us on the house.

The special treatment, if that’s what it was, made everything that much more awkward.

Before we could decline, John stumbled up behind us and placed his hand on my lower back, far too close to my ass. Somewhere over the course of the day, I’d developed the ick. It was disappointing. I’d liked him at the Fillmore. Now I knew better. He’s obnoxious. Sloppy. A perv.

His touch was completely unwanted. There was a small caress. My eyes went wide.

Michael didn’t notice.

John leaned in close. Too close. His breath reeked of liquor, warm against my neck.

“See that girl over there?” he slurred. “Orange shirt.”

I pulled away slightly. “Yeah. What about her?”

“If I could pull her, would you and Michael be interested?”

I recoiled instantly. Took a full step back. Stared at him, waiting for the punchline. There wasn’t one. His face was tense, expectant, like he needed a yes to justify asking.

I leaned in just enough to be heard, keeping a careful distance.

“Dude, no. Sorry.”

I laughed it off, even though my stomach had dropped. Even though I was horrified. He smiled like he’d known the answer all along, lifted another glass to his lips.

“Alright, alright. Don’t tell Michael.”

And then he was gone again. Houdini.

Michael was still chatting with the bartender, having already refused whatever else was being offered. I wanted to tell him. I really did. But when he finally turned back to me, smiling, I let it go. I was tired of killing the vibe. John was drunk. He wouldn’t remember. So I shouldn’t either.

“Want to head back downstairs and check out the band?” Michael shouted.

“Yeah!”

We wove through the crowd toward the stairwell, gripping the banister with one hand and my water with the other as the tequila continued to rot my brain cells. We moved carefully, one step at a time.

Then John burst through the stairwell door, slid down the banister on his ass for a solid twenty steps, and crashed onto the landing.

We both gasped.

“Dude! You okay?” Michael asked.

“You guys leaving me?”

“We weren’t leaving. Jesus. Just going back down to check out the band.”

“Hm-mm. Well, I know them. Let’s go,” he said while walking off the embarrassment.

He knows them, huh? That makes sense. Even though John had only been living in Nashville for a few years, he acted like he was a native. Granted, it wasn’t a huge city, but he made it his job to know everyone, and now everyone knew him in return. He was Broadway’s mayor.

“Yo, seriously, John,” Michael said. “The less attention, the better. There are way too many people here. We were already getting looks upstairs. Steve knows we’re here, so you know. You know?“

“Yes. Please,” John added. “You need to chill.”

“Well, you almost broke your ass just now, so—”

Michael didn’t get to finish before the door opened, and we were slapped with a wave of sound. Loud, but not unbearable. The band was transitioning between songs. Once the guitar player started the opening riff to “Sweet Home Alabama,” the place erupted. Drunk girls screamed. “This is my song!” one yelled. She couldn’t have been older than twenty-two. One guy, dressed like Elvis, put his hands in the air as if he were receiving a private message from God. He was a vibe. It was all too fun.

We tried to push closer but got stuck almost immediately. There was no space left. Not even an inch. A girl pressed against my back. One tall guy’s ass jammed into my side. My face shoved into Michael’s shoulder blades.

Panic crept in fast.

I didn’t know I was claustrophobic. Apparently, I’m learning a lot about myself lately.

I could barely see. At five-foot-eight, it didn’t matter. The crowd was a solid wall of bodies, most of them in cowboy boots, giving everyone an extra two inches. All I could do was listen, my arms wrapped around Michael’s waist, afraid we could possibly get separated.

That was when the band’s singer stopped mid-lyric.

Another voice took over.

John’s.

His stupid ass had climbed onto the stage and pushed himself in front of the mic. The band didn’t mind. They encouraged it, if anything. Girls screamed. If no one remembered the cover band’s name, they would now. I guess John hadn’t been exaggerating when he said he knew them.

Some women started to bum rush the stage. Standing on tiptoe, I caught the bass player’s terrified reaction. That’s a mental image that would stay with me. It was hilarious. Practically a meme.

The band’s guitar player leaned into his own mic and shouted, “Yep! Black Bloom is in the house, ya’ll!”

All those bodies turning now. John absolutely loving it.

Michael turned abruptly, bending down to reach my ear. “We should slip out.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

We didn’t even get the chance.

A girl, the bride—clearly labeled across her tank top, tiara, and veil included—grabbed Michael’s shoulder and squinted at him until her eyes confirmed to her brain it was, in fact, Mike from Black Bloom.

“Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God! Can I get a picture, please?” She begged.

“Sure.”

The photo happened in a blink. Quick. Painless. Or so I thought.

She waved over the rest of her ridiculous-looking entourage, all dressed in matching hot pink outfits.

“Just a few more, sorry,” she said, gripping Michael by the waistband of his jeans as if to keep him in place.

Was this actually happening? I watched her hands carefully.

Within seconds, I was shoved aside by three of her bridesmaids. Michael didn’t even notice. He stayed polite, let them take a few more photos, then tried to disengage.

The bride didn’t take the hint.

“No, no. Just a few more. You’re so hot,” she slurred, grabbing his shirt with some force.

Despite the deafening music and screams, I swear I heard threads snap.

Something in me snapped, too.

The music collapsed into a high-pitched ringing. I pressed my forearm into her collarbone and shoved her backward.

“Back off!” I yelled.

Her drunk ass went down hard. Almost theatrically. For a split second, it looked fake, like she was hoping to make a scene big enough to get comped. I wondered if I’d pushed her harder than I meant to.

Before I could even decide to apologize, one of her friends slapped me across the face, yanking my hair and ripping at my earrings.

That’s when I lost it.

I swung. Scratched. Fought blind. I wasn’t sure who I was hitting—her, the bride again, someone else entirely. Hands were everywhere. Theirs. Michael’s. Security’s.

I heard people cheering at the sheer sight of a catfight—mostly men, of course.

Then suddenly I was airborne.

Weightless.

Thrown over someone’s shoulder like a rag doll. The room flipped upside down. Faces blurred. My necklace kept swinging into my mouth.

The club’s doors were pushed open. The air was cold and stabbing.

The bouncer dumped me onto the sidewalk and shoved me once I was upright.

“Get lost!”

That was it? That was the best he had?

I realized, dimly, that he was doing me a favor by not pinning me down or calling the cops.

While the doors remained open, I saw people helping the bride off the floor. Some of her friends looked ready to come after me. I saw them stomping towards the exit before the door promptly closed. Hide!

I ran into the crowded street and made myself disappear. Ducking, weaving, checking every few feet for Michael.

Broadway was a mess. It had to be twenty degrees, but my adrenaline drowned out the cold.

Where is he? Getting John? Fuck John. This was all his fault. He just had to play diva.

“Hey, baby,” some guy said as he passed, looking me up and down.

That’s when I noticed my shirt was ripped. My bra exposed. Goddamnit! I crossed my arms over my chest, trying to keep covered.

Someone came up behind me. I turned, ready to swing.

It was Michael.

“Jesus—sorry!” I gasped, trying to breathe.

He grabbed me by both wrists.

“Are you okay? Fuck. You’re bleeding.”

“What?” I said, touching my face, my neck.

Blood. From my ear. My earring was gone, ripped clean out. It ran down my neck toward my chest. How did those guys notice my bra but not blood? Stupid question, I suppose.

Michael wrapped an arm around me and pulled out his phone, calling an Uber. We had to walk. No car was getting anywhere near Broadway.

“Where’s John?” I asked. “All of our stuff is in his van.”

“Yeah. Fuck John right now. He’s too busy being King of the Nashville Underground.”

Our swift walking turned into a jog to get beyond 5th Avenue and the fuck out of this nightmare.

The Uber pulled up just as we reached the corner. It was quite cinematic, like an escape scene from a cheesy action thriller.

Seatbelts on. God, just get us home.

“Look at me,” Michael said, lifting my chin, scanning my face for any more damage.

“Wow. Your lips are blue.”

“Well, I’m freezing. How bad is my ear, though?”

“It looks worse than it is. But we’ll check it when we get back.”

“Ugh. I loved those earrings.”

“I’ll buy you new ones.”

The driver kept glancing at us in the mirror. I couldn’t tell if he wanted the story or wanted to insert himself. Either way, we weren’t interested.

I thought about saying, “I’m sorry,” but I was so sick of apologizing to this man and making a complete fool of myself. I stayed quiet. He was reading my mind nonetheless.

“That girl had no right to touch me. Or rip my shirt. I draw the line there. You just… beat me to it.”

He laughed softly.

I said nothing. I was too angry, and I didn’t trust my voice. I didn’t want him to know how rattled I was. A beer to the face, hair pulled, ear ripped. What would be next in this saga? Just shut up, Andrea!

“We’ll get our stuff from John tomorrow,” he continued. “I’m heading over there to finish the song. Do you want to come? Or…”

“Honestly, I think I’ll stay at the Airbnb,” I said, staring at my scuffed shoes. “Maybe go shopping. It’s supposed to be warmer.”

“I figured. That’s fine. You won’t miss much.”

The air in the car felt tense. There was some silence.

“Oh shit,” he said. “I’m just noticing your shirt.”

The driver looked in the rearview mirror again. Fucking creep.

We got out at the Airbnb, the cold biting hard. I’m so glad Michael never took the keys out of his pocket. If he had left them in the van, we’d be fucked right now.

Michael flipped on the lights, and they stung my eyes a bit.

“Come here,” Michael said gently. “Let me see.”

He touched my earlobe. I winced.

“No urgent care,” he said. “Just clean it and put something on it.”

I pushed his hand away. I was so over it. I still didn’t want to apologize for ruining the evening, not yet, not ever. Instead, I had a question. “Is this going to be a problem? With Steve? Are you involved in any of this?”

“No. It’s done. John jumped off the stage and started dancing with the bride, even though she had a fat lip. Which she gave herself. She looked like she had forgotten everything. Her friends were pissed, though. I think they tried calling the cops but gave up. They must have figured it wasn’t worth ruining the rest of the night for their friend. I went out the back.”

“I see.”

“And for what it’s worth,” he added, “I didn’t like how rough that guy was with you. I had to restrain myself.”

I smiled despite myself. There it was—that protectiveness I’d wondered existed.

“Whatever girl he brings home better not steal shit from my purse,” I mumbled.

“No, it’ll be okay,” he said. “Promise.”

I pulled what was left of my shirt over my head and dropped it straight into the trash. Michael watched, confused, as I peeled off the rest of my clothes right there in the kitchen.

“Um… are you okay?” he asked, gesturing vaguely at my naked body.

“Mm-hmm.”

I flipped off the lights, plunging the open space into darkness.

“Join me in the shower?” I said into the shadows.

“Oh, fuck yeah.”

He followed.

Wild sex felt safer than words. Better than saying what I really thought. Better than admitting that John had orchestrated this, that none of it was random. Was it really a coincidence that everything unraveled only after I’d shut down his proposition?

But no word from him.

Not even a text asking if we were okay.

Wondering if we left.

Nothing.

I see you now, John.

I really do.

Click here for chapter art and more!

When I finally arrived, I climbed the brownstone steps completely exhausted. I used my forehead to knock on the door, already losing my mind. A silhouette moved behind the glass. The interior door opened, then the front door.

“Hey,” Michael said, with worry. He took both bags from my hands and set them down in the foyer while I practically sleepwalked past him. Then he placed a hand on my shoulder, turned me around, and pulled me into the tightest hug. It was sweet, but I really did not want to start crying again.

“Andrea!” Michelle yelled from the kitchen.

Suddenly, I was wide awake.

I walked farther inside and found Michelle perched on a high stool at the kitchen island. The marble counter was a mess of flour and sprinkles.

“We’re making cookies. Can you help?” she asked.

“Sure, sweetie. Let me just wash my hands.”

As I leaned over the counter, Michael stepped alongside me and asked quietly, “Are you okay? What was decided? What are the plans?”

“Um. Yeah. Sorry. The services are on Friday and Saturday. I’m sorry,” I said.

“Sorry for what? Please don’t worry about it.”

I nodded, too tired to be annoyed by any more questions.

“I’ll fill you in. It’s not much. But can I bake these cookies with her first?”

“Oh, totally. Um, dinner? I saved you some.”

I shook my head. “No. I still can’t eat. Thanks, though.”

His face and tone were full of concern, but he wasn’t going to push it. Not now, and not in front of Michelle.

I hopped onto the stool next to her. She had some flour on her face. It was so easy for her to be adorable.

“Who are these for, Michelle?” I asked, always curious about whatever cute answer she had ready.

“Some for you and Dad. Some for Mom and her friends.”

Hmm. Any chance we could lace Mommy’s cookies with something? I thought to myself. Focusing on Jennifer was oddly relieving. It pulled my mind away from my dad, at least for a little while.

The next hour was spent baking cookies and watching a movie. Up and down, up and down, checking the timer and the oven, making sure not to burn the cookies she had molded into uneven shapes.

The last batch of cookies came out of the oven and onto the cooling racks. As tired as I was, I refused to go to sleep until she did. When she woke up tomorrow, I would wake up too.

I led her upstairs and stayed close as she moved through her bedtime routine—shower, fresh flannel pajamas, turning down the bed, tossing all the plushies onto the floor except one. I stayed with her until she finally fell asleep. Something so small began to heal me in a way I couldn’t explain. She was comforting me, whether she knew it or not.

Sneaking out of her room was nearly impossible with the creaking floors. There was no way to do it quietly. Not with my ungraceful ass.

I went downstairs to clean up, but of course, it had already been done. Michael was nowhere in sight. I climbed the stairs again and found him in the shower. For a fleeting moment, I considered joining him, but the bed looked more appealing than anything I had to offer right now.

I stripped down to my bra and underwear and collapsed under the covers. My body shut down almost instantly, making up for two nights of shitty, restless sleep. I did not think. I just disappeared for a while.

Unfortunately, I was ripped from sleep around 7:00 a.m. by a nightmare. It made no sense, except that my father was in it. He was young, not how he looked before he passed, but the version my sister had been talking about. The leather jacket. The swagger. The Fonz era. In the dream, I was meeting him for the first time.

I turned onto my side and saw Michael still asleep. It was rare for me to be awake before him. I lay there for a moment before I quietly slipped out of bed.

Downstairs, I turned on the TV, first thing. I didn’t know if Michelle watched the Macy’s Day Parade every year, but I did. It was tradition. A must. I started the coffee and waited for them to wake up. I had time. Time to cry. Time to get all of today’s crying out of the way before anyone else is around.

Michael’s friends were arriving around four. Friends he made a point to see whenever he was in Brooklyn. Friends he’d known since his teens. I had never had an adult-only Thanksgiving without my own family or Adam’s, before. This should be interesting. And of course, Nonna Lena would be joining us too.

I heard a creak on the staircase and turned on the couch just in time to see Michelle peeking down at me. I smiled, both inside and out.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning,” she said, still half asleep.

“Can I make you something for breakfast?”

“Cereal?”

“Um. Yeah. I can make cereal,” I said, dry enough that she caught it.

While she ate, she carefully dictated which cookies were going with Jen, hopefully the poisoned ones, and which Michael and I were allowed to keep and share with our guests. That was about when Michael came downstairs. His face was serious, which immediately put me on edge.

He walked toward me with purpose. “I just want to put this out there. I can cancel today if you want,” he offered.

“No. No, no, no. Please don’t do that. I need this right now.”

“Okay. I just wanted to make sure.”

“I’m fine. Really.”

I wasn’t.

Still holding a tin of cookies in my right hand, I managed to pull him into a hug, silently promising I would not fall apart today.

“You guys are cute,” Michelle said.

She had both of us laughing now. So far, it has been a perfect morning.

Not too long after, the doorbell rang.

We had barely watched the parade for ten minutes when Jennifer showed up. Early! Why?

Michael opened the door, and all three of us exchanged tired, unenthusiastic Happy Thanksgivings.

“Michelle! You’re not dressed yet?” Jennifer shouted.

“We weren’t expecting you so early,” I said before Michael could.

There was a brief stare-down, broken only by Michelle darting between us and running up the stairs.

“Hurry!” Jen yelled.

“In a rush?” Michael asked.

“You know the traffic, Michael. Come on. I have to be in Toms River by two.”

“That’s plenty of time,” I said.

The look she gave me could have peeled paint. So much for she likes you.

Jennifer had clearly woken up on the wrong side of an empty bed.

I went into the kitchen and grabbed her designated batch of cookies. “Here, by the way. Michelle baked these for you and your friends.”

“Oh. Well, that’s cute. Thanks,” shaking the tin. “Cookies?”

“Yep”. That gesture seemed to lighten her up a bit.

Michelle came downstairs quickly. We had picked out her outfit together the night before, so there was no debate. She rushed to put on her shoes before her mother had a chance to command anything else. I stepped back and let Michael hug her first.

“See you soon, sweetie,” he said. “Be good for Mommy.”

Mommy? Please. I wanted to gag.

Then Michelle hugged me. I held on longer than necessary. She didn’t pull away. I think that may have turned Jen’s face an extra shade of red. The devil in me loved every second of it.

“Oh! My cookies!”

“I have them, Michelle. Let’s go,” Jennifer said, reaching for her hand.

She practically yanked her out the door. I stood there, stunned. I thought I was cranky, but that was almost cartoonish. I didn’t like the way she grabbed her arm either.

Once the door closed behind them, I finally spoke.

“What was her problem? What was that about?” I asked.

“I honestly don’t know,” Michael said. “But this is what I’ve been dealing with for years. Sometimes she’s fine. Other times she’s like this. I think she’s laying it on extra thick because of you.”

“That’s not an excuse to drag your own daughter out of the house.”

“I know. You’re right,” he said. “Even Michelle knows how unpredictable she can be.”

“Is there a way to modify your custody agreement?” I asked.

“What?” He shot me a look that was dead serious.

“Just kidding. Relax.”

“Oh my God. I thought you were serious,” he said with a sigh of relief.

“Nope.”

But I was.

The rest of the day passed like a dream. The kind you wake from already forgetting. I moved through the motions of preparing for a holiday: setting the table, getting dressed, helping Michael with anything and everything in the kitchen, and straightening up the living room. But my mind remained blank. Empty. I felt like a pod person, following instructions without the energy to form an opinion. Just doing what I was programmed to do. That was all I had in me.

Around four in the afternoon, his friends arrived. Some brought wine. Some brought dessert. One couple showed up with their own food since they were vegan. Three couples total, yet I still felt dizzy being introduced to all of them: Chris and Ashley, Danielle and Keith, Kevin and Devon.

Even though these were the people Michael considered his closest friends, they were not caught up on who I was or what was going on, really. The opening conversations all sounded the same. How did you meet? And when? What do you do for work? One thing Michael and I had already agreed on was not mentioning my father. Not even in passing. It was my idea. I did not want to bring the mood down, but more than that, I needed a day where I did not think about it. A day to pretend everything was fine. Normal.

I found myself enjoying the girls almost immediately. They were more my speed. Grounded. Basic. They had jobs, responsibilities, real lives they talked about with ease. Not like Samantha, who took every day as it came. I couldn’t relate to that, but Danielle, Ashley, and Devon felt like alternate versions of me, and being with them came naturally. Nothing felt forced. It helped that none of Michael’s friends treated him differently, even with the album climbing the charts and the summer tour expanding. To them, he was just Mike. It was refreshing to blend in, to feel ordinary. This is my world, I thought. Or maybe it could be.

After dinner, the girls and I stayed behind in the dining room, talking and steadily working through the wine. The boys, along with Lena, funny enough, watched football in the other room. I sat there listening, laughing, feeling light in a way I had not all day.

This is great, I kept thinking. This works. There was a version of life here where everything felt possible. A version where he could live normally and still be content. And for the first time all day, not thinking about my father felt like relief instead of guilt.

Michelle stayed on my mind after that. Seeing how easy and relaxed the day had been made me think about what my own family could look like. A child who was mine. One no one could rip from my arms.

When everyone left close to eleven, the sadness crept back in. Not because the night was over, but because it reminded me that tomorrow was waiting. That I would have to show up again. Mentally. Physically. For everything.

When getting ready for bed, I zoned out while brushing my teeth, and I must have been brushing for up to five minutes before Michael felt the need to poke his head in and check on me.

“All good?” He asked.

“Wha–? Oh. Yeah.

“Did you have fun today? Despite, of course…”

“I did. Really. I really like your friends. Sorry. I am already dreading tomorrow. That’s where my head’s at.”

“I understand. I’m glad you liked them. It seemed like you guys were having a good time in the kitchen.”

“We did. A lot of girl talk.” I said, with a smile.

“Uh oh, what does that mean? Anything about me?”

“I can’t tell you. Girls only.”

He smiled, understanding that I was just playing around with whatever humor I had left for the day. Then he stepped behind me and wrapped his arms around me, our faces side by side in the mirror. I barely recognized us. We looked like a real couple.

It hit me then. Meeting his real friends and forming those small bonds was what made us feel official, especially when the girl-talk drifted toward questions of marriage. An answer I avoided, though I could not stop myself from blushing.

This was the feeling I had been searching for on Monday. I existed now. I was real to everyone. Everyone who truly mattered.

It was easy for Michael to fall asleep within minutes after everything he had done that day. I fell asleep just as quickly, but not because of today. It was the exhaustion of everything else. Dark thoughts circled my head before finally draining away. Thoughts like how, if I were dead right now, I wouldn’t have anything left to worry about. Somehow, that felt easier. Death.

When my eyes opened again, the clock read 8:00 a.m., but I was frozen. I couldn’t move. Can’t I just lie here all day? Please don’t make me face this day. Instead, I fell back asleep until I felt Michael shaking me awake.

“Hey. Andrea. Come on, get up. It’s almost noon.”

My eyes opened, but I said nothing.

I watched him grab my duffel bag and start sorting through it. What the fuck is he doing?

“What are you wearing today? Where are your things?” he asked.

God. I must have looked lifeless enough that he thought he needed to dress me. That was what finally made me sit up.

“I’m good,” I said. “I’m up!”

I got ready at a snail’s pace. I think I was doing this intentionally. Why would anyone want to rush into something like this?

But somehow, I managed.

Black top with a black pencil skirt. Black tights, black boots. Giant, wavy hair. Red lipstick, because I looked pale as fuck. And most importantly, my mother’s red clutch.

I went down the last flight of stairs slowly. Michael was waiting for me in the living room, and with each step, I got a clearer look at him. He was dressed in black, dressed up in a way I had never seen before. Serious and formal.

I froze, long enough to take a mental picture. It felt like a first look—bride and groom energy—which was insane, considering where we were going and why. Not the time. Not the place.

The creak of the last step broke his focus. He turned toward me. Observing my outfit of choice.

“Hey, you look… well, you know. You look very nice.”

“Oh. Thank you. I was going to say the same about you. “I was taking him all in. Wow. So sexy in a suit.

“Are you ready?”

“I guess. I have to be.” I adjusted my coat, pulling my hair out from under the collar.

We locked up behind us and walked toward wherever I had found parking on Wednesday night. I could barely remember where it was. After a few blocks, we spotted it, sticking out like a sore thumb in its almost silvery blue color among a sea of black sedans and beat-up Hondas.

“I’ll drive,” he said, holding out his hand for the keys.

“Yes. Please.”

I was going to need the ride to mentally prepare for this.

The traffic was unbearable. I started to panic, sweating, convinced I wasn’t going to make it, or that we would arrive halfway through. I tried not to upset Michael. He was already frustrated by the aggressive moves other drivers were pulling. People weaving in and out of lanes, riding the shoulder, cutting through the HOV lane. At one point, we shut off whatever music was playing because it only made everything worse.

Even with all the extra time we built in, we arrived shortly after four.

Not a big deal. Except it would be to someone. Especially my aunts.

My father’s slightly younger half-sisters. Half Greek, half Italian, though they leaned hard into the Italian—playing it up like former mob wives. They weren’t. They just liked the performance. The mystery. The implication that they knew things no one else did.

They didn’t.

They were just deranged old women.

Picture Patty and Selma, but older, meaner, and more miserable. The kind of women who lived for gossip, especially when it involved their own blood. They preferred it that way. I had never seen people so energized by the idea of tearing down their own family. It gave them purpose. They each held a resentment toward me that was never explored. I was never interested in why, but if I had to guess, my father must have gone to them in some private confession, admitting his fear of becoming a father again at forty-five, of giving up his last good years, and taking time away from them, to raise a child he didn’t want.

Michael got out first and came around to open my door. Still playing gentleman.

A few people stood outside, but I didn’t recognize any of them. Maybe they were there for another service. I didn’t look long enough to find out. I kept my head down and walked inside.

I did recognize the people in the waiting area, though. Distant cousins. Family friends. But I walked past them, too. I just wanted to get into the room. We were late enough.

When I turned the corner into the parlor, I saw the top of his head, white hair peeking out from the end of the casket.

Amara and Hektor were already seated. They gave a nod to Michael and me as we entered. I moved slowly toward the kneeler and gripped Michael’s hand like my life depended on it. I hoped I didn’t break it. That would be bad for a drummer.

I’m not religious, so I didn’t pray. Instead, I stared. I examined everything in front of me. I didn’t want these images burned into my memory forever, but I couldn’t look away.

He looked wrong. Too tight. Like he had been forced into the space. What, did they stand on his shoulders to get him in there? He wasn’t a big man. So many other mistakes. He had no neck. His chin was pressed into his chest, and the makeup only made it worse. He wore a face I didn’t recognize, one assembled for this moment and no other.

He was dressed in a blue suit. The one he had chosen himself, back when he knew it was his favorite.

That was enough.

I felt eyes on our backs. I had done my part. Time to get up and hide in the back of the room, as I did at my mother’s.

The room wasn’t packed. Not because my father lacked friends or family, but because he had outlived most of them. What remained were his sisters, a few cousins around my age, and their children.

If I’m being honest, I was ready to leave. Why sit through another ninety minutes of this? Such torture.

Michael and I kept looking at each other or anywhere but the front of the room. I could tell he was uncomfortable too, though more from the heaviness of the scene itself. No one is ever at ease at a wake. Family or not.

Then Amara stood and walked toward the podium.

What is she doing?
Oh my God. Was I supposed to prepare something?

She adjusted the microphone. “On behalf of myself, my brother, and my sister, we want to thank everyone for coming this afternoon. It means a great deal to us. We know how happy he would have been to see all of your faces here today. He is with Mom now and no longer suffering. Father Dean will be up here shortly to lead us in prayer. There will be a reception at six o’clock in the east room. Thank you.”

I exhaled. I had been bracing for a eulogy.

Thankfully, that was Hektor’s role. I couldn’t have summed up my father’s life in the last forty-eight hours even if I tried. But Hektor had written his months ago, after one of his last visits with Dad, when he sensed the end was close. I hadn’t visited at all since the night of the argument, living in a hotel. Moving. I had so much going on, and I wasn’t thinking about him at all. All of this continued to weigh so heavily on me.

It was at this point, the funeral home decided to crank up the saddest classical music imaginable, and I broke. Despite being inside, I put on my sunglasses anyway. There was a pain on my face I didn’t want anyone to see.

“I’ll be right back, okay?”

I ran to the restroom and locked myself in a stall, crying until there was nothing left in me for the night.

Ten minutes went by. Or maybe fifteen.

I exited the stall, removed my sunglasses, and wiped the black rivers of mascara from my face. Reapplied powder. Lipstick. Took one steadying moment that almost passed for meditation.

When I opened the bathroom door, I could see a line had formed from the viewing room, down the hall, all the way to the parlor.

And turning the corner were the aunts from hell. Rosa and Francesca.

I know. Could it be more stereotypical?

Too much jewelry. Fur coats. Alligator tears already warming up. The show was about to start. Rosa caught me staring as she whispered something to Francesca, then slowly dragged her eyes over me from toe to head. They both gave me a look of disgust, their mouths taking shape into something close to a sneer.

Fuck this.

I turned the corner and went back into the room to take my seat.

And—freeze. What the fuck?

Someone else was sitting next to Michael. I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. They’d both shifted in their seats, angled toward each other. Relaxed. Laughing. Too comfortable.

Everyone in my family was either under nineteen or over sixty. No one here would know who Michael was. Not like this. Not without a drum set in front of him.

I took a few steps closer, just enough to see them without being seen. And then the picture came into focus.

My jaw dropped.

Adam.

Adam was sitting next to Michael.

Michael was sitting next to Adam.

Adam and Michael!

Michael and Adam!

They were mid-conversation, completely at ease. Like this was any other room. Any other day. Meanwhile, I was seconds away from walking straight into it with my wrecked face and swollen eyes—about to bulldoze a moment that, apparently, had nothing to do with me at all.

I stepped closer and cleared my throat, finally grabbing their attention.

“Hey, feeling better?”

Michael’s voice barely registered. My attention stayed on Adam.

He stood and stepped toward me, arms already lifting for a sympathy hug. I didn’t move. My arms stayed at my sides. I was in shock.

“Sorry for your loss.”

“What time did you get here?”

“Just a few minutes ago.”

“Did you make it to the front yet?”

He shook his head. “Waiting for the line to die down.”

“Screw the line. I’ll break it for you.”

“Oh. Okay.” He said it with clear uncertainty, while adjusting his pants that were barely hanging on to his new skeletal-looking frame.

Pulling him the first couple of feet, we then moved together between rows, around knees and bags, saying sorry or excuse me when necessary. Sometimes not. Did it look rude? Probably. I didn’t care. I was his daughter. I needed another moment with him. That was the energy I carried.

Cutting directly in front of my aunts felt like a small, private victory. Adam hesitated when he saw who we were passing. Even he knew this was going to come back to bite me later.

But fuck them. I waved him over to my side. Another bold move and chance taken.

We knelt. My head dropped, hands pressed together, practicing my ventriloquism. He copied me. Neither of us were ever church people, but we were trying to look the part.

“How did you know?”

“About your dad? Your sister’s Facebook post.”

Of course.

“This is weird,” he said, eyes half-closed, unsure where to land them. “Where am I supposed to look?”

“You’ve done this before. Come on. Just keep your head up if it feels weird. Look forward.” Then quieter. “Do you know who Michael is?”

“That guy? Well, I know most of your family.” Pausing, trying to come up with an educated guess, but he gave up, “Is he new? One of your cousins’ boyfriends or something?”

Something in me gave way. I sighed heavily.

“No. He’s with me.”

“Oh.”

Those four words hit him hard. He stepped back from the kneeler, straightened, and walked out of the room.

I didn’t follow. It wasn’t worth creating a scene over.

Could this get any worse?

When I stood from the kneeler, my aunts closed in around me, leaving barely enough room to breathe, let alone step away. Rosa was staring again. Unblinking. Did she have laser-beam powers I didn’t know about? Was she putting a hex on me? I couldn’t understand it. Maybe it was because we’d cut the line. Maybe not.

But if that was the reason, what was the first look for?

All I’d done was walk out of the bathroom.

I gently squeezed between them to get back to my seat. They even made that hard for me. Finally at my seat, I sat there like a Girl Scout, head straight, glasses back on, my mom’s clutch laid neatly across my lap.

“Everything okay? Who was that?” Michael inquired.

I snorted. “Really? You talked all that time and didn’t exchange names?” I laughed. “Men.”

“No, I guess we didn’t. We started talking about football.”

“Football? Oh my God.” I dropped my head into my hands, still half-laughing. I mean, come on.

“What? Who was he? Now I’m curious.”

“That was my ex-husband.”

And there it was. I wished I had a camera. His face. Wow. Disbelief mixed with secondhand embarrassment, unfolding in real time. I took a mental snapshot.

“You know, you might’ve shown me a picture once,” he said, “but honestly, I didn’t recognize him. That’s fucking… just, wow.”

“That’s because he lost thirty pounds and was actually in a suit.”

“Where did he go?”

“I don’t know. He seemed to take off when I told him who you were.”

He leaned in, lowering his voice. “Yikes. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” I shrugged. “This is all great material for my therapist next week.”

Another joke. I didn’t even have a therapist. But after today, maybe I should.

The priest, or Pater, entered with thirty minutes left of the viewing. He read a passage and delivered a short speech. I looked toward the front and saw Amara quietly crying into her hand, her husband pulling her closer to his side. That did it. I started crying too. I can’t take these glasses off. I can’t.

The second Pater Dean finished his closing statement, I was already moving.

“Let’s go.”

“Are you sure? You don’t want to stay for the food or whatever?”

“No.”

“Okay. What about saying goodbye to your sister? Your brother?”

“No. Saying goodbye in this family can turn into its own event.” I shook my head. “Besides, we’ll all be back here together tomorrow at nine a.m.”

Michael accepted that. He offered his arm, like escorting me out meant preserving whatever shred of grace I still had.

People were everywhere. No one walked straight. It reminded me of Pier 17 when the lights came on at the end of the night. Everyone scattering. Directionless. When we reached the parking lot, my father’s sisters stood under a lamppost, chain-smoking furiously. They looked like bullies locked in some geriatric high school feud.

To the left of the entrance, leaning against the brick exterior, was Adam. Still there. His head down, scrolling on his phone.

He didn’t leave? Do I say goodbye?

Before I could decide, Aunt Francesca called out, loud and deliberate. “Andrea!”

I looked at Michael. Dear God. Save me.

I slipped my arm from his and approached them carefully.

“Yes?”

They looked at each other. Then back at me.

Francesca went first. “We heard you hadn’t been visiting your father. You had something better to do?” The question was rhetorical.

I almost turned to Adam for backup, but I was too stunned by the accusation. What business was it of theirs? Still, I answered. It felt required. Like being on a witness stand.

“Well… I was dealing with personal issues. Marital problems.”

“Oh, we know. And yet he is here,” pointing in Adam’s direction with her cigarette. “And a new man behind you also? Comportarsi come una prostituta.”

“Excuse me?” Michael barked. He caught that much. I didn’t understand much Italian.

Rosa laughed and turned to her sister. “Dobbiamo dire a quest’uomo di stare zitto.”

“Wow. Andrea, come on, please.” Michael kept his voice low, trying not to draw more attention as people continued filing out.

“I wish I had visited more. I do—” I started, grasping for some temporary forgiveness.

They weren’t done.

“You come to your father’s wake wearing a red accessory, half your face hidden behind those ridiculous glasses. Chi pensi di prendere in giro? Il tuo abbigliamento sembra improvvisato ed economico. Such an embarrassment! Always desperate for attention…”

Michael grabbed my arm, trying to pull me away, but I wasn’t finished standing there.

Then Hektor stepped into the parking lot for a cigarette. Innocent. Oblivious. Completely unaware of what he had walked into. I almost thought his presence would be enough to shut them up. To stop.

It didn’t.

“…Your mother is turning in her grave along with your father at the disgrace you bring upon his family. You spoiled, mistake of a child!”

“Ohhh.”

It came from everywhere at once, sharply. Immediate. One voice, many mouths, same tone.

I was unmoving, mouth open. Frozen.

“You two are seriously fucked up!” Adam shouted, picking himself off the wall.

“What the fuck is going on?” Hektor yelled toward them.

Wow, I remember thinking.

Michael shoved me forward, forcing my legs to move. He opened the car door, and I climbed in, stunned.

He started the engine and nearly peeled out of the spot. The back end of the car reversed dangerously close to them and the lamppost. We could have crushed their legs.

I hope they both shit themselves.

We pulled onto the road in silence. After four or five traffic lights and one on-ramp, he finally spoke.

“Okay. What in the fuck was that?” His hands tightened around the steering wheel, eyes on every mirror.

“Those were my aunts.”

“I was not prepared for that. You told me your brother and sister hated you. They don’t hate you. They’re just wrapped up in their own lives. But those women?” He shook his head. “What fucking beasts.”

“I know.” I kept my head down.

“Like, I’m sorry, but wow.”

“What did they say in Italian?”

“Don’t. Just forget it.”

Some time passed as we drove down the expressway. The silence grew too heavy, so I turned on the radio—anything for distraction. I was still trying to understand why, out of all nights, they’d chosen this one to chew me out.

Over what, exactly? How I carried myself? Breaking the sacred vow of marriage? My lack of visits? Bringing a red purse instead of an appropriate black one?

So petty. So cruel

I was recapping the last two hours. I found it odd that my siblings didn’t even bat an eye at Adam being here. I must be in the Twilight Zone. I thought his showing up would be the most absurd part of the evening. I was wrong. This was exactly what I’d feared. This was why I hadn’t wanted Michael to meet my family.

What a disaster.

I wondered if he was replaying their words too. Looking for truth in any of it. I caught at least one insult clearly enough.

I felt humiliated. And broken. How was I supposed to show my face again after that?

“Please,” I said quietly. “Tell me I don’t have to go back there.”

“Back where? The service?”

“To them. I don’t want to see any of them ever again. Any of them!”

“Ok, shhh,” trying to calm me down, “We’ll go to the church tomorrow. After that, you can decide who you keep in your life and who you don’t. Just don’t lump Amara and Hektor in with the rest. They didn’t do anything. Everyone else, though, that’s up to you.”

“I just need you,” I said.

He reached for my hand without taking his eyes off the road and kissed it.

“So, what did you think of Adam?”

“Him? I didn’t really think anything at the time. I had no idea. I mean, his coming tonight showed some level of respect. Right?”

“I guess. It was just weird. Totally caught me off guard.”

He let out a short laugh. “I’m sure it did.” Our eyes stayed wide, still processing the last hour.

The car slowed down, and it looked like we would be crawling back to Brooklyn. The traffic amplified my anxiety. I worried about what Michael might really be thinking about all of this.

“Remember you said to me, there’s no such thing as the perfect time?”

“Yes,” he answered, changing lanes.

“Let’s get married.”

The car swerved slightly. He corrected quickly, eyes checking mirrors, making sure he didn’t swipe anyone.

“What?”

“I don’t want to go back to that life. I just want to move forward with you. Michelle. Just… never be that person again. I need a new identity. I’d be honored to be your wife.” It all came out of my mouth so fast and in such desperation. There was no way he could have taken it as a serious proposal.

And he didn’t.

“Andrea… hey. Look at me.”

I did, biting back a sniffle.

“You’re scared. And hurt. And… I get it. But we don’t have to decide anything right now. Not tonight. Not like this.”

Wow. What an epic fail. Although I am not sure what reaction I was really expecting.

He lowered the radio and placed his hand on my knee. “Can’t you wait for me to be the one to ask?”

A quick sigh of relief. I didn’t scare him. “Ok,” I answered, holding back a burst of excitement. That was all I needed to hear. I mentally stepped back from the ledge.

“We have time. We’ll figure all the rest out later. Tonight… we just get through this traffic together.”

We got home ridiculously late. Finding parking was a nightmare. Still reeling from everything that had happened, I couldn’t eat. I went upstairs to get ready for bed. I carefully set my mom’s clutch on the dresser, peeled off my clothes, wiped off my smudged makeup, and stepped into the shower.

I don’t even know what I did in there. Probably just rinsed off. Too much had happened tonight. But the thought of a possible proposal—real, actual, in my future—was enough to overshadow every insult, every horror of the evening.

When I stepped out, the room was dark. I relied on the moonlight and my memory to navigate to the bed without breaking a shin.

I slipped under the covers and gasped. “Jesus Christ!”

Michael was already there. I hadn’t seen him.

“Oh my God.” I caught my breath as my eyes adjusted.

“Sorry. Thought you saw me.”

“Well… now I do. Shit.”

Not a moment later, did he get on top of me and start kissing my neck, his hand going south. Did my idiotic, desperate proposal turn him on? I didn’t care. I wasn’t going to question it. I grabbed his face, pulled him into me, and met him halfway. It was animalistic, messy, and perfect. The world outside the bedroom, the aunts, the insults, the car ride—mostly forgotten. There was only him. Only us. Only this.

The next morning hit me like a hangover, minus the alcohol. I practically groaned as we pulled into the church parking lot. Nonna was in the back seat. It was so sweet that she decided to come. I wondered if Michael had told her any part of our conversation from last night. I hoped not. In hindsight, I was kind of embarrassed.

We took a seat up front, close enough to Amara and Hektor but far enough from Rosa and Francesca.

Just to piss them off, I wore the same outfit from yesterday. Big ol’ obnoxious sunglasses, red clutch, and, just to add some flair, pink rain boots that didn’t match anything at all. Bitches.

That fun lasted only a moment. Shortly after, the casket was wheeled down the aisle to “Ave Maria,” and I bawled. Just lost it. Michael and Lena were on either side of me, rubbing my back, trying to help. Why did it have to be this fucking song? Luckily, we were fully stocked with tissues.

For Hektor’s eulogy, Amara and I stood behind him. I hadn’t realized I’d be doing this, so—not to be too disrespectful—I removed my sunglasses. His words were beautiful. Well put. I wondered if he had help from ChatGPT. But that wasn’t fair, I guess. I had prepared nothing.

Psalms and songs continued. The service was long. Very long. Even I couldn’t stay still. I began to suspect we were all dead and this was some version of purgatory. My right leg bounced up and down, involuntarily, me seconds from climbing the walls.

Finally, the last blessing and the recession.

As his casket rolled past me, I placed one pink rose on top and kept my composure as best I could. Please don’t let this fall.

We all trailed behind it. It was a slow walk. No one here had the strength to move swiftly today. It was draining. This whole week had been draining.

The sun was so strong, but it didn’t affect the temperature. It was fucking freezing.

Walking down icy limestone steps one at a time, “Now what?” I asked Michael, as if he knew the itinerary.

“You’re asking me? I don’t know. The cemetery, I guess?”

“Follow my car, guys,” Hektor called out to everyone, waving. His car was first behind the hearse. Everyone started backing out of spots at the same time, turning the parking lot into a minor disaster. Pointless to squeeze in anywhere. What was the rush? Better to just wait and tail the line.

The aunts, still right outside the vestibule, took their time finishing their cigarettes—because God forbid.

I pulled the car handle to open the door, sat, seatbelt on. Michael and Nonna were still outside the car.

“Is that them?” I heard Nonna ask Michael.

Was I hearing that right?

“Yep. That’s them.” He pointed over the hood while getting into the car, like he was identifying someone in a lineup.

Nonna handed me her purse through the car window and crossed the lot to approach them.

No! Dear God, what is she doing?

Each of them flicked their cigarettes to the ground, blowing smoke in her direction.

“You, Rosa? Francesca?”

“Yes?” they answered in synchrony.

“Come osi insultare questa giovane donna dopo la perdita di suo padre. E giudica cosa indossa. Dovreste vergognarvi entrambi. Prendi la tua miseria e mettila nel culo!”

Her tone. So strong. Powerful, even. What a badass.

Their faces were in absolute shock. Getting put in their place, tearing them down, and in Italian no less? Nice touch.

Michael looked in the rearview mirror and watched Nonna walk back to the car like the cowgirl she is, a huge smile spreading across his face.

“What did she say to them?”

“Um”, laughing, “she basically told them to go fuck themselves.”

“Niiiiiiiice.”

Lena got into the backseat and closed the door. “Ok, drive.”

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I hopped into the shower, where my thoughts slowed down for just a second. I couldn’t tell the tears from the water running down my face. I knew this was real, but I was still praying the last twenty-four hours had been a dream.

I don’t think my sister meant for me to come literally first thing in the morning, but I was restless. I felt like I had to get there now. The guilt of having my phone off, of missing everything yesterday, was eating me alive. Will I even be okay to drive?

When I stepped out of the shower, I heard a polite knock at the door.

I was so anxious, so upset, that the last thing I wanted was to be stopped and asked—over and over again—if I was okay. I knew it was coming.

“Yeah?” I shouted at the door.

“It’s Michael.”

Who the fuck else would it be? I thought.

Wrapped in only a towel, I reached for the doorknob and cracked the door open just a peek. “Yes?” I asked.

“Hey. Just checking on you. Are you okay? Are you leaving now? So early? Your sister’s out on the Island, right? Can I make you breakfast first? Or—”

Too many questions. I had to repeat each one in my head just to answer them in the right order.

“I’m as good as one can be in this situation, I guess. Yes, I feel like I need to get out of here. She’s not far, but I doubt she slept at all, and I don’t think she’ll mind me getting there this early. No—no breakfast. I’m not hungry.”

“You feel like you have to get out of here?”

“You know what I mean.” I closed the door, frustrated. This is exactly what I’m talking about. Stop throwing questions at me. Even if they’re simple. I can’t worry about your feelings right now. Just leave me alone.

When I came out of the bathroom, he was sitting on the bed, waiting for me.

As if I were bringing the old, unfashionable Andrea back to life, I pulled on baggy jeans and an oversized sweatshirt, just enough to be clothed. I packed most of my things from the bathroom and a few clothes, moving on instinct more than intention.

He watched carefully, his eyes tracking everything I dropped into my bags.

“How long will you be gone?” he asked. “Do you want me to drive you today, after Michelle goes to school?”

Again, I had to concentrate just to answer questions that simple.

“I don’t know. A few days? Maybe a little more. I’m not sure if the services will be in a few days or next weekend.” I swallowed. “I’m sorry. I don’t have answers yet. I’m almost certain I’ll be asked to throw together a video montage for the viewing, and for that, I’ll need to go home. So, yeah, I’ll need my car. I’ll be okay. I just want to get this done.”

“Can you come here for a second first?” he asked, his arms open.

I took a deep breath in, then let it out slowly, trying to steady myself. My hands were shaking. I could use a hug. I walked over to his side of the bed, sat on his lap, and let myself breathe, let myself escape the nightmare for just a moment. And now that I was there, wrapped in his arms, I didn’t want to leave at all.

“Can we just run away somewhere together and not come back?” I murmured. “I hear Prague is beautiful.”

“Prague?” He laughed softly. “Random.”

“I don’t know. Mexico? Is that easier?”

“I could do Mexico,” he said. “Maybe.”

I let my body go slack against his, fully relaxed against his chest. My soaking wet hair ruined his shirt, yet he said nothing. After wiping my eyes and sniffing once, I pulled away and forced myself to focus on what still had to be done. For some reason, I kept picturing my sister standing on her front porch, even though it was barely dawn, tapping her foot as she waited for me.

“Will you be back before Thanksgiving?” He asked.

Fuck! Thanksgiving! “I,—I really don’t know,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “I’ll have answers after today, okay? I promise.” I tried to sound as gentle and polite as possible, trying not to snap.

“Do they even do services this week?”

Wow. And I thought I was the naïve one.
“Yes, death doesn’t take a holiday.” I gave him a small smirk so he’d know I was kidding, and not intentionally trying to be a bitch, despite how truly cranky I was. “Walk me out?” I asked.

“Yeah. Sure.”

There was so much sadness in his voice. Oh God. I must be ruining his vacation with my family nonsense, my drama. His parents were only in their late fifties. He doesn’t know how lucky he is. I envy him for that. It almost makes me angry, if I’m being honest.

“Oh!” I said once we reached the top of the steps. “Nashville! I’m sorry. I don’t think I can go. I’m really sorry.”

“It’s okay. I’ll tell John to pick another week.”

“Why?”

“Well, I want to be there. With you. At the services. No? Do you not want me there?”

The thought of Michael meeting my family like this was utterly terrifying. I wasn’t ready to introduce him to anyone, and certainly not at a wake. A hot wave of embarrassment rushed over me. I don’t like my family—their beliefs, their politics, their expectations, their judgment. I didn’t want him to meet any of them at all. But how could I stop him? This wasn’t worth an argument. Not now.

God. Will John be pissed? Am I turning into Black Bloom’s version of Yoko Ono? Not that this was remotely the same thing, but the idea of him canceling band time because of me made my stomach twist in new knots. I felt guilty as hell. Also stupid. How had I forgotten what week it was? So now I am ruining the holiday and Nashville?

“It’s up to you,” I said. “I don’t want John to be pissed. I’ll get you all the details, though. I’ll be back here in a few days. I promise.”

“Okay. Just don’t worry about John or Nashville. It’s not important. Really,” he said firmly.

And I believed him.

He opened the front door and walked me to my car, carrying one of my bags.

“Wait! My laptop!” I practically screamed into the street, my eyes filling with tears. I was breaking. The pure stress of attempting to keep it together was tearing me down.

“Okay, hold on. Get in the car. I’ll grab it and be right back,” he said, jogging toward the house.

My things were thrown into the trunk. I sat in the driver’s seat, seatbelt on. Ready for this day to be over.

I adjusted the rearview mirror and caught sight of my mother’s rosary hanging from it, as if I were seeing it for the first time. Don’t lose it, Andrea.

Oh my God. Could I even drive right now? I was a mess—exhausted. I should have had at least a cup of coffee. I hadn’t slept a second on the couch last night, yet suddenly I felt like I could fall asleep right there in the car.

At least the drive wouldn’t be too bad. Tuesday morning, though, during what I just remembered was a holiday week—that might be another story.

I saw Michael coming back with my laptop case.

“You’re not going to be working, are you?” He asked, confused, passing the case through the driver’s side window.

“No. But I still need it. I’ll have to put in for bereavement time and all that.”

It sounded ridiculous. Work shouldn’t matter at a time like this, but in corporate America, it does. It absolutely does. Michael gave me a baffled look, as if he wasn’t aware how absurd, sometimes cruel, jobs could be. Does he even know what a nine-to-five is really like? No offense, but this must all sound strange to him. Still, yes, Michael, this is the norm.

“I’ll text you when I get there and stay in touch.”

“Okay,” he said, leaning back from the open window.

“Tell Michelle I’ll be right back, okay? Please?”

If I didn’t get back before Thursday, I wouldn’t see her again for another week, I think. I felt like I was throwing everyone’s lives and schedules into chaos. More guilt. More embarrassment.

“I will. Don’t worry. Just drive safe. Seriously.”

“I will,” I said, rolling up the window.

He walked back to the curb so I could pull away. It was strange. Neither of us said I love you. Why? What did I do? Maybe I’d scared him with my mini freak-out, and he was giving me space. Or maybe I was the one who couldn’t say it.

The only thing that made sense was that my relationship, at least for the next few days—maybe a week or more—would have to take a back seat while I helped a pre-Michael version of Andrea sort out her life: execute a will, donate the rest of Dad’s things. This might be my entire holiday season.

I just hoped I hadn’t unintentionally driven the biggest wedge yet between Michael and me. I hoped he wasn’t thinking that if I were at least a little younger, he wouldn’t have to deal with this shit just yet. I felt like an absolute burden.

My sister Amara’s place was in Suffolk County. Shoreham, Long Island. It should take no longer than ninety minutes. Hopefully.

I couldn’t listen to music. The drive was silent until I started passing exits for my old neighborhood, my school. Then came the tiny sobs. I grabbed my Elizabeth Taylor–sized sunglasses from the middle console. Big enough to hide my whole face. I didn’t need other drivers seeing me cry, trying to figure out what was wrong with me.

My thoughts were everywhere—from imagining his last moments, to the next two weeks of having to function, to being an adult, to taking whatever stupid, nasty, inappropriate comments my aunts might make, all the way down to what I was going to wear to the service.

I made it.

I hadn’t even texted Amara that I was on my way, yet there she was, standing in her driveway when I pulled up. As different as we are, I couldn’t deny it—there’s this psychic bond between us, like you hear about with twins. Only we’re 15 years apart.

She started walking down the driveway to meet me. As I stepped out, careful not to scrape the curb with the door, I caught her scanning the car in a pan from left to right. I think it upset her to see it. Did she forget it had once been their beloved car?

Without a word, we embraced, swaying back and forth, both holding back tears. There would be plenty of time for that later.

“Can I help with your things?” She asked.

“Um, sure. I have this small weekend bag,” I said, handing it to her, “and my laptop,” grabbing it from the passenger seat.

“Okay, great. Come inside. I have coffee…” she trailed off.

“Is Hektor coming?”

“Yep. He’ll be here closer to noon.”

Her house looked exactly the same. I always liked it. The backyard stretched wide, with an above-ground pool tucked to one side, a small wooden deck scattered with lounge chairs, and a garden in the far corner where she grew her own tomatoes.

“Quiet in here,” I said.

“Yeah. You just missed Sophia and Adian. You know, high school. Work.”

“Fuck. You just reminded me to contact my boss. Be right back.”

I wandered down the hall, keeping my eyes forward, refusing to look at the family pictures on the walls. The ones with Dad.

I walked into one of the bedrooms like I needed privacy. I didn’t. I took a breath, called my supervisor, gave them the update, and hung up. They sounded understanding—too understanding. A little too accommodating. I should have felt relief, but instead, another wave of anxiety hit. My job felt… less secure than it had five minutes ago. Remember, we were meant to fear corporate America. Maybe it was all in my head. They won’t let me go for this, right? Taking time around a holiday. How convenient, they must think.

I texted Michael that I made it to Long Island, no issues. He reacted with a heart.

I exhaled. Okay. Now I was ready to enter this hell week.

For the first hour or so, we didn’t talk about my father at all. Maybe we were waiting for my brother. Instead, she asked about my life, what exactly happened with Adam, and the whos and whats of my new guy.

Surprisingly, Amara understood the divorce.

“I think every wife goes through that at some point in a marriage. I read about it. They even gave it a name: walk-away wife syndrome. Some try counseling first, but…”

When I explained how, for the most part, Adam and I had kept it cool, cordial, and casual, she lightened up, too. I wasn’t sure what she might have pictured—me lighting the house on fire? Pulling a Stella Got Her Groove Back move? No.

“It was professional. It was quiet,” I assured her.

“Yeah. Still sad though,” she added.

“Sad for who?” I asked.

She only shrugged.

There it was. The familiar dismissal. I’m never understood. Amara and Hektor were fifteen and seventeen years older than me, shaped by a generation that upheld the sanctity of marriage, regardless of what it cost the people inside it.

Then, when I told her Michael was the drummer for Black Bloom, she laughed, certain I was kidding.

“Like, from the actual band?” she said. “I didn’t put that together when I saw your Instagram story a few weeks ago. Honestly, I don’t even recognize him. I can only picture the singer. Short, but cute, with bleached blond hair. Right?”

“Yep. That’s John.”

“Oh shit. Wow. I hear them all the time on XM. Um. I have so many questions.” She stopped herself, likely remembering the real reason I was there. “Let’s move on, though.”

No joke, I think she believed I was messing with her. As excited as she sounded, it translated to something else entirely: Sure, Jan.

My sister’s doorbell rang, and I jumped. I’d forgotten how loud it was, its chime box sitting high on the living room wall, just a few feet away. My brother had arrived. I was taken aback by his appearance. He’d put on weight and, suddenly, looked uncannily like my father.

Hugs, more sniffles, the usual catch-up stories. At least now it wasn’t too early for some wine—or anything. We each poured a glass of Dad’s favorite red and spread what felt like hundreds of pages and documents across the dining room table. We leaned in over them, like generals plotting a war.

Memories of having to do this for Mom came rushing back, memories I had no desire to relive. Thankfully, there wasn’t much to handle. Most of my father’s assets had been squared away before his admission, and the services were already planned and paid for. He had taken care of it shortly after Mom passed, insisting he didn’t want to be an inconvenience to us when his time came. At the time, it felt unbearably morbid. Now, I’m grateful. Even so, it was still a lot to carry.

After three o’clock, we took a break. My niece came home from school, pulling into the driveway in a brand-new BMW. I had to laugh. My siblings always said I was spoiled, but they spoiled their children all the same. The irony, of course, was lost on them.

My brother-in-law arrived soon after. More hugs. More catching up. The same stories, told again and again, until they blurred together and the repetition began to wear me down. Amara ordered pizza, and we gathered around the table, trading Dad stories and taking shots in his memory.

My sister’s and brother’s stories were so much more vivid than mine. Their dad was younger and sharper, someone I never knew. Apparently, he had been a pretty cool guy in his prime.

“Like the Fonz,” my sister said, and everyone laughed.

I was the surprise. My parents had me unexpectedly, in their forties. In the 1980s, being over forty meant you were already considered over the hill. That was the version of my dad I knew, the older one, the tired one. Here they were, starting over again. Diapers, homework, science fairs. I often felt their resentment, tangled up with guilt they didn’t know how to shake. And so they spoiled me instead. They were exhausted and unsure how to begin again, unsure how else to love me.

Afterward, we got tactical, going through old photo albums and pulling any picture we could find of my father for a poster board. There would be no time for anything better. Grief, apparently, ran on a deadline. I had already forgotten it was Thanksgiving week. My sister had already scheduled the wake for Friday, with the church service on Saturday. She’d made all those calls yesterday, and I never had a chance to weigh in. I couldn’t—not with my phone off. The timing felt cruel. Rushed. Pretty shitty, actually, but it was the only slot the parlor had unless we didn’t mind Dad’s body sitting in their refrigeration cooler another week. No. I thought I had time to absorb this. I had even told Michael I may be away for days, but apparently, we had to drop him in the ground by Saturday. I was upset. Angry.

“Okay, Andrea. Help me do this,” Amara said.

“Do what?” I asked, already knowing I wouldn’t like the answer.

“Let’s post the service details on Facebook.”

Ugh. Wow. That was something I didn’t want to put out there, but this is what we do now. Announce death like an event. Like a reminder. That, and mass texts. No one has time for phone calls anymore, not in this situation.

I started dictating, Amara typing, my words sounding strange even to me. My brother, too much of a mess to even listen.

“Um, Dear friends and family, it is with a heavy heart that we announce the unexpected passing of our father, Hektor Sr.” I paused. Heavy heart felt scripted, but what else was there to say? “Services will be held Friday from 4:00 p.m. to 6:00 p.m. at Bryant Funeral Home, with a church service Saturday at 9:00 a.m. at Saint John’s. Okay. Short and simple. Is that okay?”

“Suits me,” she said, already hitting post.

Just like that, he was gone and public. Reduced to a paragraph and a time slot.

By the time six o’clock came around, it felt like midnight. I had been awake for more than twenty-four hours. Tuesday was bleeding into Wednesday. Amara offered for me to stay the night, and I accepted. I couldn’t fight it, no matter how uncomfortable I felt about it.

They say babies and deaths bring families back together. I never believed that. Proximity, maybe. Obligation, sure. But not closeness. Despite my siblings’ recent attempts to rebuild something between us, whatever bond we were supposed to have had long expired. We knew the facts of each other’s lives, not the feelings. That was that.

And so, I didn’t even make it to the guest room. I fell asleep on their living room couch so fast that I hadn’t even texted Michael since I arrived. Again, it wasn’t good sleep. My brain wouldn’t shut off, anxiety taking hold of me. The thought of seeing my father in a casket sent a wave of nausea through me. I wanted to puke. I wanted to run away.

No one really talks about how lost you feel after losing both parents. The second one takes something else with them. A safety net. A sense of place. What is my identity now? Who am I without them? Who do I go to when I need that one hug, the kind that fixes nothing but somehow helps anyway?

By 7:00 a.m., I was already awake and depressed. I left my sister’s and drove to my Hudson apartment to grab appropriate funeral clothes. The fact that I could even say those words felt unreal. Funeral clothes. For my father.

The drive was miserable, traffic heavy and unrelenting, but when I finally arrived at my apartment and unlocked my door, I was greeted with relief.

Turns out, I had missed my place. A space where I didn’t have to talk, didn’t have to look presentable, didn’t have to pretend I knew how to cook or how to mother or how to be anything other than exactly what I was in that moment. No one was watching. No one needed anything from me.

I missed Michael and Michelle terribly, even after just one day. Still, for those few quiet minutes, standing alone in my apartment, I could finally breathe. Cry in peace. Be ugly in peace. Let it all out without worrying how it looked.

I almost didn’t want to leave.

I started going through my dresser drawers, pulling out anything black. Surprisingly, I didn’t have much. There was the black leather outfit, though. Hm. No. Just kidding.

Ding, Ding –
A text from Michael.

Hey, good morning. Let me know how you’re doing.

My first real smile in more than twenty-four hours.

That was when it hit me. Thanksgiving was tomorrow. I stood there, holding my phone, trying to understand how it had crept up on me so quietly. Since Monday, time had stopped behaving normally. It was measured in tasks and survival, not calendars.

Jen would be picking up Michelle early in the morning. She had her for the holiday, doing some friends-giving thing with people she knew in Jersey.

Amara had asked if I wanted to come back to her house and spend the day with them, but I’d said no without hesitation. I couldn’t be around that right now. The forced hugs. The collective grief. And if I were being honest, I wanted to see Michelle before she left.

My sister didn’t understand the bond I already had with my “new boyfriend’s” daughter. I could tell she didn’t quite believe in my relationship at all. Maybe I wouldn’t have either, if I were her.

Anyway, she wasn’t insulted. She understood I had already planned to spend the holiday in Brooklyn. I would rush back, see Michelle, spend Thanksgiving with Michael, and try to hold myself together as best I could. Careful not to embarrass him in front of his friends who are joining us.

Still, I couldn’t shake the guilt. It felt like I had dropped a bomb into Michael’s life, derailing his week, his Nashville plans, his Thanksgiving plans. He never said a word that suggested it, never made me feel like a burden. That part was mine alone. All in my head.

This sucks! Seriously. Aren’t I supposed to be the girlfriend of a rock star? When does the “rock star” shit even happen? Because so far, all I’ve got is work, my sad little apartment, and now—surprise!—packing for a funeral. I guess this is what I deserve, trying to keep any sense of normalcy. I didn’t sign up for this. Where’s the chaos? The thrill? The glitter and glam. The sex, drugs, and rock and roll? Because, baby, this ain’t it! I think I need to pull a Samantha and just quit all my obligations to join the bus. Who am I even talking to?

It’s ok. It’s going to be ok, I told myself while packing a new duffel bag of clothes. Black clothes, black pea coat. Boots. Anything black.

Before I zipped it up, I noticed a pop of color calling me from my closet. It was peeking out just a little, but I saw it. A red, patent leather clutch that was my mother’s. Another one of her favorite possessions. It was pretty vintage, too. Maybe I’ll use it this weekend? Something about carrying it that day felt right. Like bringing her with me. Like letting her show up, too.

I packed it. A bright red cherry on the dark, shitty sundae that was my life.

Click here for chapter art and more!

Michael had set up a little office area for me in one of the three bedrooms on the second floor. It was sweet, right near the window, too. And yet, I couldn’t bring myself to get out of bed. I’d had the most horrible nightmares. Maybe it was all the wine. My eyes were wet. I knew I’d been crying in the dream, crying enough that it followed me into sleep.

The nightmare was a mash-up of awful things. Michael had gotten back together with Jen, yet somehow, I had custody of Michelle. Nonna was dead, the house was sold, and Michelle and I were homeless. Adam even showed up, because of course he did. I lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, trying to separate dream from reality.

8:58 a.m. Oh Jesus.

I was such a mess. It was one of those dreams that felt so real I had to question whether it had actually happened. I looked around the room, making sure I was still in the right house.

Then I smelled coffee and cologne.

That meant two things: Michael had already been up, showered, and was ready for the day, and he was probably waiting for me downstairs. I started to calm down once I convinced myself everything was fine. Just a shitty dream.

Then I heard footsteps coming up the stairs.

“Hey!” Michael said, all cheery. “Um, don’t you have to be at work right now?” He did air quotes around at work.

“Yes,” I said. “Can you go wiggle my mouse so my Teams icon goes green?” I asked jokingly.

“I literally have no idea what you just said,” laughing.

He reached for my hands so he could pull me out of bed.

“Let’s go,” I said, head down so he couldn’t see my puffy face, practically fleeing the room and his line of sight.

I walked downstairs and into my bright, new office. Despite the slightly overcast sky and freezing temperature outside, the room was filled with light. I unplugged my laptop and carried it down to the kitchen so I could catch up on emails while I ate breakfast.

Michelle was already at school. I felt like an ass. I should have woken up early to take her. I would have loved that.

Michael entered the kitchen. “I got breakfast. Bagels, pastries, whatever you want.”

“Aw, thanks, babe,” I said, grabbing a mug. Images of Jen reaching for her giant wine glass from this cabinet flashed through my mind. Ugh.

“I’m so sorry I didn’t wake up early enough to go with you and take Michelle to school. I suck.”

“Oh, no problem. You’ll have more chances.”

I wasn’t even looking at my laptop. Bringing it downstairs had been pointless. Instead, I stared out toward the back patio. I wasn’t fully awake yet, but I swear I saw little snowflakes falling. It was beautiful. Still, I couldn’t shake this stupid dream.

Then my laptop started pinging.

“I think someone’s trying to reach you,” Michael yelled from the living room.

A calendar reminder. Nothing important. I walked over and shut the volume off, then went into the living room, practically blocking the TV.

“Um, I can’t see,” he said.

“Can I tell you about this dream I had last night?”

“Uh oh,” he said.

“No uh oh,” I assured him. “It wasn’t a good dream, though.”

Michael muted the TV. “Okay. Go.”

“In the dream, you got back together with Jen, but somehow I had custody of Michelle.”

“What?!” He shook his head. “You can go ahead and file that dream under never going to fucking happen.”

I laughed, and somehow that made me feel better.

“I saw her whisper something to you yesterday, and it’s bothering me,” I admitted. “I don’t know why.”

Michael sighed. “Yeah, she was way off yesterday. I don’t think she could handle seeing me with someone else, even though she tossed me away like garbage years ago,” he muttered. “She apologized on her way out, and I told her to forget about it.”

“Oh.”

“What?” he asked. “You don’t believe me?”

“No, I do,” I said quickly. “She just looked... super emotional. More sad than angry or jealous.”

“She was embarrassed,” he said. “She actually called me this morning, too.”

That caught my full attention.

“Oh,” I said again. “Why?”

“To apologize for the second time. She said she likes you and is sorry she acted so shitty. She hopes you don’t hate her. Whatever, I cut that call short.”

I definitely don’t like her, I thought. That much I know.

“Okay,” I said. “Sorry to bring this up now. I should really get on my computer.”

“Go ahead. I’ve got a call with John later to talk about possible studio time. He wants me to track drums for some stuff.”

My mind immediately went into panic mode. Please don’t leave.

“Want to take a quick trip to Nashville with me this weekend?” he asked.

Fucking yes, I do.

“Oh my God. Yes!” I said. “How fun!”

Honestly, as long as I was with him, I’d go anywhere.

“Cool! I am looking into late flights for Friday.”

“Well, let me know.”

I walked up to him and kissed his forehead, pretty sure my breath was a lethal combination of morning and coffee. Then I took my laptop upstairs, put on my work button-down shirt, and my geeky computer glasses.

Now I was fully awake. Energized. I’d never been to Nashville. How exciting!

But I couldn’t shake what he’d just told me.

Jen apologized.

Jen called.

But she’d also whispered something.

He said she’d called to apologize for embarrassing herself, blah blah. But I wasn’t buying it. She hadn’t looked embarrassed. She’d looked hurt. Rejected-hurt. Like I’d missed something. Like, there was something he wasn’t telling me.

I didn’t want to push it, because I didn’t want to be that girl. Or that woman.

Still, the feeling wouldn’t leave me. Something was there. I didn’t feel like she respected our relationship at all. I think she thought it was a joke. A phase. Only temporary.

Could she have a chance if she asked for forgiveness?

If I felt this threatened by a woman who supposedly no longer loved him, how would I survive what came next? Random women sliding into his DMs. Lingering looks. Flirtation dressed up as admiration. I could barely handle Anne. Barely!

Emails stacked up on my screen. Meetings blurred together. My inbox chimed and chimed again until my eyes drifted toward the trees outside the window. I leaned back, realizing I’d stopped absorbing anything at all.

Instead, my thoughts turned strategic.

How do you lock something down without sounding desperate? How do you make it clear to everyone that someone is taken? That it’s for real.

How can I show that he is officially mine so all these bitches back off?

Do people in their thirties still do promise rings?

It’s 2025. Women can propose now, right?

Maybe the only reason this relationship felt so good right now was that his career was peaking. Momentum. Validation. Applause.

What happens when that slows down? When the noise fades?

What will we look like then?

Will he be restless? Miserable? What if I’m not enough when the lights go out?

I hated myself for thinking this way, but I couldn’t help it.

My inbox chimed again. I didn’t look.

Instead, I opened a browser tab.

My fingers hovered before typing:

How to know when a man is ready for marriage

I stared at the results, heart pounding, like I’d done something irreversible. I half expected Michael to appear behind me, catching me mid-search. I imagined my employer auditing my laptop history and laughing.

I opened another tab.

Signs a man is serious about you

Then another.

How to move the relationship forward without scaring him

Okay. Breathe.

I closed them. Immediately reopened one. Closed that too.

This is not a freak out. This was normal, I told myself. This was just planning.

Unread emails piled up. I forced myself to click one, pretending work still mattered, while my browser quietly held onto the evidence of everything I was too afraid to say out loud.

Then—

Knock, knock.

I jumped.

“Hey, sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. Can you swing a 6:00 p.m. flight Friday night? I’m about to book,” Michael said.

My face must have been screaming Get me to Nashville like I’d been working nonstop all morning. It was barely 10:30 a.m., and I’d done nothing but Google ways to terrify a man.

“I—I can make that work. Book it.”

“Oh. Okay!” He laughed. “Awesome!”

He seemed surprised with how quickly I replied, but I had it already loaded like a gun.

After he left, I tried to focus. I buried the anxiety and pushed through email after email. I even worked through lunch, trying to catch up. Half-heartedly answering messages while calculating how long my savings might last if I quit tomorrow. Maybe two years. Three?

At 1 p.m., Michael walked in again. I didn’t jump this time. I wiped my browser history an hour ago.

“Hey, I’m going to pick up Michelle. You can’t come, can you? You’re on the clock, right?”

“Um.” I glanced at my screen. “I can sneak out. It won’t take long, right?”

“It shouldn’t.”

“Hang on, let me put on actual pants.”

We walked to the bus stop. It was freezing. We were holding hands, well, holding gloves. The sidewalk wore a delicate dusting of snow.

“Did you see I picked up your stuff from the drug store?” he asked.

“My stuff? ...Oh! Oh my God. I didn’t. Thank you.”

And of course, where did my mind go? You’re not getting a baby from me. Stop stalling and start taking these ASAP! He didn’t say that, but that’s what I heard. So he’s definitely serious about the no-kids thing. Not now, anyway. That kind of hurt. It shouldn’t, but it did. He took risks with Jen, though. The times we had, he thought I was on something, so those weren’t risks. Well, there was that one time I suppose.

“All right. I’ll start that tomorrow,” I said, forcing a smile.

He wasn’t looking at me, though. He kept glancing behind us to see if the bus was pulling up.

We only waited about five minutes before her bus pulled up to the corner. Child after child emptied onto the sidewalk. When she grabbed the handrail to step down, she smiled at Michael, but when she realized I was next to him, she gave an even bigger smile and ran toward us. She didn’t know me very well yet, but I was new and interesting to her. I think she also found it intriguing to see her father with another woman. Studying her dad’s new behaviors. Him just being happy. Like she was mentally writing a thesis on the topic.

Michelle was seven, as smart as a teenager, but could physically pass for a five-year-old. She was so petite and rail-thin. Perhaps Jen’s genes. She squeezed herself between us, grabbing each of our hands with hers. I think she wanted us to swing her while we walked. “One, two, three!” I counted before we both sprang her forward. I felt like stopping someone on the street and asking them to take a picture of us. The three of us. How sad am I?

We asked her about school, what homework she had, if any, and if there was anything in particular she wanted for dinner. When we got back to the house, I had to excuse myself and go back upstairs to work. And I did. For about an hour.

The wheels were still spinning, thinking about how I was going to brand us. This relationship. He knew what we were, but did others? Even Nonna called me his “new friend” the first night here. I know she was joking, but I didn’t like it.

I really am taking social media for granted. That’s usually the first place people go to announce if they’re with someone. I never officially announced it. I just posted that Instagram story, the one I took down hours later because of my sister’s comment. Let’s start there.

I opened the app and changed my profile picture to a selfie we took the other night on the couch while we were watching TV, wine in our hands. One of those cozy nights in. Our faces are so small in the Instagram thumbnail, but oh well. I’m sure people could piece it together. Or maybe they won’t. I give my followers too much credit. So, I added a post. The older selfie shot we took at my apartment before he left for Boston. Quick caption: ❤️ my man

I tagged him; like an animal never meant to be reintegrated into the wild. Just mine forever.

Now Facebook. I hadn’t logged in for months, and there wasn’t much there anyway. I barely had any “friends.” Facebook was nothing like it was in 2008. It’s so fucking boring now, and that’s coming from me, a millennial. Ugh. It needed a password reset. That’s how long it had been. So annoying.

Once I got in, it felt like scrolling through someone else’s obituary. Old photos of Adam and me. Facebook flashing On This Day memories like I’d asked for them. Today’s was from four years ago, a family photo, my mom in it. Right before she got really bad.

I didn’t want to see that. Thanks, Meta, and fuck you, Mark Zuckerberg. I felt my eyes watering.

I deleted almost everything. Changed my relationship status to In a relationship, which somehow felt backward coming from Married. Uploaded photos from the last few weeks. Made my favorite picture of Michael and me my profile photo. Out of curiosity, I updated my current city to “Brooklyn.” Would anyone pick up on that? I almost didn’t believe any of this myself, looking at it.

I don’t know if Anne lurks on this platform. But I hope she sees it. I hope everyone sees it.

And finally, I accepted Jen’s friend request from weeks ago. By now, she probably couldn’t care less anyway.

I don’t have TikTok. I wasn’t about to go that far.

Hopefully, this was enough for now. Let’s see if my family calls this time.

I wrapped up around 5 p.m., cramming every reply and bit of attention into projects during the last hour, like I usually do.

When I came downstairs, Michael was asleep on the couch, and Michelle was watching TV. Michael’s sleep schedule is all over the place. I don’t think his circadian rhythm ever went back to normal after the last couple of months. I didn’t want to disturb him. I motioned for Michelle to follow me into the kitchen.

“Michelle, what can I make you for dinner tonight?” I asked quietly.

“Um, nuggets and fries.”

What is it with kids and nuggets?

“Sure. I think we have all of that stuff. I’ll call you when it’s ready.”

Despite the simplicity of her request, I wanted to make everything perfect. I preheated the oven, took the temperature and timing seriously, and set the table for her. I didn’t want Michael to wake up and take over. I wanted to do this myself, but a few minutes later, he came in.

“Hey, whatcha doing?” he asked, barely awake.

“Duh, cooking,” I answered, opening a frozen bag of nuggets in front of him.

“Thanks for doing that. I passed out for a few hours there.”

“All good. I got it.”

Buzz. Buzz.

Ugh. My phone. I pulled it from my pocket and saw who it was. My sister. No! I am not taking her shit again.

“Who’s calling you?” Michael asked.

“My sister. And I think I know why. Fuck it. I’m turning the phone off for the rest of the night. I’m so sick of her shit.”

“What? Why?”

“So, today I updated my Facebook status to in a relationship,” I revealed, bracing for whatever reaction he might have.

“You did? Aw. Well, yeah, that’s true.”

“Yeah?” I asked, stupidly.

“Yes. What else is it we are doing?”

“Okay. I wasn’t sure if you wanted your business, so to speak, out there in the open.”

“My business? Haven’t I posted a lot of pictures of us on Instagram?” he asked. He sounded annoyed.

“Well, you’ve actually posted a lot of stories. Those disappear, so...” I said, stating the obvious difference.

“Oh my God,” he said, covering his face briefly before running his hands through his hair. “Andrea—”

“So, I just know my sister is calling to be nosy or make me feel bad.”

“Your divorce is official, right?” he asked.

That question took me by surprise. As if he knew this whole time I’d been married until very recently.

“Oh God, yes!” I replied. That was technically no longer a lie. It was, in fact, over.

“Then what’s her problem?”

“I don’t know. She thinks I’m moving too fast? Jealousy? I honestly give up. I don’t know what her deal is.”

“Well, I don’t want to get in the middle, but maybe just ignore her and her comments for now,” he said.

“Oh, I am,” I said, showing him my phone again, its screen completely black.

“Good.”

Later that evening, after Michelle went to bed, we were cuddling on the couch, half-watching TV, half-drifting off. The comfort of the couch was no longer sufficient.

“I think I’m done for the day,” I said, letting out a giant yawn.

“Yeah? You want to go up?”

“Yep.”

Michael shut off the TV, and we went upstairs, walking lightly past Michelle’s room. Once upstairs, I went straight to the bathroom to do all those things women do before bed. The skincare: cleanse, tone, serum, moisturizer. The occasional mask I convince myself is doing something. Hair twisted into a satin scrunchie. Teeth whitened. Brows brushed into place. All of it meant to slow time, or at least trick it for another day. It felt like I was working to maintain the basics. So much time, effort, and money spent just to keep this face looking... the same.

Walking toward the bed, I saw Michael on his phone, smiling.

“Uh oh. Whatcha smiling at?”

“I made a post of us. One that won’t disappear after twenty-four hours,” he said sarcastically. “Check your phone.”

“Oh! You know what? I left it downstairs. Be right back.”

I went down the first flight, tiptoed past Michelle’s room at the landing, then flew down the rest of the stairs. I was giddy with anticipation, excited to see what he had posted. Wondering what caption he came up with. I grabbed my phone from the arm of the couch and turned it on. It lagged, the screen slow to wake, every second stretching longer than the last.

Once it finally unlocked, I went straight to Instagram, but before anything could load, a flood of notifications overtook the screen. Two missed calls from my sister. One text. One voicemail. My first thought was irritation. How fucking obnoxious. Adam and I are done! What the fuck?

The text said: Call me when you get this! Urgent!

I felt a sharp pain in my chest. Please don’t be what I think it is.

Before I could play the voicemail, my phone transcribed it before my eyes: Andrea, please call me. It’s not good.

No. No. No!

It was 11:30 p.m. Dizzy, I sat down on the couch, resting my elbows on my knees, one hand holding my forehead, the other pressing the phone to my ear. Her phone rang at least six or seven times. Is she on the other line? Oh God, making the rounds, I suppose. Then she picked up.

“Andrea?”

“Yes, hi. I am so sorry—”

“I couldn’t save him! I am so sorry! I tried! I tried!” she screamed, whimpering between breaths.

“I’ve been trying to reach you all afternoon and night. Where have you been?”

No excuses this time.

“I, I had my phone off.”

“You had your phone—why?”

“Just... tell me what happened,” I said calmly, though I was still in shock.

“He aspirated at the nursing home and wasn’t breathing properly. This happened earlier today. They rushed him to the hospital and tried to intubate him, but his blood pressure dropped, and his pulse was barely detectable, they said. They called me and asked if they should keep working on him, keep trying. At that point, he’d been without a steady pulse for fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes! It was unbearable. I didn’t want to make that call alone, but I couldn’t reach you. I finally got Hektor on the phone, and we both agreed. Just... let him go.”

I was thinking a thousand things and nothing all at once. The guilt was overwhelming. This was why she’d been calling me earlier. It had nothing to do with something as silly as updating my relationship status. But she and my brother decided without me. I wasn’t totally hurt by that. I would have told her the same thing. The man had no quality of life. He didn’t want to be on this earth anymore.

“I asked them to work him up for as long as they could, but…fifteen minutes, almost twenty by the time I reached Hektor. I’m sorry!” She sobbed again.

“Don’t be sorry,” I managed. “You both did the right thing.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“Shh. Shh. It’s okay. So, so what happens now? Where are you? What can I do?”

“I’m home now. I’m pretty sure the funeral parlor is already transporting him. There’s nothing else that can be done today.”

“Okay. Um, can I come by tomorrow? Early? Or now? I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep tonight.”

“Don’t drive anywhere now. Come by tomorrow. Are you at home in Hudson?”

Ugh. Why did that have to be asked?

“No, I’m in Brooklyn, actually.”

“Brooklyn? Why?”

“I’m at my boyfriend’s place.”

There was a small pause.

“Oh. Okay. Tomorrow morning, please come by. The three of us have to go over the arrangements.”

Honestly, it sounded like she’d already forgotten I was seeing someone. She probably forgot that comment she made weeks ago, too. I could tell she wasn’t thinking clearly, or at least not about my life. Being home or in Brooklyn didn’t matter. It only mattered that I get there first thing tomorrow.

“I’m so sorry. Sorry, I didn’t answer. Sorry you had to do this alone.”

We were both sniffling now, our voices shaking.

“I’ll be at your house first thing tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay,” she said.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Click.

I pulled the phone away from my ear, placed it beside me, and started quietly sobbing right there on the couch.

I thought about everything I’d been doing today while my dad, unbeknownst to me, was dying. No family with him at the hospital. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t fight. He died scared and, worst of all, alone. I was making dinner for Michelle. Michael was making dinner for me. Comments were made about how my sister should back off and leave us alone. We were snuggling on the couch, rewatching The Sopranos from the beginning, while my dad had a tube shoved down his throat, his wrists bound so he couldn’t yank it out. His body stiff. His eyes unmoving.

And here I was, picking on Michael for only posting Instagram stories of us.

Right now, nothing mattered. Not even Michael. There was no way I was sleeping tonight. I felt guilty for being alive. Guilty for being ecstatic for the last seven days, while family hadn’t crossed my mind at all. I wasn’t thinking about my siblings. My father. I dropped that life at Michael’s door when I arrived last week.

I heard footsteps coming down the stairs, but didn’t want to look up, my hands still covering my face, ugly sobs shaking my body.

“Andrea?” he asked. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

Hearing the concern in his voice made me cry harder.

He sat next to me and tried to pull my hands from my face. I fought him.

“Stop!” I said.

“What happened?” he asked again.

I wanted to answer, but I could barely breathe. Instead, I turned to him and wrapped my arms around his neck so he could hold me. He stayed quiet and let me cry, my face pressed into his shoulder. I kept beating myself up with the realities. I hadn’t visited enough these last few months. I’d stopped ending every visit with I love you because he didn’t know who I was anymore, and it felt like it wouldn’t have mattered. I brushed him aside the way you would a stranger, even though I knew my father was still in there somewhere, deep down. I just couldn’t bring myself to pretend I knew him. For that, I will never forgive myself.

After a few minutes and several deep breaths, I sat up and looked at him. He looked scared. I think he could read the room, but I wanted to explain everything that had happened today. Most of all, how horrible I felt.

“My father passed away this afternoon. That is why my sister was calling me.”

“Oh my God. I am so sorry, Andrea,” he said, pulling me back into his arms.

“I’m such an asshole, Michael. I don’t think I can forgive myself. This guilt will destroy me. I know it.”

“No, no, no. It’s going to be okay. I’m here.”

It was after midnight. I didn’t want to sleep, but my eyes were closing from sheer mental and physical exhaustion. Because I wasn’t there, my imagination filled in the blanks. I pictured what it must have looked like. How it all went down. I imagined his eyes going black as they tried to revive him long enough for my sister to make a decision. My mom’s eyes had gone black, too, in her final moments. Near death, your pupils dilate so much they dry out, your corneas turning transparent. Your face relaxes completely. Your jaw drops open.

I don’t know what’s worse, being there and witnessing it firsthand or creating the images yourself. Both are horrible. No one should have to see someone suffer like that and slip away. Those last moments stay with the living forever.

“I, uh, have to go to my sister’s tomorrow. I’ll leave early.”

“Okay. I can get Nonna to tend to Michelle and come with you.”

“No. No!”

“What? What’s wrong?”

“Please. Let me do this alone. Please.”

“You don’t want me there?”

“Not now. Not yet. Not this way.”

“Okay. Whatever you want me to do, I’ll do it.”

I nodded and shifted on the couch, trying to lie down. I felt crippled. I couldn’t go up all those stairs. Not now. I grabbed one of the decorative pillows, and Michael laid a blanket over me. He disappeared briefly and came back with tissues.

I didn’t know if I wanted to be alone or comforted, but before I could decide, he was lying beside me, his body between mine and the back of the couch. He may have drifted off, but I lay there frozen, staring at the windows, waiting for the darkness of night to give way to the light gray of a winter morning. I cursed God, though I barely believed in any of it. I guess even God couldn’t stand to see me happy.

Click here for chapter art and more!

Yesterday had been a true nightmare. Michael felt traumatized. So much so, he was afraid to close his eyes and risk those images flashing about in his brain. Give her another chance? Was she fucking insane?

He quietly rose from the bed, buried under a mountain of comforters, and snuck downstairs. I’ll hold off on making coffee. The smell will only wake her up, and God forbid she get up before 8 a.m.

Michael turned on the TV and set it to ESPN—low enough not to wake anyone. God, I’m so behind on football. So... do we like the Chiefs now? Or not like the Chiefs? I’m so out of touch with these teams. Damn.

Tiny feet shuffled down the stairs. It can’t be Andrea. She’s 125 pounds but walks as if she weighs 500.

It was Michelle.

“Hi, sweetie. Did I wake you?” he asked.

“No, I was up.”

She climbed onto the massive sofa and leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder. It was one of those sweet father-daughter moments he didn’t get often these days. The kind he felt he’d missed too many of already.

She was still waking up.

Hm, probably too early to ask her for an opinion, but...

“So, what do you think of Andrea, Michelle?” he whispered.

She replied with a sleepy, “Nice.”

“Okay, so she’s good? Happy for Daddy?”

She nodded. He wouldn’t ask her anything more. That was all he really wanted to hear anyway.

“Okay, so listen. In a bit, Daddy is going to run two small errands. Do you want to go back to bed until I’m back, or until Andrea wakes up?” Let’s be real—Andrea would not be up for hours.

“Where are you going?” she asked sleepily.

“I’m going to get us all breakfast.”

“Yay!” she said at her typical seven-year-old volume.

“Okay, shhh. You can go to your room or stay here and watch TV. I’ll only be gone for fifteen minutes—twenty tops. What do you want to do?”

“Can I lie on the couch and watch TV?”

Yep. That’s my daughter.

“Sure. And if Andrea wakes up—which I highly doubt,” he joked, “tell her I’m getting breakfast. Then you have to get ready for school. Okay? What kind of bagel do you want?”

“Cinnamon with cream cheese!”

“Okay, shhh,” he repeated.

“Oh. Right,” she whispered back.

Upstairs, Michael grabbed some warm clothes. Andrea was out cold. He watched her for a moment and laughed quietly to himself. She sleeps like she’s just been run over by a car—on her stomach, limbs everywhere, hair a mess. It’s cute, though.

Outside, it was biting cold. Winter had finally decided to show up. Thirty-three degrees, but with the wind chill, it felt three times as cold. He threw on layer after layer of clothes. Man, I miss L.A.

When he got downstairs, Michelle had already fallen back to sleep. I see she made sure to change the channel immediately.

He closed each door softly and locked them one by one.

First stop: the 24/7 Walgreens. Michael figured he’d pick up Andrea’s prescription and save her the trouble. He was still kind of rattled by the fact that Andrea hadn’t been using any form of contraception, especially after several times. That felt like information worth mentioning a little sooner. Michael wondered if he was making this more of an urgent task for himself than for her. I don’t see any more children in my future. At least not now.

Inside the store, beneath the buzzing fluorescent lights, he approached the counter and handed the pharmacy tech the script. The pharmacy tech looked painfully young. Almost alarmingly so. How old do you have to be to compound medicine? I must seem like an old man to them. She pulled over another tech and exchanged whispers. I know, a man, picking up birth control? It must look “sus,” as the kids say.

“I’m her husband. She’s at home, sick, so—”

Wow. “Husband.” He hadn’t used that word in years. Well, that sounded convincing. He thought.

“Date of birth?” she asked.

Jesus. Goddammit. I think I know this.

“July 7th, 1986.”

The tech typed it in. Maybe it was his imagination, but the keys seemed a little louder when she struck the “1” and “9.” She then turned to grab the prescription, already bagged on the pick-up shelf.

Once she handed it to him through the glass, he fled the aisle. The tech looked as if she was starting to recognize him, and that was the last thing he wanted. Not this early in the morning. Perhaps that was what all the whispering had been about.

Next was the bagel place. How much for three of us? Well, four. He was sure Nonna would invite herself over at some point.

Michael got carried away, requesting half a dozen bagels, pastries, and cookies, as if they didn’t already have enough dessert at home. Oops. This is how I gain weight—when I’m home. I gotta take it easy. We’re going to be on TV next month!

Walking back with way too many bags and a bakery box, his phone started buzzing. Michael’s watch lit up. It read: Jen calling.

Huh? She never calls this early. And on a Monday? Is it an emergency?

Michael set the bags down. The box of pastries almost toppled over, but he caught it just in time. He ripped his right glove off with his teeth, rushing, thinking something could be wrong. “Hello?!”

“Hi.”

Her voice was shaky.

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah. Um. No.”

“What’s going on, Jen?”

“I couldn’t sleep at all last night. At all!”

“Oh. Why?” He already knew why. I’m entertaining this too much. I shouldn’t have answered. With the phone wedged between his face and shoulder, Michael reorganized the bags and boxes and continued the short trek home. I’ll walk and talk. Or walk and listen. Whatever.

“I wanted to apologize for... well, everything,” she continued.

“What’s everything?”

“You know. Making fun of how touchy-feely you guys are. All the love-bombing. Then throwing myself at you. Asking her if she’d marry again. You know. I’m sorry.”

She let out a genuine sigh of disgust with herself. A genuine response of remorse? At least there’s that?

“Is she pissed?”

“Pissed? No. She’s not.”

Like I would answer that.

“You were unnecessarily drunk yesterday, Jen. We should have cut you off earlier,” I added.

There was silence on the line. Could she be crying? Or trying not to? Did she hang up?

“Wait. Where are you right now? I hear traffic,” she asked between sniffles.

“Oh. I’m out on the patio with coffee.”

A blatant lie. Michelle was essentially home alone in the house, and that’s a no-no. I need to hurry.

“Well, I’m happy for you. I am. Even if it doesn’t seem like it.”

“Let’s just forget the whole thing. Please.”

“Deal,” she said.

“Well, see you at the Late Late Show taping?” He asked.

“Oh—you still want me to come?”

“Yes. Everyone! I want my whole family there.”

“Aww,” she replied.

Shit. I didn’t need her to overanalyze that comment. That’s not what I meant, though technically, she is family.

I could go off on her. I have so much to say, but she isn’t worth it. This whole phone call is a waste of time. Apology or not. I’m so done.

There was more silence. These bags are getting heavy.

“I can’t believe I did—”

“Jen? Jen. I have to go, okay?” Michael said, cutting her off. God, go away!

“Oh. Okay. Enjoy Michelle. I’ll come get her on Thursday. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Click.

Jesus. What the fuck? It was way too early for that call—let alone discussing events I was still trying to scrub from my memory. She almost ruined everything yesterday! I’m never telling Andrea about this. The kitchen... the push. That was bad. My fault. I always wondered how I’d act if Jen ever begged for another chance. And that push was it. I didn’t mean to. It just sort of... happened.

Back at the house, Michael carefully unlocked the doors. Michelle was still asleep, a bright, colorful show blaring. It was blinding. The characters—whatever they were—had piercingly loud voices. What is this shi—my head hurts! He turned the volume down to 2. Yikes.

Sometimes, I still can’t fathom that I’m a parent, but I love this. I do. Typically, when I’m home, I miss the road. When I’m on the road, I miss home. Right now, though, I was too happy to even think about the road. I was almost dreading next summer’s tour. I don’t want Andrea to stay behind. It’s a long one. My birthday is also in July; I want to plan a joint party. Ideas were already filling a notebook, but I wasn’t sure we’d even be together to celebrate if she chooses not to come. It’s hard to think about. In fact, I don’t want to think about it at all. Not yet. Because God, I miss this. I miss having a family.

Andrea has only been here for about a week, and yet I can’t remember living alone these last couple of years the way I have. I don’t think I realized how lonely I was. After a few uncomfortable, awkward dates years ago, I needed a break and vowed Michelle would be the only woman in my life—unless a miracle came along.

Michelle began to stir on the couch.

I hate this. I hate this! I could never choose career over family. I just wish it were more balanced. Or maybe things won’t be this crazy a year from now. I’ll endure the ride while it’s here.

When he opened the fridge to put the pastries away, Andrea’s giant half-gallon of oat milk was staring back at him. It made him smile, but only for a second. Every smile seemed to come with a matching frown. Ugh, I’m getting depressed just thinking about climbing those giant, red steps.

Though if Andrea and Michelle could somehow come along... The guys probably wouldn’t be down with that.

They’ll deal with it. I’ll make them.

I want a family again.
I want this family.

Click here for chapter art and more!

Michelle, on the other hand, was practically vibrating with excitement. She couldn’t wait to see her father and his new “girlfriend.”

When the car pulled over, I had to debate whether to get out or tell the driver to turn back.

Deep breaths.

“Alright, get out on the curb side, Michelle,” I said.

Without letting her see, I grabbed my tiny metal flask from my purse and took one more sip.

We walked up the steps together, and Michelle rang the bell. I stretched my mouth, exercising, preparing my face for all the phony smiles I’d be wearing today.

The inside door opened, and I saw Michael approach through the glass. Once the main door was opened, Michelle ran inside like I had released a hound. You can do this, I told myself as I stepped through the doors.

“Daddy! I missed you!” Michelle’s voice sounded like song.

“I missed you, too.”

My daughter. The ultimate daddy’s girl.

I stole a quick glance at her before giving Michael a hug while he held Michelle, shouting, “Hi!” in perhaps one of my fakest voices yet. Then I turned to Andrea and put out my hand.

“You must be Andrea. Nice to meet you.”

Ugh. Our hands were clammy. She must be nervous, too. I could have fun with this. But later.

“Oh God. So, what do you think?” I asked, doing my best Vanna White impression.

“Oh! This place? Yes! I love it! I must have told Michael hundreds of times. Your friend who designed this place knew what they were doing.”

I nodded. I would have to tell Noel that my ex’s new girlfriend loved the design choices. Not. Shit, she’d better like it. I’d put a lot of sweat equity into this house, too. Michael and I weren’t together per se, but I wanted to stay here as long as I could. Rent in Manhattan is expensive, and Nonna had been helping us out so much.

But it started to get weird, really quickly. Mostly my fault. I had started dating again when COVID-19’s grip finally loosened on NYC. The guys I brought home were...not the best. Some were weird, I’ll admit. One date, I was fully convinced was on drugs. Michael didn’t want those men in his house. We had a huge fight about it, and agreed it would be best if I got my own place. On nights I met up with men—or just anyone—Michelle would stay here with Nonna Lena.

“Michelle, this is Andrea,” Michael announced, parading her in front of Andrea.

But Michelle just hid her sweet little face. Totally ignoring her. I wanted to laugh. Damn, perhaps I shouldn’t be so mean so quickly.

“She’ll warm up. Sorry,” I said. “Michelle, do you want the TV or iPad?”

“iPad!” she shouted.

Of course she does. Thank God for the iPad. I needed wine. Anything.

“It’s wine time,” Michael said, waving for us to follow him into the kitchen.

Andrea was in front of me, with her giant ass taking up space. Ugh. I couldn’t look at it anymore. I got in front of her and went straight to the cabinet where I kept my emergency wine glass. I was surprised Michael still had some of my things here at all. Why not throw them out? Oh, right—our family dinners. Lame sometimes, but Michelle loves them. She loves me here, all together, the banter between us and Nonna during coffee. Not sure how today would go, though.

Michael poured Andrea a modest amount of wine into a dainty glass. Sheer panic washed over me.

“Oh no. You know I need more than that, Mike,” I said.

“Hm, yeah. Why don’t we pace ourselves?” he said, pouring me a starter amount.

“Fiiiine.” Rolling my eyes as far as they could go. My gaze was either at the ceiling, the food on the counter, or my shoes. Anywhere but her face. The tension was getting a little ridiculous, but again, it was probably my fault. I felt I was already coming in too hot. I don’t know this woman at all. I shouldn’t judge. I will say this, though: this girl must have had some major glow-up since her divorce. When I went to request her on Facebook weeks ago, her profile picture looked nothing like what was in front of me. That picture must have been super old.

I hated how pretty she was. She had all the curves that I lacked. She was tone as fuck. Is she an aerobics instructor? And she also appeared to be 5’7? 5’8? Bitch.

I was still assessing her when her stupid, pretty mouth interrupted my thoughts.

“It’s so nice for this day to finally be here. I’ve been looking forward to it,” she said.

Yep, I nodded. I was trying to be extra careful with my facial expressions.

More silence. Michael was looking at both of us. He wanted us to talk, be like girls. Why force this? Is this woman going to be in your life forever? Do I have to be friends with her? Isn’t just being aware of her existence enough?

“So, Jen. What do you do?” Andrea asked.

Lame.

“Well,” I paused, noticing her shirt was inside out, and she had what looked like a hickey on her collarbone. Michael’s jeans weren’t buttoned at the top, and his face was red, or reddish. He’s someone who doesn’t get flushed from wine alone.

“Oh my god. Did you guys have sex, like, minutes ago? Your faces are all flushed and shit.” I laughed.

“Um. Michael, do you want to take that one?”

“Um,” was all Michael could manage. I totally embarrassed them.

You know, I have to admit, they would make a good sex tape. I would buy it.

“I’m just playing. I don’t care. I love to play around. You’ll know that soon enough.” I laughed, but inside, I wanted to die. Then, these feelings came over me. Sadness? Jealously? Whatever they were, I had to put them aside quickly. What had she asked me? Where do I work? Yes.

I know I gave some type of answer. I work for blah, blah, blah. Like she even cared.

I couldn’t look at her perfect face anymore. What was she? Almost forty years old? Why do I look older than she does? I hopped off my seat, but made sure to take my glass with me.

“Can I see what we’re having today?”

“Oh! Yeah!” Michael said, surprised.

“I see white sauce, meat defrosting... oh, I am excited,” I said while doing a little dance. Honestly, I was super excited for the food. I have been surviving off frozen Lean Cuisine and McDonald’s. Michelle got healthier food at school. God, I was starving.

“Do you have cutlets for Michelle?” I asked.

“Yep. I’ll start working on those soon,” Michael answered.

“I can start those,” she shouted. Good God, why is she so loud? Everything sounded loud. I think I’m starting to lose it. I was coming down from my buzz into the downward spiral portion of being drunk. Vodka mixing with the wine.

“Oh, okay. Let me get out of your way,” I replied. I was practically pushed aside. I made my way back to the kitchen island, gripping the cold marble top for balance.

There was no lead-in to this question. I just asked it:

“So, guys, tell me...what’s going on? How serious is this? I want all the details.” I could feel my eyes welling up.

“Um, well, yeah. It’s going great. It’s serious. I offered for Andrea to move in with me, so we’re further along than you may think.”

Wow. Why is he being such a dick? Or am I mistaken? There was definitely a tone in his voice. I didn’t like it.

“Oh,” was all I could manage to say. It felt like he had just slapped me in the face. I don’t know her well! I don’t know if I want her around my daughter yet! Wait! I thought.

Don’t break, Jen!

“Well, that’s great,” I said, pouring myself a bit more wine. “So, Andrea, you are moving in?”

“It’s something I am strongly considering,” she said, barely looking up from her fucking cutlets. Breading cutlets for my kid. I should be doing that, I suppose.

“Oh, shit. Well, cheers to you guys!” I gritted my teeth and raised my glass.

“Thanks!”

“Thank you,” they answered together.

Michael touched her every chance he got. Bleh. Perhaps he thought I couldn’t see. Keep it PG, guys. We have a kid here. It made me uncomfortable, I won’t lie. I watched them whisper to each other. About what, I don’t know. In a certain light, at certain angles, she reminded me of a younger Brooke Shields. Curious.

“So, Andrea, what are you?” While taking another sip.

“What? What do you mean?”

“Are you one hundred percent Italian like this guy over here? I feel like I see something else, and I can’t place it.”

“I’m a very small percentage Italian. I’m mostly Greek,” she confirmed.

“Ah, yes, that would explain growing up in Astoria, Queens,” Michael said sarcastically.

“I knew it was something else. I was going to say Spain, though. You have such nice dark features. Your eyes and eyebrows. Your hair. I love it.” I gestured vaguely; I didn’t even know what I was doing at this point. I already hated her, but the whole relationship intrigued me. What was I missing here? Why were they moving so fast? Is there a pregnancy I don’t know about? Is she being kicked out of her new place already, with no place to go? Does she not have family?

She was now pouring herself more wine.

“Oh! Me too, please,” I begged, practically shoving my glass in her face.

As I watched her pour, I continued with more word vomit. I could not sit back and just shut up. I was triggered. I just couldn’t pinpoint why.

“So, where do you live now, Andrea? Is this a big move for you? Like, when was this decided? Sorry, it’s the first time I’m hearing about this.”

Michael shot an eye roll my way. What? I thought.

“Well, we didn’t set a move-in date or anything. I’m in no rush,” she replied.

“No, that’s cool. It’ll be nice to have another woman around here. We could hang out. Nonna will love the company. I can always use an extra babysitter, too.”

Ouch. I shouldn’t have said that. Now the energy in the room really shifted. They hate me. They must already regret this day.

“Dre, can you grab the wine for me? The wine for the sauce. Before Jen drinks that, too.”

That’s fucked up, but I guess I deserved that. And Dre? Really?
I made sure not to make any further eye contact until I finished this glass.
I was disappointed in my behavior. This is not how this is supposed to go. I should be happy for him. He needs this.

My thoughts were everywhere. I tried to keep the tears in as I twirled my glass on the marble.

Michelle brushed past me and went after Andrea.

“Andrea, come to my room. I want to show you my new books.”

“Go ahead, I’ll grab that,” Michael said, waving them off.

“Okay. Yes, I’d love to. Where is your room?” Andrea asked.

“Michelle, leave Andrea alone. You will be here all week,” I mumbled.

Andrea gave me a dismissive look. “No, it’s okay. Michelle, show me the way.”

They sounded like a herd of elephants running up the goddamn stairs. The door slammed.

“Easy!” Michael and I shouted.
Perhaps the one true moment we came together as parents today.

Fuck it. I’m actually glad to have her out of this room for a few minutes. I can breathe. I should really apologize for being so aggressive. Surely I can’t keep this up for the next few hours.

Michael broke the pasta in half and dropped it into the pot, water boiling so fast I thought it was going to bubble over. He threw some last-minute seasoning ideas on the steaks.

I just sat there, quietly, watching him. God forbid I help, right?

Why does he look so different to me now? I don’t know this guy. It’s like I was meeting him for the first time. This house felt like theirs now, and I’m barely a guest. A stranger.

Did he lose weight? Not that he was ever fat. He looked super lean. Was he working out? Did they work out together? I was watching the muscles move in his arms as he made the slightest movements.

Michael was always good-looking, can’t deny it. That’s what drew me to him: six feet tall, a strong body, light brown hair that sometimes looked blonde, and stunning hazel eyes.

I caught him playing a small gig with some other band in LA. God, years ago. He looked beautiful behind that drum kit. The man knows what he’s doing. He was playing so show-off-y. He knows how to play and look good while doing it. He was born to do this.

Hm, this guy is pretty hot, I thought.

I waited until the show was over and hung around. My friend left me there solo. It took forever to catch his attention, and once I did, I approached him.

“You guys were great! I need to buy you a drink after that!” I said.

Don’t be silly, he said.
The conversation kind of stopped there. He wandered somewhere else for a bit. That hurt. Am I already losing my looks at twenty-one?

Fifteen minutes later, when the club was actually emptying, he came back and told me he was buying me a drink. We talked forever and were eventually kicked out so the place could close. He had loaded up his car already with all his gear — that’s where he was for that 15-minute gap. That somehow made me feel better.

Want to get a drink somewhere else? I asked, drunk and horny.
He was down, and we were out for hours.

We wound up back at my place at 3:00 a.m. So drunk. I’m a cheap date. My roommate was pissed at me for all the noises coming from my room when she had some big school thing in the morning.

We were inseparable for a while there. But then I just felt smothered. Suffocated. I no longer felt anything when he touched me. I was numb.

I should add that I was doing a lot of coke at this time. He did some too, but not nearly as much as me. I had a problem, and in all honesty, I was probably a bad influence on him.

He must have felt me drifting away because it was around this time he proposed. I was so emotional and a little high.
Marrying a musician can’t be boring, right?
I said “yes.”

And then, just within a few weeks, I realized I was six weeks pregnant. All the coke went in the garbage or down the toilet. I was a good girl. Michael was thrilled with the pregnancy. Shocked, but happy. He stopped smoking cigarettes, too. We didn’t know how to be parents, but we started there.

Eventually, his touch felt like that of a brother. I turned him down for sex again and again until I ran out of excuses or until I was too pregnant to even be asked. I was going to burst!

After Michelle was born, the feelings came back, and I was so ecstatic to be a family. He was such a great father. When Michelle was about three months old, and I had lost most of the baby weight, we had a court wedding with a small family celebration afterwards.

But just when I started falling in love again, he began to drift. He was out a lot with the guys, whether it was practice, recordings, small tours, or meetings with the label. There was one stretch where he was gone for two whole months.

One night during that time, Michelle became violently sick, up all night with fluids everywhere, and coughing so hard it sounded like she was choking. I decided to take her to the emergency room. I could barely drive; I was terrified. I didn’t even have time to call Michael before we were already there and checked in. It was so scary, and I hated that I was going through it alone.

Do you know how scary it is to see a doctor break out a baby-sized stethoscope and press it against your baby’s lungs, listening for water?
In that moment, I created a resentment I could never come back from.

How dare he knock me up and then take off to go live his dreams.
No. I will not be made to feel this way.

I eventually called him that evening to give him the rundown. He offered to rush home. I told him it was too late and basically hung up on him.

I ignored my phone for almost two days before he eventually walked through the door, shouting questions at me.

“Why aren’t you answering your phone? What are you doing? Where is she?”

“Calm down! Shhh,” I semi-whispered as she napped in the other room.

“What’s going on? What’s going on with us? I just know something is wrong,” he begged for an answer.

“Michael,” I began to speak, but burst into tears instead. “I’m sorry, I just can’t do this! I wasn’t ready for any of this.”

“Ok, ok,” he said, getting me to sit, trying to calm me down. He started to put his arm around me to console me, but instead, I slapped it away and shouted, “No! Stop! Just stop!”

“Why? What’s wrong?”
Now he was yelling.

“I just, I don’t love you anymore, Michael, and I don’t want you or this anymore!”

It felt like a nightmare. I could hear his heart shatter. He went into the baby’s room after that, where I believe he hid to cry. I stayed on the couch, crying.

Luckily, none of the guys were in the house during this argument. They were still wherever Michael had abandoned them.

We spent the next couple of weeks filling out and submitting divorce papers, but agreed to stay together. Not in a relationship, but just in the house, to take care of our daughter until we figured something out.

Then Covid hit. And we were all stuck in the house now, which was probably the worst part of any of this. I couldn’t stand his presence sometimes, and on top of that, the house was completely full. The guys, their girlfriends, their whoevers — all occupying the house because we were all poor as fuck.

I do give Michael credit for getting us out of there. Thank the fucking heavens for his family coming through like that.

And well, here we are.

I came back to the present.

While his back was still turned, watching the pasta, I blurted, “You’re such a fucking simp. Do you know that?” Punctuating that with a laugh.

He put the utensils down, his hands on the counter, and his head down. I felt a wrath coming. He spun around.

“Ok. That word I know. And how is that a bad thing? I don’t get it. I don’t get that. What is it you want?” He asked.

I had an answer to that, but I already forgot it. “You always dial the affection up to eleven, Michael. It’s just too much. Bleh!” Miming like I was about to barf.

“Really? She has no problem with it. She was practically begging for it this morning,” he clapped back.

“Ew. Ok. Stop.”

Conversation over.

I’m sure he didn’t mean to make it sound like she was thirsty or “begging”. I think I just pissed him off, is all. Officially. After all, he had this woman on a fucking pedestal.

He didn’t take his eyes off me. He wasn’t done giving me this scornful look. His eyes were burning holes in mine. Under that stare, I felt the pressure to apologize building.

Nervous, I slipped off my stool and walked toward him, slow, cautious.

I stepped forward, he stepped back.

“I’m not going to hurt you or anything,” I said, quite unconvincingly. “Truce, okay? I’m sorry. I thought I could handle this today, and I can’t. I don’t know why. Seriously... sorry.”

I leaned in for a hug, and to my shock, he actually accepted it.

He felt sorry for me. I could tell. He could see I wasn’t well.

He smelled so good. His shirt, unbelievably soft. I began to tremble out of nowhere, it seemed.

“I think... I miss you so much, Michael.”

His whole body stiffened. A full-body recoil.

“What?” he breathed, already pulling away.

Before he could get free, I grabbed his face with both hands and kissed him — hard, desperate, fierce.

He pushed me off so violently that I went backwards, crashing to the floor. The back of my head clipping the corner of the island.

“What the hell are you doing, Jen?!” he screamed.

I didn’t move. I couldn’t. My breath was gone, taken from me.

Realizing I wasn’t getting up, he rushed over and grabbed me under my arms, pulling me upright.

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. Are you okay? Jen? I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

I couldn’t answer. I was hyperventilating. My chest seizing.

“Everything okay, guys? Do you need help?” Andrea called from upstairs.

“No! All good!” Michael yelled back before I could even inhale.

“I’m going to be outside. Starting the grill!” he added louder.

Then he grabbed my shoulders, steered me toward the walk-in pantry, and shut the door behind us.

I broke. Hard.

My sobs filled the tiny room. I couldn’t keep quiet. The door wasn’t hiding anything.

He turned me around and checked my head with trembling hands, part gentle, part frantic. Moving my hair all around.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “I don’t see anything.”

Then he spun me back to face him, eyes blazing. “What is wrong with you? Why are you doing this to me?”

“I don’t know,” I gasped, words breaking apart. “I don’t know.” Inhaling and exhaling.

“She shouldn’t be here, Michael.”

“What?”

“It should be me. You should be trying to work things out with me! Not her! We have a child together!”

“What are you even talking about?!”

“Think about it.” My voice cracked again, desperate. “We could be a family again.”

He dragged his hands down his face, then back up through his hair, and back down, slapping them against his thighs in pure agitation.

“I don’t... I don’t even know what to do with this information!” He said with a slight maniacal laugh.

“What do you say? Please!”

He paced in a small circle. His hands laced behind his head, looking up at the hanging light bulb.

“I am so fucking confused, right now, Jen. I gotta go. Stay in here and don’t come out until you calm down.”

He opened the door swiftly and rushed back to the kitchen.

I pushed the door shut behind him, leaned against it, and slid down until my back hit the floor, knees to my chest, trying to force air into my lungs. Trying to get control. Trying to make the panic stop.

This might take a minute.

I stood up and started rearranging the canned food just to give my mind something else to focus on.

What did I just do?

And then, I heard Nonna come through the door, announcing herself.

My eyes were still red, still puffy. Get it together, Jennifer!

“Hello!” Nonna called out.

Goddamit! Fuck! I wiped my eyes with my sleeve for the millionth time and left the protection of the pantry.

“Hi! So nice to see you. How are you?” I asked, hugging Nonna. I’m ready for my Oscar.

“I’m ok. I’m ok. How are you? You look tired.”

Oh, no, this is just crippling depression, my brain muttered to myself. But thanks.

“I’ve already had too much wine, it seems. Sorry. I’m fine, though.”

Michael stepped in through the back door and motioned for us to sit. Acting like absolutely nothing important had just happened.

“Babe, can you grab those cutlets?”

“Yep.”

“Sure,” Andrea and I answered at the same time.

Oops.

“I was talking to Andrea,” Michael said with a nervous laugh.

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry, guys. I’m already a little out of it,” I explained.

“Why don’t you sit and start eating?” Nonna urged, pulling out a chair for me and then for Michelle. Pushing the salad closer to me as if I didn’t have the strength to reach for it.

“Can you get her a glass of water, dear?” Lena asked the bitch.

“Yeah. Sure. Everyone, sit,” Andrea said.

My head felt as if it were split in half. Was he sure I wasn’t bleeding out?

I felt dizzy. My head kills. I wanted to run up to the bathroom for Advil, but once I saw them coming over to the table with everything, I felt glued to my chair.

“Buon appetito!” Nonna exclaimed, lifting her glass of wine.

I started to eat because, honestly, I was starving. Perhaps the food would help me feel better. I looked at her every chance I got. She was nice, but then I hated her. She was pretty, then she was ugly.

But God, is this pasta awesome. “Everything is really, really good, you guys. Nice job!” I said.

“Yes, excellent,” Nonna Lena added.

“Thanks, guys. Glad we could all do this today,” Michael said. Not once has he looked my way.

More fork-and-knife noises. Everyone was eating. Chewing. At some point, Michael got up to grab the steaks and served us all. Oh my God, this looks so good.

With no one talking, my brain had nothing to do but fill with thoughts. I felt it coming—more word vomit.

“So, Andrea. Question. Would you ever get married again?”

She froze. Actually, for a second, I thought I made the bitch choke. Someone might have to do the Heimlich.

Michael covered his face with his left hand, using it as a partition, and mouthed Stop to me—only I could see.

“Well... wow. I don’t really know how to answer that. I guess I haven’t thought about it,” she replied.

Bull shit.

Michael put a hand on her back and rubbed her gently. Yuck! I actually let out a giggle that I didn’t mean to.

“What?” Andrea snapped.

“Doesn’t that bother you?” I asked.

“Does what bother me?” There was anger in her voice now.

“The constant touching all the time. You don’t find it smothering?”

Michael covered his face again and lightly kicked me under the table.

“No. I don’t,” Andrea shot back. “I just came out of a marriage where my husband barely touched me. So, no, I don’t feel smothered. I love it.”

Michael leaned in and kissed her somewhere.

“Ugh. You guys make me sick,” I laughed, taking another sip, but really, I was using the glass to block my teary eyes from showing.

I felt Nonna’s eyes on me now. She knew something was up with me. Lena’s known me for a while now. She recognized this as not normal.

“Okay, Michelle, let’s go inside and play Uno,” Lena said, ending this back and forth immediately.

“Yes!” Michelle squealed, thrilled.

Nonna gathered her plate and Michelle’s, took them to the sink, and left.

Michael leaned over the table and took my glass. Placing it next to him.

“Stop. What are you doing?” I demanded.

“Enough,” he said.

“I’m not drunk.”

“The hell you aren’t,” Andrea added.

I sighed heavily before I offered some sort of explanation. “It was just something I genuinely wanted to ask,” I said. “I used to hate those things. It just... took me back. Sorry.”

​​You know, I could really ruin this night by telling her that Michael and I fucked earlier this year. Yeah, that’s right. It wasn’t planned. We were here, Michelle had already gone to bed, and this tension settled over the room as we watched some stupid movie together. We kept glancing at each other from the corners of our eyes, our bodies so starved for sex that we just... went for it.

It was quiet. It was quick. We never talked about it afterwards, and it never happened again.

2025 has just been a weird year.

It’s not like he cheated on her. He didn’t even know she existed a few months ago, but still, I had this tucked away in my back pocket in case she decided to say anything else nasty to me tonight. Go ahead, try me.

“Girls!” Lena yelled from the living room. “When you are done, you have been summoned to play Uno by the little one.”

Ugh, I thought. I am too much of a mess to focus on fucking Uno.

“That’s cute. Go ahead,” Michael said. “I’ll clean up.”

I felt like I was underwater; I couldn’t make out sentences clearly. Was I blacking out?

Andrea was quick to exit and spend time with my daughter. I just sat there. Asking for God to kill me.

“Hold on, Michelle. Don’t deal yet,” I heard her say. I think. “Wait for Mommy.”

I saw a figure coming toward me now. Did this room get brighter? The house lights were too bright for my eyes. They stung. And then, a hand on my shoulder. What was this?

“Hey, you good? You coming? I saw Michelle’s hand. She has four Draw Fours with your name on it if you sit to her left,” she said, giving me a wink.

That actually made me laugh, because I hate that stupid game, and even though it was a game of luck, Michelle always kicked our ass with her cards.

Andrea pulled me up and walked me to the couch. Was this kindness? Compassion? I felt horrible. What a scene I created today. I didn’t even know if I would remember half of this tomorrow.

Michael eventually joined us, although he didn’t want to play. He brought me water, though. That was sweet.

After a bit, I felt my face de-puff and my body sober up. Nonna was cursing loudly as Michelle handed her countless Draw Twos and Draw Fours. Everything felt normal for a second.

But it was too late. It was official. I made a horrible impression, and I think it was time to call it quits.

Taking in the room, “Ok, Michelle, I think we are done.”

“No!” she whined.

“Yes. C’mon. Want the TV on?” I asked, grabbing the remote.

“Let’s put the cards away,” Nonna said to Michelle.

I needed her help to wrap this up. Although I felt she wanted me gone, too. I already broke Michael’s heart once. If I sabotaged this new relationship, I think Nonna Lena would come after me and beat me with all her clog-like shoes and rulers.

“Ok. I think I am going to get going. I am so tired,” I finally said.

“Oh, really? It’s so early. You don’t want to stay for a bit longer? Nonna baked a pie,” Michael offered.

“I did,” Lena added.

“No, it’s ok. I feel better. I’ll be home in twenty minutes. No big deal,” I replied while pulling out my phone and booking the nearest Lyft.

“Bye, baby!” Kneeling to Michelle, I squeezed her tight. I felt her wiggling free, trying to see the TV behind me. That didn’t make me feel great. Sigh.

I then mustered the courage to approach Andrea. “It was so nice to meet you. Sorry I drank too much,” I whispered as I gave her a quick hug goodbye.

“Oh, no worries.”

I decided I should wait outside. Plus, the driver wasn’t far. I grabbed my coat, and I felt Michael following after me. I turned around and gave him a quick hug. I just wanted to go home. I didn’t care how rude this may look.

Both of us were in the foyer now, between doors.

“Are you okay?” he asked with genuine concern.

“Yes,” I said, wiping my eyes again. I can’t believe I dared to even say this within earshot. “Will you think about what I said, though? About us?”

His face dismissed me completely.

“Goodbye, Jen,” he said quietly, shutting the door in my face.

My bottom lip began to quiver. I walked across the street, out of view from the house’s windows, in case anyone decided to take one last pathetic look at me. Out of everything said today, his goodbye absolutely murdered me.

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I was also really enjoying coffee nights at Nonna’s. I forgot what it’s like to have a grandparent. She’s really sweet and treats me like I am already fully installed in this family. I’ve been so comfortable around her; it was bizarre. But a good bizarre.

Nights alone with Michael were even better. I just couldn’t get enough. I’ve never had this level of intimacy. And this often. I felt wanted. This is what I’ve been missing, and for more years than I’d like to admit. It’s like my body was playing catch up.

But Sunday was finally here. Time to be on our best behavior. When I woke up around 8:30 a.m., he was already missing from his side of the bed. Odd.

When I came downstairs, Michael was sitting at the kitchen island wearing his glasses. I smelled coffee brewing. As I walked up to the island, I saw he was drafting a menu. For his eyes only, I guess.

“Are you really writing up a menu?” I asked, teasing him.

“Ah, get out of here,” sliding the paper closer to himself.

“Can I see what you’re making today?”

“Yeah. You know most of it.” He turned the paper around so I could read it.

When Michael told me he “cooks,” I pictured him shoving dinosaur-shaped nuggets or pizza rolls into the oven for Michelle. I guess that wasn’t fair of me. Not only did he know how to cook-and do it well-he actually enjoyed it. Impressive. Still getting used to that. I, for one, hate to cook, but I was going to do my best today.

The paper listed the meals, along with everything he needed to prep for each.

“And you do this every Sunday?” I asked.

“No, God no.” His eyes got wide. “One Sunday a month that works for Jennifer. Otherwise, it’s just me, Michelle, and Nonna. And now you.” He smiled. “But that one Sunday, when Jen can and I can, is so Michelle can be with both of us, ya know? She likes it, so I keep doing it. It doesn’t happen very often anymore. Wasn’t a lot this year.”

“That’s so cute,” I said, leaning over the island, staring at his eyes through his glasses.

“Yep, so let’s start pulling stuff.”

“Oh. Um... can I have coffee first?”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry.”

“Are you ok? Are you a little nervous about today, like I am?”

“Um... maybe. A little. I honestly think you guys will be fine. She’s not going to attack you or anything. She’s not Anne.” Michael added.

Hm, not funny. That joke didn’t land. I almost heard crickets.

“Ew, please don’t bring up she who shall not be named,” I replied, breaking the awkward tension. He laughed too. “I’m more nervous about having Michelle like me.”

“You’ll be fine. She’s gonna love you,” he assured me.

Well, let’s see how this plays out, I thought.

The menu consisted of a fancy salad as a starter, pasta in a white wine sauce, and filet mignon as the main course, which he was going to grill on the patio off the kitchen despite today’s temperature. Michelle’s menu was slightly different. I think she was getting chicken cutlets or something. Nonna was baking a pie. I think it’s a cute little tradition they’re keeping up for Michelle. She may not appreciate it now, but she will one day. Not many divorced parents plan joint efforts so often. Or do they? I guess I don’t really know.

I stepped onto the back patio through the wide sliding doors off the kitchen. Morning in Brooklyn had a kind of quiet I had not expected. The air was about forty degrees, crisp enough to wake me up but gentle enough that I could imagine sitting out here in a chunky sweater, hands wrapped around a warm mug, watching the day awake.

The yards behind each brownstone were stacked like little dioramas, all visible from one another, yet not a soul was outside. No footsteps. No voices. Only the faint sounds of the city somewhere far off. It’s like the whole borough decided to sleep in today.

I could not. I was too awake, too excited.

My coffee was gone before I realized it, but the caffeine hit all at once.

I was wired.

Ok, ready.

I was assigned throwing together the salad. I think he gave that to me on purpose after I told him I don’t cook. I was never a traditional wife, other than cleaning, but I’m willing to try for him.

I chopped and diced vegetables as if I were performing brain surgery. So careful. So precise. The reason for this was not to slit my hand open. On top of my tiny tremors as a result of the SSRIs I’ve been on, my nerves were through the roof. I might need something a little stronger today.

They were getting here at noon. The clock read 11:00 already. And I’m sweating. Great.

I was also in charge of setting the table. At least that I could do. I tried to make it look as nice as possible. I even put the cloth napkins in a standing triangle formation-the one takeaway I had from my semester as a waitress during college. Yay me! But boy, we were both working so hard you would think we were having the Pope over.

“Ok, everything is set for now, I think. Yeah, everything looks pretty good. Thanks, babe!” Michael said as he adjusted a fork that was slightly out of place.

“I’m trying,” I responded.

“Trying? Stop. It’s great!”

We were exchanging looks, glancing at the time, glancing at each other.

“Ya know, I could use a shower before they get here,” he said with a knowing look.

“What a coincidence! I also need to shower! Weird,” lifting a brow.

Michael lunged toward me in a mock attack, and I bolted up the stairs, laughing so hard I nearly tripped. We were basically teenagers in adult bodies, and honestly, it was perfect.

But the second the clothes hit the floor, and the shower came on, we got serious. Warm water, hands caressing, and suddenly I remembered exactly who I was, what I was doing here, and who I wanted. If this was a preview of our future, I’ll take it. Hell, maybe I’d even drive to Patricia’s sometime soon and see if that green sequined dress was still in the window. Just to have it. God, I was getting carried away with my thoughts again.

Before things got... well, steamier, I looked up at him and whispered, “You know I love you, right?”

“Yes! And I love you.”

His fingers slid along my jaw. “I keep thinking how crazy-lucky it was we played that tiny place that night. What’s the word? Kismet?”

I dragged my finger tips lightly down his chest and gave him a mischievous smile. “You know we’re wasting an obscene amount of water.”

He let out a breathy laugh. “Oh, right.”

We were taking our time. A lot of water was wasted, but I could have stayed in that shower, in that moment, forever.

When we finally hopped out, it was already 11:45 a.m., and they were expected at noon.

“Fuck!” we both shouted at the same time, throwing on whatever clothes were at the top of the drawers.

We were half seriously concerned, half laughing our asses off.

“Should we straighten out this room?” I asked.

“Well... no one should be coming up here. No one.”

I couldn’t stop staring at him. He was slipping into Dad mode, and it made him sexier than ever-if that was even possible, I wondered.

Then the doorbell rang.

Michael practically flew down the stairs. Me, one step at a time.

He opened the door, and there they were. Michelle, a four-foot angel, kicked off her tiny shoes and ran inside. Michael knelt to her level. She threw her arms around him, and he picked her up.

“Daddy! I missed you!”

“I missed you, too.”

That melted me. My ovaries wanted to burst. Well, whatever was left of them.

The noon sun was strong and bouncing off the windows of the parked cars outside. The doorway looked like a glowing portal, and through it walked a silhouette. Jennifer.

She entered the house, perfectly put together, of course. Red Converse sneakers, mustard-colored jeans, and a red sweater. But the cherry on top-the thing that made me roll my eyes at her “outfit”-was that long faux-fur leopard coat. Really? In the middle of a casual Sunday? It reminded me a little of Cruella de Vil. Everything about her radiated effortless perfection, and I could practically feel her confidence crippling me.

Jennifer was stupidly pretty. Dark hair, light eyes you could spot from a mile away, porcelain skin that probably didn’t need makeup, shiny black hair, mascara on her “worst day.” You could tell she knew who she was, and I at least have to give her that. I am approaching forty and still trying to figure out who I am.

And she didn’t even take off her shoes. That told me everything I needed to know.

“Hi!” she said with genuine excitement, though she gave him the most awkward hug. Well, he was still holding Michelle with one arm, I supposed.

“You must be Andrea. Nice to meet you.”

She turned to me and extended her right hand. I reached for it, and we shook lightly, almost like we weren’t ready to touch each other yet. Or at least I wasn’t.

“Oh god,” she let out a big exhale, like she had just run a marathon. It must have been nerves. “So, what do you think?” She gestured around, arms out as she did half a spin, presenting the space.

“Oh! This place? Yes! I love it! I must have told Michael hundreds of times. Your friend who designed this place knew what they were doing.” She smiled, as if to convey a thank-you on behalf of her absent friend.

Michael got in between us, and I was happy to take a step back.

“Michelle, this is Andrea.”

I received a very unenthusiastic hello. I didn’t take offense. She went straight into bashful mode and turned her face away, over his shoulder.

“Ugh,” Michael said, mouthing a sorry in my direction.

“She’ll warm up. Sorry,” Jen said.

I wasn’t too worried. I know kids typically act like this. I don’t know what I was expecting-maybe for her to jump into my arms and call me Mommy. Yeah. No.

“Michelle, do you want the TV or iPad?” Jen asked.

“iPad!” she shouted.

Ah. There she is, I thought.

Michael put her down, and once Jen handed her the tablet, he motioned for us to follow him.

“It’s wine time,” he said.

Who’s more nervous here? I wondered.

Jen went to a kitchen cabinet and grabbed a giant, almost novelty-style wine glass. It annoyed me that she was helping herself, making circles around me. It’s as if I switched to being a guest with no say.

Michael grabbed me a normal-sized glass and poured until it was half full.

Jen, watching this, commented, “Oh no. You know I need more than that, Mike.”

I knew it. Wino.

“Hm, yeah. Why don’t we pace ourselves?” he said as he started pouring her glass.

She rolled her eyes, smiled at me, and gave Michael a long, exaggerated “Fine.”

I held my glass out, expecting a toast or something, but no one budged. It was awkward. I reeled my arm back super fast and played it off like I was dancing or something. Luckily for me, they both looked nervous about their own insecurities or just the awkwardness of the situation, and neither had been looking at me.

“It’s so nice for this day to finally be here. I’ve been looking forward to it,” forcing that sentence, pretending.

She nodded as she took a sip of her wine.

All you could hear was the sound of cartoons coming from the iPad in the living room. I just couldn’t take the silence anymore.

“So, Jen. What do you do?” I asked. It sounded so stale, like I was interviewing her for a job she wasn’t going to get.

“Well,” she said, pausing with a look of suspicion and conviction on her face. “Oh my god. Did you guys have sex, like, minutes ago? Your faces are all flushed and shit.” She laughed.

“Um. Michael, do you want to take that one?” I said, burying my head in my glass.

“Um,” was all he got out before downing the rest of his wine in one gulp.

“I’m just playing. I don’t care,” Jen laughed. “I love to play around. You’ll know that soon enough.”

What the fuck does she mean by that?

“But to answer your question,” she continued, “I work for an advertising company, selling ad space. I have some decently big clients. I don’t know. It’s not very exciting, and I never would have thought this would be my career, but it’s something I took years ago because it offered remote work, and now I’m too spoiled to leave. I honestly don’t even know what I would do or where I would go if I wanted to pursue something else. Meh.”

Ok. So she can speak like an adult.

I was listening with half an ear, but mostly I was studying her, trying to understand what Michael had seen in her seven years ago. She’s pretty, sure. That part is obvious. But she’s also incredibly thin, the kind of thin that makes you wonder if she’s eaten anything besides air. For someone who’d given birth, she had small breasts, small hips-her whole frame looked delicate to the point of instability. I caught myself wondering how her head didn’t topple her over.

What really stood out, though, was the immaturity. It was in her voice, her jokes, even the way she held herself. I know she was barely twenty-one or twenty-two when they dated, but it feels like he grew up and she stayed exactly where she was.

Even if she hadn’t asked for a divorce, I’m not convinced it would have lasted. They looked like two entirely different people now.

Instead of keeping up the conversation, she walked over to the stove.

“Can I see what we’re having today?”

“Oh! Yeah!” Michael said, surprised.

God, she’s weird.

“I see white sauce, meat defrosting... oh, I am excited,” Jennifer said as she did a little shimmy dance.

Kill me.

“Do you have cutlets for Michelle?” she asked.

“Yep. I’ll start working on those soon.”

“I can start those,” I volunteered. I think I just wanted her away from him. Out of the kitchen. I didn’t know if I was imagining it or what, but Jennifer was acting, dare I say, flirty.

“Oh, ok. Let me get out of your way,” she replied.

Move.

I honestly wanted something to do without having to look directly at her. But as soon as I turned my back, the questions started.

“So, guys, tell me... what’s going on? How serious is this?” she asked, wrapping her tongue around the rim of her glass with this look that said, I want all the details. Luckily, Michael answered in a way that should have covered everything she was fishing for.

“Um, well, yeah. It’s going great. It’s serious. I offered for Andrea to move in with me, so we’re further along than you may think.”

Wow. My eyes stretched open in surprise as if that were news to me, but thank God I was looking down at the counter, focusing on breading these cutlets. It spared my reaction from being seen.

“Oh,” Jennifer said. Her voice was shaky. It didn’t sound like that was the answer she wanted. Or expected. There was hurt and jealousy in her tone. I could hear it.

“Well, that’s great.” She poured more wine into her glass. “So, Andrea, you are moving in?”

“It’s something I am strongly considering,” I said over my left shoulder.

I could practically feel Michael beaming behind me. I hadn’t even had a real chance to talk to him about this yet. I’d only been here a little while. I wanted to surprise him by accepting his offer before he left for the European tour. Guess that was ruined now.

“Oh, shit. Well, cheers to you guys!” Jennifer raised her glass.

“Thanks!”

“Thank you,” we answered.

Michael came up behind me, placed a hand on my back, and leaned close to my ear.

“So happy, babe. Let’s definitely talk later,” he whispered.

My hands started shaking again. I turned to the sink and began furiously washing them. I was done with these two little cutlets anyway. I must have looked like I was losing it, or that prepping chicken had taken me out for the day. I could feel her eyes on me again.

“So, Andrea, what are you?”

“What? What do you mean?” I asked with nervous laughter, grabbing a towel.

“Are you one hundred percent Italian like this guy over here? I feel like I see something else, and I can’t place it.”

What a weird fucking question. Just leave me alone.

“I’m a very small percentage Italian. I’m mostly Greek.”

“Ah, yes, that would explain growing up in Astoria, Queens,” Michael joked, even though he already knew this. It was something we’d talked about on one of our long phone calls while he was away. I did say we talked about anything and everything.

“I knew it was something else. I was going to say Spain, though. You have such nice, dark features. Your eyes and eyebrows. Your hair. I love it,” gesturing a circle in front of her own face.

If this was her way of asking for a threesome, it was not going to happen. I didn’t return the question. I didn’t care. Instead, I nodded, accepting the compliment, and poured more wine for myself.

“Oh! Me too, please,” she said.

Was this woman almost on her third glass of wine in five minutes? That couldn’t be. I must have missed something.

While I poured her umpteenth glass, I glanced into the living room to see what Michelle was doing. She was watching YouTube videos on her iPad. I love how that’s all it takes these days to keep kids quiet. I was excited for Jennifer to leave so it could just be the three of us. Michelle was adorable, and I really wanted to see how Michael was with her.

“So,” Jen continued. She suddenly sounded exhausted, as if that last bit of information had knocked the wind out of her. Or maybe the wine was kicking in. Kicking her ass.

“Where do you live now, Andrea? Is this a big move for you? Like, when was this decided? Sorry, it’s the first time I’m hearing about this.”

Michael rolled his eyes a little. He could hear how she was slurring.

“Well, we didn’t set a move-in date or anything. I’m in no rush,” I replied. And I was lying. I was already dreading going back and packing up my new apartment. If I could skip all of that, I would.

“No, that’s cool. It’ll be nice to have another woman around here. We could hang out. Nonna will love the company. I can always use an extra babysitter, too.” She laughed.

Not funny, I thought. She was obviously being a little facetious now.

Michael tossed a look my way. Ignore her was written all over his face.

“Dre, can you grab the wine for me? The wine for the sauce. Before Jen drinks that, too.”

Oh my God, that was pretty funny. But his comment didn’t get the attention it deserved. We both looked over at her, and she was staring at the floor, moving her wine glass in slow circles on the marble by its stem.

“Sure,” I said.

As I walked toward the pantry, I felt a tiny hand grab one of the belt loops on my jeans.

Ah, Christ! What is that?

It was Michelle, tugging at my clothing, trying to get my attention. None of us had seen her sneak in here.

“Andrea, come to my room. I want to show you my new books.”

I practically melted. I looked for permission to leave, and Michael gave me a little wave. It was too cute.

“Go ahead, I’ll grab that,” he said.

“Okay. Yes, I’d love to. Where is your room?” I said to this tiny little woman. I knew exactly where her room was, but I wasn’t about to take that excitement off her face. She wanted to give me her tour, so I pretended it was my first day in this house.

“Michelle, leave Andrea alone. You will be here all week.” Jen scolded.

Oof. How dare you take this moment away from me?

“No, it’s okay. Michelle, show me the way,” I said, even though my tone translated to Fuck you, Jen.

Her little hand in mine, she yanked me to the base of the staircase and made me run up the stairs with her. I was so ecstatic for this moment. Finally.

She pushed the door open so hard it hit the stopper and bounced back toward us. I had to put my hand out to keep it from slamming into her face.

“Easy!”

“Easy!” the voices echoed from the kitchen.

Michelle motioned for me to sit on her bed, which I did. She started gathering books off the floor, organizing some sort of presentation. She came over with two: one with a dragon on the cover, the other with a girl and a dog.

“Are these your favorites?” I asked.

“Yes. There’s more,” she said, running to her bookcase. But as soon as she got there, she changed her mind. She turned toward a half-naked doll on her bed and handed it to me.

“Can you put her clothes back on for me?”

“Sure,” I said with a smile. “What happened to her clothes in the first place?”

Without missing a beat, she replied, “Well, she had to take a shower.”

“Oh! She had to...makes sense.”

Michelle dug into a toy chest like she was thrift shopping for an outfit for the doll. I got up and quietly pushed the door shut, holding the knob turned all the way so the latch strike wouldn’t make a sound. I was aware of how creepy that might look, but I needed a moment away from the kitchen.

“Hey Michelle, can I ask you something?” I used a soft, friendly voice I didn’t recognize. I sounded like I was begging to be her best friend.

“Daddy has told me so much about you! What has Daddy told you about me?”

“….”

Poor girl. I caught her off guard. She wasn’t dumb; she knew it. Knew I was fishing.

“He says you’re really pretty.”

I was getting tired of that being the first answer. I’d hope Michael wasn’t with me just for that, as flattering as that can be.

“Okay... what else?” Now I was digging.

“Um.”

Her face changed instantly, as if she had been possessed by the spirit of a much older, wiser woman. A grown adult seemed to answer for her.

“Sorry, but he really doesn’t talk to me about those things.”

I couldn’t help it. I laughed. Laughed right in her face. She smiled-it made her happy to make me laugh. It was just too stinking cute an answer.

But the moment was interrupted. There was yelling coming from the kitchen. Real yelling. Since I’d shut the door, everything was muffled, but whatever it was sounded tense. Michelle looked concerned. She looked scared that her parents arguing was even a possibility.

I cracked the door open. “Everything okay, guys? Do you need help?”

“No! All good,” Michael shouted.

That sounded like a lie.

“I’m going to be outside. Starting the grill,” he added.

“Sounds good!” I called back.

There was a lump in my throat. I was suddenly too distracted. I looked down at the naked doll in my hand. What was I even doing?

“Does she have a nice dress she could wear?” I asked her, trying to bring us back to our moment.

“Yes. Two.” She ran back to the chest, knowing exactly what she was looking for now.

My plan was to hide in her room until we were called down for our very early Sunday dinner. Nonna should be coming up soon anyway. She would be a great buffer. Michelle, sitting at the table, ought to keep Jen quiet, too. No more stupid or jealous questions.

She handed me a hot-pink bodycon dress for the doll. They make clothes like this for dolls, I thought as I rolled it up over its legs.

Knock, knock.

Keys jingling.

Thank God. Nonna was here.

“Michelle, Grandma is here. Want to go downstairs?” I asked.

She didn’t answer. She just opened the door and sprinted down the steps, passed me.

“Alright,” I muttered, tossing the doll onto the bed.

Coming down the stairs, I saw Nonna kneeling to hug Michelle as if she hadn’t seen her in months. She then stood and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek.

“And how are you, dear?” she asked.

“Things have been interesting,” I said quietly.

“I’m sure,” she replied, sharing a look with me. “Let’s go inside.”

We walked into the kitchen only to find it empty. Michael was just outside the glass doors, and Jen appeared to be down the hall in the pantry. What is she doing? Helping? Doubt it.

“Hello!” Nonna called out.

Jen turned the corner with her arms wide, “Hi! So nice to see you. How are you?” she asked, hugging Nonna.

“I’m ok. I’m ok. How are you? You look tired.”

Ha.

“Oh? I’ve already had too much wine, it seems. Sorry. I’m fine, though.”

Before Nonna could reply, Michael stepped in through the back door and motioned for us to sit.

“Babe, can you grab those cutlets?”

“Sure.”

“Yep,” Jen and I answered at the same time.

Ok. Now I’m going to choke a bitch.

Michelle missed the tension, but the four of us exchanged quick, awkward glances.

“I was talking to Andrea,” Michael said with a nervous laugh.

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry, guys. I’m already a little out of it,” Jen explained.

“Why don’t you sit and start eating?” Nonna urged, pulling out a chair for her and then for Michelle. Then she looked my way. “Can you get her a glass of water, dear?”

I’m getting her water now?

“Yeah. Sure. Everyone, sit,” I said.

In the most discreet way possible, I slipped my phone out and texted Michael, WTF is happening? His watch buzzed. The room was quiet enough to hear a moth sneeze, but luckily, Jen was “out of it,” and Nonna was half-deaf. He turned away so they couldn’t see him reply.

His reply: I don’t know. She’s being very strange. I’m a little concerned. Let’s not put any more wine in front of her.

As I looked up from reading his text, I saw Jen pouring herself more wine. Seriously. I couldn’t even make this shit up anymore. I let out a quiet laugh. I had to at this point.

Bringing the rest of everything to the table: salt, dressings, bread, and a plate of vegetables, we joined Nonna, Jennifer, and Michelle, already seated. My God. It was only one in the afternoon, and we were sitting down to a three-course meal. I was going to get so fat living here.

“Buon appetito!” Nonna exclaimed, lifting her glass of wine.

The table fell mostly quiet, and I could feel Jennifer’s presence heavy across from me-too much eye contact, too much... everything. Instead of sitting in that tension, I let my mind detach and drift to something else. Something safer. I never gave much thought to being a parent. I’d be the worst-like, full-blown nervous wreck of a mother. My biggest fear? Choking. So I fixed my attention on Michelle, watching her nibble at her food, making sure she chewed each bite just enough. It gave me something to do. Something to focus on.

She really was adorable in her little stretch pants, matching shirt, with long brown hair, and tiny, red glasses sitting on her nose.

The tension started to ease, and I found myself already looking forward to future family dinners. Ones that did not include Wino.

But then the silence, and my focus was broken.

“Everything is really, really good, you guys. Nice job!” Jen said, using perhaps the most sober tone she had managed so far today.

“Yes, excellent,” Nonna Lena added, her eyes never lifting from her fork.

“Thanks, guys. Glad we could all do this today,” Michael said, sounding practically exhausted. Physically and emotionally, from the looks of it.

More fork-and-knife tapping.

Jennifer leaned back in her chair as if she were too full to sit upright. She lifted her newest pour of wine.

“So, Andrea. Question. Would you ever get married again?”

I froze. What a shitty question. Completely unfair.

Michael covered part of his face with his free hand, pure embarrassment written all over him. I realized I hadn’t swallowed my food yet. It felt stuck in my throat. Don’t choke! Someone, get me water. Think! Panicking as I forced down this huge bite of steak. It actually hurt going down.

“Well... wow. I don’t really know how to answer that. I guess I haven’t thought about it,” I replied, lying through my teeth. Earlier today, I had been daydreaming about that green sequin gown at Patricia’s.

Michael put a hand on my back. Just a light touch, the kind that said no judgment, I’m here, you’re safe. It was nice. He had to know I was just trying to survive this dinner the same way he was.

Jen scoffed.

“What?” I asked.

“Doesn’t that bother you?”

“Does what bother me?”

“The constant touching all the time. You don’t find it smothering?” she asked, her tone thick with honest disgust.

Michael covered his face again, and for a moment, it looked like he might say something, but nothing came out. Jennifer and I were staring each other down now.

Nonna’s eyes bounced from left to right, like a ping pong ball in play.

“No. I don’t,” I snapped. “I just came out of a marriage where my husband barely touched me. So no, I don’t feel smothered. I love it.”

Michael leaned in and kissed the side of my head. I couldn’t tell if he meant it or if it was a subtle attempt to be extra obnoxious.

“Ugh. You guys make me sick,” she laughed, taking another sip.

“Okay, Michelle, let’s go inside and play Uno,” Lena said, brightening her voice for Michelle’s sake. Her mission: to save the child, it seemed.

“Yes!” Michelle squealed, thrilled.

Nonna gathered her plate and Michelle’s and took them to the sink before leaving the room. Leaving the two of us in Jen’s wake.

Once they were gone, Michael leaned over to her side of the table and took her wine glass, placing it out of reach.

“Stop. What are you doing?” Jen demanded.

“Enough,” he said firmly.

“I’m not drunk.”

“The hell you aren’t,” I muttered, immediately second-guessing whether my grammar was even right. I felt like I was also getting a little fucked up.

“It was just something I genuinely wanted to ask,” she said. “I used to hate those things. It just... took me back. Sorry.” Her face turned red with embarrassment, the end of her rope showing now that she had no more excuses left.

I waited for Michael to defend himself, but he stayed quiet. I guess he didn’t want to entertain any of it anymore. Still, it was so insulting to basically admit that watching us gave her the ick, that his sweet gestures annoyed her.

Jesus. I had never seen such distaste directed at such a perfect human being.

I just wanted everyone to leave at this point. I couldn’t keep this semi-friendly charade going on anymore. My appetite was fully lost. I was just pushing the food around. That somehow made me mad, too. This beautiful meal in front of me was just...ruined.

The room got darker as the sun moved to the other side of the house. Her and I in a silent Mexican stand off.

“Girls!” Lena yelled from the living room, “When you are done, you have been summoned to play Uno by the little one.”

“That’s cute. Go ahead,” Michael said softly, “I’ll clean up. Are you even done?”

“I am, for now, yeah,” speaking to the floor as I pushed my chair out. I didn’t even wait for Jen. I just went straight to the living room and claimed a seat next to Michelle on the floor, around the coffee table, before she could.

When I looked back, Michael had gotten up and started cleaning, bringing stuff to the counter. Jennifer, though, was still sitting at the table, slightly slumped over. And I don’t know why, but suddenly I was stricken with empathy. I don’t know exactly what about today set her off, but I felt bad somehow. The muted clinking of dishes behind her. She looked pathetic. Lifeless. I pitied her.

“Hold on, Michelle. Don’t start,” I said. “Wait for Mommy.”

She wasn’t moving. I got up and walked back to the table, lightly touching her shoulder, “Hey, you good? You coming?” Jen looked confused now. Probably questioning whether this was a truce or not. “I saw Michelle’s hand. She has 4 Draw Four’s with your name on it if you sit to her left.” I joked with a small wink. That made her laugh, and with my other hand pulled her out of the chair, escorting her to the couch. She wasn’t wobbly-drunk, I think we were past that. More so sleepy-drunk, her eyes half-lidded.

Before I took back my spot on the floor, I quickly walked back to the kitchen, where Michael was at the sink.

“Hey,” I whispered. “I know it’s early, but I think you need to make some black coffee, like, now.”

He laughed. “That’s fine. She could even go sleep it off in the guest room if she wants, while we stay down here. We can throw on a movie for Michelle.”

“Yeah, Ok. That’s cool.” I didn’t want her to stay, though. I wanted her to sober up and hop in a cab. Oh well. I can see I wasn’t going to win this one.

With that, I headed back to the living area and took my seat. Believe it or not, after a few rounds of Uno, Jennifer was wide awake and happy again. Whether she was close to winning or losing terribly, we were all laughing. Nonna even let out a couple of curse words in Italian. The F word, I think?

There is something about Uno that brings families together, I guess. However, after a straight hour or a little more, I was so over this game. I think the wine from earlier was finally hitting me, and I was ready for a nap. How much longer must we play hostess?

I noticed Jennifer taking a look around the room while shuffling for another round. Nonna and I were on the edge of sleep while Michael was on the couch scrolling on his phone.

“Ok, Michelle. I think we’re done,” Jennifer concluded.

“No!” she whined.

“Yes. C’mon. Want the TV on?” she asked, grabbing the remote.

Oh, thank God. I didn’t want to be the one who quit first. I shouldn’t be this tired after playing cards for an hour with a seven-year-old, right?

“Let’s put the cards away,” Nonna said to Michelle.

We moved quickly, jamming the cards back into the box. I didn’t care. I was only listening for one thing.

“Okay. I think I’m going to get going. I’m so tired,” Jen said.

Yes! My inner me was doing a Snoopy dance.

“Oh, really? It’s so early. You don’t want to stay for a bit longer? Nonna baked a pie,” Michael offered.

“I did,” Lena added.

Jennifer was examining all our faces, but mostly mine.

“No, it’s ok. I feel better. I’ll be home in twenty minutes. No big deal.”

As disappointed as some of us were, or pretending to be, it was something we were not going to argue about.

She opened her phone and ordered her own Lyft. She was leaving Michelle here for almost the whole week, so naturally, she got the biggest hug and longest goodbye. She hugged me next.

“It was so nice to meet you. Sorry, I drank too much,” she said in my ear.

That wore me down a bit.

“Oh, no worries,” I answered. Something I hate saying, but I didn’t know how else to respond.

Michael walked her out before her ride even arrived. They gave each other a stiff hug, and I heard her whisper something to him in the foyer, but I couldn’t make it out. An apology, maybe. Judging by Michael’s body language, he looked somewhat relieved that she was leaving early. She was just too unpredictable. He had spent the last three hours worried about what she might say next. He shut the door behind her, and it was as if we all took a big exhale. Even Lena.

We relaxed in the living room, surrendered to whatever movie Michelle put on. I leaned half into Michael, curled up on the couch, and my eyes shut on their own.

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I wasn’t about to create a scene on the sidewalk.
Not yet.

“I missed you,” I said.

“I missed you, too.”

He looked down at the sidewalk and glanced behind me.

“Wait, where are your bags and stuff?”

“Oh, I left that in the car. I’ll get it later.”

“Hm. Nah, let me get them now. Give me your keys,” he said.

“Oh, ok. Here.”

It felt weird having him always serving me, or doing something before I even got a chance to do it myself.

Not because I didn’t appreciate it.
I loved it.
I just didn’t feel like I deserved to be treated like this.
Like a princess.

“Ah, wait. What’s your car again?”

“A 2013 blue Mercedes,” I said quietly.

It was my parents’ car.
Something they saved for.
It was their dream car.
It was their last car.

I guess I had “selfishly” claimed it almost immediately after Dad was put in a home.
Just one of the many reasons my sister and brother are still salty with me, I guess.
I’m the youngest, and they’ve always felt I was spoiled rotten.
Taking the car, I suppose I was proving it.

It was never discussed beforehand.
I needed the car at the time; they didn’t.
Whatever.

“Ok, be right back. Go inside, get comfortable.”

Don’t mind if I do, I thought.
I was dying to see his place.

Up the stairs, I walked through the old doorway, and I still wasn’t inside the house.
I was standing in a white, hexagon-tiled foyer.
A small space for shoes and coats.

Beyond that was the real entry, through arched doors of wood and glass.

First impression: this place was absolutely stunning.
A designer’s dream.

The moment I stepped inside, I felt it.
This old row house had once been chopped into four little apartments, its soul fractured, but now it breathed again.
Wide, open rooms flowed into each other while still holding the quiet intimacy of a home.

Everything was new, yet it felt lived in. I could feel that before I even reached the center of the room.
The moldings, the baseboards, the arched doors... all recreated with such care it was as if the house itself had shown them what to do.
Only the staircase and the fireplace had survived the past, standing there like they remembered everything.

The floors were fumed oak. I couldn’t stop staring at them.

“This is all you brought?” Michael asked, coming in through both sets of doors and setting my bags at the bottom of the staircase.

“Yep. I don’t require much,” I said, without taking my eyes off the fireplace.

He laughed in surprise, like that was the first time he had ever heard a woman say that.

“So, you like?” he asked.

“This place is gorgeous! For real!”

“I’ll show you around.”

Everything was easy to see. The whole first floor was almost entirely open, with only a partial wall separating the hallway from the living area.

Walking from one room to another, “As much as I love this dining table, we never eat here. We always sit at the island,” gesturing toward the long teak table with three seats on either side.

“You have amazing taste!” I said, running my hand along the table.

“Oh, well, I can’t take credit for that. When we renovated five years ago, Jen’s designer friend chose everything. I just handed them my credit card. Yeah, that wasn’t a fun bill,” he muttered.

“Oh, well, they had great taste,” I laughed. “I would have made similar, if not the same, choices.”

We walked farther toward the back of the house, into the kitchen.

Perhaps I’m just easily impressed, but I had never been so taken by cabinets and counters before. Greens and golds.

I started touching things. Real marble? Yes. Damn, wow.

It couldn’t be a coincidence that everything in this house looked like I chose it. All of it.

My favorite part was the back wall: black-framed steel-and-glass tri-fold sliding doors, industrial and floor-to-ceiling, able to be pushed fully to either side, seamlessly blending the inside with the outdoors.

Outside was a small cement-and-wrought-iron patio that led down nine metal stairs to a lush, grassy courtyard. I bet this looks gorgeous in the moonlight, light bouncing off the glass and shiny metals.

I turned the corner into the hallway, looping back toward the front of the house. Grabbing the banister, I asked, “And upstairs?” I made it pretty obvious that I had something in mind.

“Um... yeah,” he said, laughing a little and motioning for me to go up.

The second floor had three bedrooms, one of them Michelle’s. Painted pale pink and scattered with toys and coloring books, it was adorable.

Seeing it made something lift in me. I was eager to meet her, almost too eager, as if the moment she stood in front of me, everything would finally feel real.

After only minutes, I felt like I already belonged here, like I was part of it all.

There was one more flight. The stairs grew narrower as we ascended the house.

“Ok, so the third level, we blew out a wall and made it like a loft, I guess you can say? The whole thing is my bedroom slash mancave,” he explained.
I let him lead the way. I noticed there was no door. Everything after that third landing was all open.

“Um, how do you get privacy up here?” I asked.

“That’s a good question,” he laughed. “I’ve never had anyone up here while Michelle’s been in the house.”

“Really?” I asked, genuinely surprised but trying not to sound jealous or judgmental.

“Nope.”

His bedroom was ginormous. Clothes were out on racks, even though he had a decent-sized walk-in closet and two short dressers. There was a full bathroom with a giant, deep soaking tub in the center. That should be fun. The toilet was in a separate closet.

In the back of this big “room”, against an exposed brick wall, was a California king-sized bed.

I was impressed, but I also suddenly felt poor. I still hadn’t grasped the band’s current situation. How much longer would he even want to stay here? Would the guys get nuts with their new fame and buy mansions in Nashville? Not that this place isn’t expensive to keep, I’m sure. I hope he stays here. I loved this place. It already felt like home.

I was semi-zoned out, overwhelmed, staring at the size of this bed. He came up behind me and put his arms around my waist, resting his head on my right shoulder.

“So, what do you think? Like it?”

“I’m taking this all in. I love it. It’s beautiful. Everything’s beautiful.”
I turned to face him. We were forehead to forehead, swaying a little. I glanced at the bed again and back to him.

“Would you mind if I, um, got comfortable?” I asked, biting my lip and probably looking thirsty as hell.

“Um. Oh! Yeah! Do your thing.”

I left my bags downstairs, but didn’t need anything from them. I walked into his bathroom carrying nothing. He didn’t question it. I closed the door and scanned the bathroom, still noticing every design choice. Oh, good, he had mouthwash. And Jesus, six people could fit in this shower! Ok, focus. There was everything I needed in here. Who stocked this? I hoped it was his grandmother and not forgotten remnants of the last girl’s.

I had prepped the outfit in advance, wearing it under all my layers. One of the Victoria’s Secret sets. Orange lace this time. I was nervous. This wasn’t typically me. I didn’t “do” lingerie.

After making my hair look like a sexy mess, I took a few deep breaths and opened the door just enough to peek, just to make sure the coast was clear: no new phone calls came through, that he wasn’t on any FaceTime call, stuff like that. When I looked, he was sitting on the edge of the bed, fully dressed, as to not assume, I suppose. Polite, I guess. Ok, here we go.

I opened the door and, with fake confidence, cat-walked my way over. The room felt like a mile long.

Michael’s face was a mixture of surprise, delight, and excitement. I attempted to straddle him, but he stood up quickly to take his shirt off.

Dammit. I had a whole thing planned. Oh well, doesn’t matter.

I put myself to work and removed the rest of his clothing in what I hoped was a sexy fashion. Then I gently pushed Micahael back to a seated position, where I finally climbed on top and straddled him. I was attempting a face-forward type of lap dance. It appeared to be going well. Then we started with the passionate kissing and him holding me so I wouldn’t fall backward. His hands went to my ass, and it felt like I was losing all consciousness. We leaned back on the bed, me still on top. I think I blurted something that sounded better in my head. “You don’t know what you do to me,” I whispered.

There wasn’t much talking after that. It was beautiful. He makes me feel amazing. So much so, I start to believe it.

Some time later, the intensity had faded, and we settled into a heavy calm. Resting. For now. The room felt hot; we were sweating, but I cuddled into him anyway. We didn’t say much at first, but it felt like we were talking telepathically. Thoughts like I missed you so much, I’m never leaving this room, and the obvious, I love you.

“Oh my God,” he said finally, as if realizing something. “That was... intense.”

“Is that good or bad?” I asked. I genuinely didn’t know.

“It was great.”

Thank God.

“So, again?” I asked.

He laughed. “Absolutely. Hold on. Give me a second.”

It’s like he had to have a sidebar with his penis, ‘Ready to go, buddy?’

And Fuck. It hit me that we’d had sex with absolutely no protection. Again! I should bring it up. I didn’t want to ruin the mood, but I also didn’t want to ruin his life.

“Question,” I said, completely destroying the vibe.

“Yeah?”

“Do you have condoms?”

He looked confused.

“What?”

“Um... I don’t want to, um, ya know?”

“No, I don’t know. Explain.”

“I’m not on the pill or anything.”

“You’re not?! It’s a little late, no? Why didn’t you say anything? I thought-well-I assumed you were on the pill or an IUD or something!“ He sounded nervous, stumbling on his words.

Whoa. I felt cornered. What was my defense?

“Michael, I’m sorry. I never expected you to show up at my apartment that morning. That moment was so spontaneous and beautiful, I didn’t want it to end. And today, again, I wasn’t thinking. I’m not trying to trap you. I promise. It’ll be extremely easy for me to get a prescription, and then we should be good. Okay? But for now—”

He scoffed lightly. “I don’t think you’re trying to trap me. Don’t be silly. It’s just something I can’t really think about right now. There’s so much going on, ya know? Plus, would you even want that? With me? So soon?”

I struggled to come up with an answer that made sense and proved me sane, somewhat. “I mean... it wouldn’t be the best thing right now, but it also wouldn’t be the worst,” I said with a small shrug.

We settled back, heads resting on the pillows, looking at each other in silence. More telepathic talking. He looked like he was thinking. Thinking hard. Michael took a big exhale. His eyes said I’m fine with it either way.

He reached over and started playing with my hair. A minute later, he rolled back on top of me, kissing my neck and touching things.

“Wait,” I said, pushing him up. “Didn’t we just talk about this?”

“Yeah, we did. I’m choosing not to care right now. I’m ok if you’re ok.” He said it in a loving, kind of romantic way-but wow, so reckless, I thought. It was something he was willing to risk. Again, wow.

“This is how accident babies happen,” I laughed.

“I know. You also said it wouldn’t be the worst thing.” He looked at me for confirmation, eyes moving left to right.

“I did say that.”

My brain was screaming: You love this man already. He’s made you feel more alive in two months than you have in ten years. And now he’s so sure he’s willing to take this chance with you? I was dumbfounded and yet felt whole; honored, really. I could suggest he pull out, but I felt that was so insulting. I caved.

“Yeah, ok,” I said, already in ecstasy. “Fuck it. I’ll get that script called in tomorrow.”

He lowered himself back down, and we lost the next hour.

By late afternoon, around 4:30, it was getting dark. Normally, my seasonal depression would start creeping in, but not today. Today I was the happiest woman in the world.

I was also starving.

Rolling onto my side, nudging his arm: “Babe, wake up. I’m starving.”

He wasn’t really sleeping. We had just been lying there in silence. Maybe he did drift off for a bit, actually. Michael ran his hands up and down his face, as if to wake himself up. “Um, well, I have so much food in this house, but would you be down for pizza?” he asked.

“I will never turn down pizza.”

“Awesome,” he replied. “I’ll call it in in a minute.”

“Yay!” I shouted. Food made me that happy. That got another laugh from him.

We both got up and got dressed. Well, dressed-ish. Grabbing clothes from my bag downstairs, I slipped into the same silk sleeping shorts I had practically been living in and an oversized sweatshirt. I was so comfortable. Comfortable in my clothes, in this house, in my own skin. In everything.

I had never felt this kind of contentment before.

The night Adam and I had that fight, I thought it was the end of my life, so to speak.
How wrong I was.

We went downstairs, sitting on opposite ends of this large sectional couch, giving each other a brief physical and mental break to play catch-up with the world. He scrolled on his phone. I scrolled on mine. I messaged my GYN’s office asking to schedule an appointment. I needed that script called in as soon as possible. We weren’t trying to get pregnant. We didn’t want to take any more chances. Swiping back and forth between work emails and texts. Then, for mind-numbing nonsense, I opened Instagram. It had been pretty dead after I set it so only followers could message me. I ignored nearly every follow request, and my profile was back to private permanently. Scrolling, scrolling.

Then I saw the “Suggested for you” row.

And who was first? Adam.

My heart stopped. It was like seeing a ghost. I clicked his profile out of curiosity. It was public, as always. To my complete surprise, there were new photos. One selfie, which was odd because he hated pictures, and another of an orange cat. Caption: Welcoming Tigger to the family!

Family? What family? Who’s the “family”? A cat? He never wanted a cat. Unless he had someone new, and they wanted one. My head was swimming. I didn’t know why I was even spending my time thinking about this.

Do I add him back? That’d be weird. Would it look like I’m baiting? If he showed up in my suggestions, maybe I showed up in his, meaning he saw me and still left me alone.

Well, whatever. I didn’t know if we’d ever be friends again or if I’d even want that. I really should get off his profile and quickly.

Knock, knock, knock.

“Pizza?” I yelled.

“No, that’s my grandmother’s knock. Hold on.”

She had a key and let herself in. Christ. I had no bra on. I rolled my eyes to the ceiling and left them there. The timing! For real.

She hugged him. “Hello, grandson!”

“Hi, Nonna! Come in. We weren’t really expecting you. Sorry.”

Nonna? She’s ‘Nonna’ now?

“It’s ok, I’ll just say hi for now and come back later. Just wanted to meet your new ‘friend,’” she teased. Boy, was she curious. Letting herself in unannounced like that.

She came to me, shook my hand, then hugged me. She was nothing as I expected. Not frail, not ancient, not wearing moo-moos or plastic shoes like my grandmother. She was seventy-six but looked younger. Polished. Every detail of her was deliberate-an expensive outfit, a sparkling diamond brooch pinned perfectly, a full head of white hair, rings on nearly every finger. She radiated confidence before she even spoke.

“It’s so nice to meet you,” I said. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

“Oh! Lena, baby. Just call me Nonna Lena.”

She was adorable. Lena. What a beautiful name. Baby name idea? God, I was getting carried away.

“Very pretty. Very pretty,” she said to me and then to Michael.

“Oh, thank you.” At this point, being shy was becoming my second skin.

“Ok, I will leave you alone now and maybe come back later. I can put coffee on. What time?”

“We’ll come down later,” Michael said.

“Ok, like six?”

“Nonna, that’s like, in an hour. No, later. Eight, eight-thirty?”

“So late. Ok.” She winked at him while making her exit.

“Goodbye, dear. Nice to meet you, Andrea.”

“You too,” I called after her as she went down the front steps.

“Oh my God, how cute is she?” I laughed, turning to him after the door closed.

“Yeah, she’s great. A little nosy. Sorry about that. She doesn’t usually pop in when I have people over. So don’t worry.”

“Oh. People over?” I asked, wanting to disappear.

“Yes. Friends, the guys, dates... but none of that has been recent. It’s been so long she probably forgot how to give me privacy.”

I believed him. I didn’t want details. Thinking of him with anyone else made me want to puke. It was bad enough that I had the image of him and Jen together. Possibly Anne, but we won’t discuss that.

Knock.
Chime.

“OK, that’s the pizza,” he said.

Thank God.

I went to the kitchen for plates, but had no idea where anything was. I opened random cabinets, searching, but nothing. Ugh. I started feeling useless. I wanted to help. I didn’t want to feel like a guest this entire time. The least I could do was grab us some plates. Damn this big kitchen! I was getting frustrated.

It felt like time running out in an escape room, and I was just so close.

Michael came in with the large, greasy box. “I got it. Go sit.”

“I was trying to find plates.”

“Over here,” he said, laughing a little, as I was nowhere near the right cabinet.

Apparently, we were going to eat in the living room. It was just funny to me. There was a kitchen island, a beautiful dining table in its own room, but we were going to sit on the couch with our pizza while watching TV. Yeah, that tracks. Men. But it was fine. After all, couches and TV were two of my favorite things. We sat closer and debated what to watch. A movie? A series? What genre?

“Oh, I’ve been wanting to see this. Can we watch it?” he asked, clicking on the thumbnail of a series I’d never heard of. I didn’t seem to have an opinion about anything, so—why not?

“Sure. Of course.”

Before the first episode was even over, I’d finished a tall Diet Coke and three slices of pizza. I felt gross. Why did I eat so much? I must have looked like a pig. I don’t think he noticed. But wow—it was some of the best pizza I’d ever had.

“Hey, can I use your shower before we go downstairs to Nonna’s?” Saying “Nonna” so casually, as if I’ve known her for years.

“Yeah, sure. Want me to pause it?”

“No. I’m good,” I laughed, “You’re good to go without me.”

“Ew, fine,” he added, his eyes never leaving the screen.

I grabbed one bag and started going up the stairs. When I reached the landing on the second floor, I noticed all the wall hangings this time. There was a lot to look at: their first-ever tour poster, a gold record for selling 500,000 copies of their EP. Did they play that Hudson show as a favor? Jeez. So much to look at. It was as if the Hard Rock Cafe threw up on this wall. Right as I put my hand on the second banister, glancing back, a picture caught my eye. It was a family picture, squished in between other memories and tour trinkets.

Michael, Jen, and Michelle.

It was definitely old because Michelle seemed to be one or two years old max in this photo.

They looked so happy.

Is it wrong that I wanted to take it down or turn it around?

I am finally meeting Jen on Sunday.

It’s apparently “family dinner day” or something.

This should be interesting.

It was Michelle I was really excited to see, though.

I never felt like I could be a mother, even a mother figure, but I wanted to see if I could do it.

At the very least, pretend.

I already loved her.

She was a piece of him, after all.

Entering the bedroom, I set my bag down and walked over to one of the dressers.

They were practically empty.

I started unpacking and placing my stuff in drawers, claiming the space.

As I was folding and putting things away, I thought of my Hudson apartment and how it had only been empty for hours, but in my head already felt like it could be a mausoleum.

That family picture was flashing in my head.

If that offer of moving in is still on the table, I think I’m going to do it.

Fuck it.

I am not going back to that place.

Why should I suffer? Why should I be alone?

Those thoughts echoed over and over.

When I was done with that, I started snooping.

God, I am so bad.

I should have been in the shower by now. He was probably wondering what was taking me so long.

I didn’t even find anything. I’m not sure what I’d been looking for, to be honest. Proof of something, maybe. Proof that I wasn’t just being paranoid.

But there was nothing. Just the usual things. Things you’d expect in a man’s bedroom: random cash and loose change in the nightstand, cologne, grocery receipts, dust.

I had to stop myself. This was pathetic. What am I doing?

Why can’t I just accept that this is a genuine relationship and not a hoax?
Relax! Chill, I drilled in my head.

All of my anxiety and tension disappeared when I stepped into that shower.

The room felt like a bathhouse.

So much space, it felt like I was showering on a basketball court.

Clearing my head of all negativity, I began the process of manifesting happy thoughts.

This was going to be an amazing holiday season, spending it here with him and his family.

His parents were flying up from Florida, too, for Christmas. It was going to be a packed house. There were going to be so many people to impress.

But Sunday. Sunday is the test. If I can get through meeting Jennifer, I feel I can do this.

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Then there was my phone. I was afraid to look at it. Last night felt like a dream. Did I really text him “never mind” and nothing else? Picking up my phone, the notifications were there. One missed call and one text message that read: Hey, call me when you can.

Oof. Ominous. I read every text in a tone. I really shouldn’t. But I felt like I was in trouble, because I probably was. I’m such an idiot.

It was just a little past 1 a.m. West Coast time. He had to still be awake. The guys never sleep. I tapped to dial.

Ring, ring.

Ring, ring.

Ring, ring.

Hm. Nervous now.

“Hello?” Michael said, sounding as if I ripped him from a deep sleep.

“Hi! I’m sorry, did I wake you?” I asked.

“Um, yeah,” he said matter-of-factly.

“I’m sorry I missed your call. I passed out super early.”

“Yeah? Is that what happened? The last I heard from you was a ‘never mind’ text on WhatsApp. What was that about? You couldn’t wait?”

I felt like I was being interrogated in a hot room with a blinding light in my face.

“Oh. Hang on a second. It looks like my last text didn’t go through. I never hit ‘send’. I did say goodnight. Sorry about that.” My voice was shaking. Obviously a lie, but he sounded so mad I felt I should at least try it.

“So the message didn’t go through, huh?” he said.

Wow. So awkward. He knows I just made that up.

“Yes, sorry. I never hit send. I’m not too familiar with WhatsApp.” I kept pushing.

“Andrea, stop.”

“What?” God, my acting is horrible.

He sighed. “I have to go. I’m exhausted.”

“Oh. Okay. Well—”

Click.

My jaw dropped, practically hitting the bed. What just happened? Did he just hang up on me? He couldn’t have.

I hit redial.

Ring, ring—

Hey, I’m not able to answer the phone right now. Just leave a message and I will return your call as soon as I can.

It went to his fucking voicemail!

Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

I did one lap around the apartment before returning to my bedroom and throwing myself on the bed. If there were ever an award for best, loudest scream-crying, this one took first place. I even started hyperventilating. Barely audible now. This type of crying hurt. I hadn’t cried like this in months, and that was for a totally different reason.

Then it hit me. He wants me to know how it feels. How it must have felt. I pulled this shit on him last night, after all.

Why did I do that? I figured he would be pissed if I said the truth. That being, you didn’t answer me. Guess you had something better to do. I’d probably be in this scenario either way. I thought about calling Samantha to see if she could pass him her phone for a chat, but that’s desperate, right? Should I send a text? I could barely speak. All I could think about was how the last two months have been the best in my life, and I didn’t deserve it. I started typing up a message, still crying. A tear even hit the screen. How cinematic.

Michael, I’m sorry. It was stupid of me to have such unrealistic expectations of your time. You’re right, I was lying. Lying because I am so embarrassed by what a brat I was and can be. I haven’t dated/done this in years. I had no idea this childish side of me even still existed! I don’t know what I am or am not doing. I am not myself when I’m not with you. Please, please, please forgive me. Didn’t we say I love you today? Don’t give up on me. I’ll get better.
P.S. I am sending you a picture to your WhatsApp, ready or not. ❤️
P.P.S. I hope you’ll call me later.

I hit send, turned the volume up, and plugged in the phone so I wouldn’t miss anything due to a low charge. I watched the digits change on my clock every sixty seconds. Gripping my pillow like it was another person. Curled in a ball, basically spooning it.

I went back to the beginning. How awestruck I was when I first saw him in the club that night. How he noticed me. In a sea of other people, he saw me. It still blows my mind. Exchanging Instagram handles, and I barely knew him, but was already so obsessed. I fell even harder when I saw he was a dad. Just something about that. That first full day we spent together at The Fillmore, him showing me around, introducing me to everyone, taking my hand at the end of the night, and our first kiss. Why am I mad at him exactly? What a fucking baby I am. If I ruined this, I’ll never forgive myself. Shit, I will become his next stalker. Anne 2.0. Maybe I’ll throw some beer in the next bitch’s face.

I had hunger pangs now. My body wanted food, but I couldn’t eat. I could barely move. In fact, I wouldn’t until he responded. My phone’s battery was barely charging because I was keeping the screen awake.

Somehow, I had dozed off. The clock read closer to 6 a.m. now. I didn’t plan to rest. I didn’t even dream.

Opening my eyes hurt. I squinted at the phone—its light was brutal, brighter than before it seemed. I just couldn’t function. Today just wasn’t going to happen for me. I emailed my supervisor to say I was sick and needed the day off. After I sent the email, I realized it was Saturday. Impossible to recall the message, because Outlook is the bane of my existence. Oh my God. What other stupid shit could I do today?

Ding!

“Ah!” I screamed, sitting up and pulling my phone to my face. The cord ripped from it.

It was Michael. His message:

Andrea, it’s okay. I’m not going anywhere. I do accept your apology. Trust is probably something we need to work on. Anyway, I don’t know how I am still awake, but I’m going to actually try and sleep now. I will call you later. Love you.

I exhaled, not realizing I was holding my breath while reading that, and re-reading it several times. He must see that I read it, but I didn’t want to call him now. He just said he was going to bed. I wanted to be good and give him the time he asked for. I will be good. Instead, I hearted the message for now. Relief — the most beautiful feeling. But the stress and anxiety of waiting for that—

Ding!

Picking up my phone again. A WhatsApp notification. He got my picture! His response:

Oh my God, wow! He added four rows of heart-eye emojis and one eggplant.

I literally laughed out loud when I saw that.

A second message: I’ll have something for you later.

Bouncing up and down in my bed now, so giddy. Excited for his picture whenever it came. I didn’t even remember what I was upset about ten minutes ago. The world was right again.

I took a shower. Changed my bed sheets, which were almost soaked in anxiety sweat. I emailed my supervisor again, telling them I lost track of my days since I had taken off the day prior and thought today was Monday already. That’s believable, right?

After an early breakfast, coffee, and then lightly cleaning my apartment, I went back to bed around 9 a.m. There was a weird comfort in knowing we were sleeping at the same time. I missed him so much. More than I even realized I could. I’m sure makeup sex would be on the table if we weren’t so far apart.

And he did call me, sometime in the afternoon, East Coast time.

I started the call with a million sorrys, and eventually he stopped me. “I already have forgotten about it,” he said. So sweet. We spoke for about thirty minutes before he had to go. And like a good girl, I didn’t call or text him for the rest of the day. Leave him be.

After all that, I started packing a suitcase for Brooklyn. A few weeks away. Seventeen days, but who’s counting?

Ding!

Oh shit. WhatsApp. I opened his message. It was a picture of him, a mirror selfie — I’m guessing naked — but he was so carefully using the bathroom vanity to cover everything from his pelvic bone downward. Biting my lip. I am going to destroy this man. So fucking hot. Had he been working out? He seemed to have two more abs than last time. I replied with several drooling emojis. You know—like an adult.

After packing, I realized I needed more lingerie. Most of my underwear screamed “granny panties.” I hopped online and unnecessarily spent way too much money on new items from Victoria’s Secret. Not the best quality stuff, but did it matter? They wouldn’t last too long on my body anyway.

A few days had passed. I stopped buying food so I could unplug my fridge, along with all other appliances, while I was gone. Paying utilities in Hudson, NY, is not cheap. My hair still looked pretty good; no need to color it again. Eyebrows could use some work, though. I started working out harder. Building more muscle myself. After that picture he sent, I felt I needed to keep up. The pressure of having to appear perfect.

Fourteen days after that, Michael was home. It felt so much nicer knowing we were in the same state again. Honestly, I wanted to just show up, but again, trying to respect his boundaries. I knew he needed at least two days to reset, unwind, whatever. So I waited another forty-eight hours, as initially instructed.

Two sleeps passed. Morning came. I practically slept in my clothes so I could hop in my car the moment my eyes opened. I shut all the blinds in the apartment. Unplugged everything. Grabbed my bags and flew down the stairs. I ran to my car like I was late for a flight. I already knew I looked like a crazy person, and I’m pretty sure my neighbors thought I was on the spectrum.

I was never so happy to start a drive into the city. It’s madness. It’s chaos. I was born and raised in Queens. I didn’t know too much about Brooklyn other than Jay-Z and its bridge. Shit, I didn’t even know exactly where Fort Greene was. Was it a fort? Or just a clever name? I was blasting Black Bloom on the way down. Finally, I knew all the words to most songs.

As I went down FDR Drive, a taxi with one of those mini digital billboards on the roof was cycling through ads. I think it was an ad for Ticketmaster, but they were using Black Bloom’s 2026 tour picture. I started bouncing in the driver’s seat, pointing and screaming with excitement. The cab driver rolled down his window out of concern, so I had to stop and let him know I wasn’t crazy, and then we both got honked at from people behind us, even though traffic was barely moving. Four feet appeared in front of my car, and I guess that really pissed someone off. God, I hate this city.

Almost there now. Looking for parking on Cumberland Street was a challenge. This area was so freaking cute! I was embarrassed as a New Yorker that I never really explored this borough. And Staten Island — but who wants to go to Staten Island? I parked and decided to leave my luggage in the car. I’d come back for it. Right now, all I cared about was finding his house. The street was this perfect mix of old brownstones and newer townhouses, all stupidly beautiful. It had more trees than my entire neighborhood combined. The air was crisp, there were leaves everywhere, and the whole block already smelled like winter. Walking south. The architecture. The character. Everywhere you looked, there was something to take in. House numbers flew by on doors, irrelevant, until the right one finally appeared in my sight.

I heard a door crack open. It was Michael. Waving, he came down the front stoop, and I ran to him. I jumped into his arms, and this time, I think I was suffocating him.

Never, ever, ever leave me again, I thought.

I’m not sure I’ll ever return to Hudson.

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