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Not now. I can’t deal with his bullshit on top of… this.

The roses blur before my eyes, their red petals swimming together.

Deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Just like Dr. Patel taught me.

I should call her, schedule an appointment. But the thought of sitting in that sterile office, picking apart my fucked-up brain… I can’t. Not today.

Another buzz. And another. Over and over.

Can’t he just leave me alone?

I lean against the car, the cool metal soothing against my flushed skin while my phone keeps up a steady rhythm.

What is wrong with him? Did someone die?

I yank out my phone, hovering over the reject button as Brandon’s name flashes across the screen.

Voicemail. Let him stew.

I check my messages.

Brandon: You good? Haven’t heard from you?

Brandon: Still ignoring me? Real mature, cupcake.

Brandon: Naomi. Seriously?

Brandon: At least write something. Not even an emoji?

Shit. Our weekly dinner at Elliot’s.

The one I’ve blown off for… what, two weeks now? Three? My stomach churns, acid climbing back up my throat.

I wanted to go tonight. Had it all planned out. Drop off the reports, head straight to the restaurant, and act normal. Pretend I’m fine. Pretend I can handle sitting across from him, watching him watch me not eat.

But now? After…

Naomi: Can’t make it.

Naomi: Oh and *middle-finger-emoji*

Brandon’s contact photo pops up with that stupid smirk, all dimples and cockiness.

I press accept. “What?”

“Wow, hello to you too, cupcake.”

“I’m not in the mood.”

“When are you ever?” A pause. “You missed dinner.”

“I texted.”

“Yeah, one hour later.” Ice clinks against glass in the background. “Real considerate.”

“Work.”

“And how’s daddy dearest treating his star employee?”

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