Page 3 of Desserts for Stressed People

How ironic.

Fuck. I certainly don’t need more debts, maybe even legal repercussions. What if they sue me? And with a bad credit score, would I even be able to buy a house one day?

I take two Oreos out of the box in my bag. I did nothing to deserve dessert today, but this situation certainly calls for an exception to my rule.

“Okay, look,” Emma says as she inhales. Her nostrils flare as a determined look turns her warm blue eyes a shade darker. “Just hold on, all right? We’ll find a solution. You can’t mess up your life over that apartment—not because your boyfriend is a piece of shit. We’ll think of something.”

What solution? I know I could ask for help from my parents or Emma herself, but drying out their savings doesn’t feel like a better alternative. It’d take me years to pay them back. “Maybe I should just try and talk to him. Explain—”

“No.” Emma grasps my wrist in her tiny hand and squeezes. “No, Heaven. I know he’s your boyfriend and you think you know him, but trust me, my dad’s told me all sorts of horrific stories. Once you break up, the person you thought you knew is gone.”

Oh, I’m aware. Her dad, a divorce lawyer, gave usthe speechplenty of times as we grew up. You never know a person—not even after decades, not even if they love you. If love were enough to keep things civil, there wouldn’t be messy divorces. Built-up resentment, pettiness, and revenge get in the way. People become nasty.

“All right, I’ll wait,” I agree. “The lease expires in four months. Worse comes to worst...I’ll break up with him then.” Turning to my bag again, I grab the box of Oreos and take two more out, then set the rest beside me on the table.

When Emma sighs, I shrug. “What? My boyfriend is cheating on me!”

Her eyes narrow. “Heaven,thisis what I’m talking about. You like cookies? Eat the damn cookies!” She grabs the box, dumps its content on my tray, then sets it on the side. “You used to enjoy life. You used to eat a whole box of cookies in one sitting.”

I swallow, looking down at the crumbs that came out of the box and are now infesting the table, then begin wiping.

“And that!” she exclaims. When I ignore her, she slaps my hands away. “Stop it, Heaven, I swear to God. Stop cleaning, stop trying to exert control over the last remaining ounce of freedom you have and get yourlifeback.”

Defeated, I stare at the crumbs. Hundreds of little dots against the white surface of the table. Up until half an hour ago, I wouldn’t have known where to start to do that. How to get my life back. But now...now I know.

Getting rid of Alex. That’s where I’ll start.

* * *

The face staring backat me in the mirror is sickly gray. Rebellious strands of brunette hair frame my ghostly reflection, escaping my work ponytail. My eyes are sunken back, and a shadowy hue of black and purple encircles the amber I’m accustomed to. My plump lips are slightly cracked, my nose red. I look like a mess.

At least not being asked to stay late at work was a blessing, because Alex isn’t home when I get there. Before I hear the front door open and close, I have time to hole up in the bathroom—peeling, hydrating, scrubbing, and doing a billion other things I wouldn’t normally waste my time on. Sure, it’s a temporary hideout, but I’ll take whatever I can get.

I wish I could vomit all my anger at Alex, or that I could cry and tell him he ruined our life together, the plans we made. Buying a house, having kids—it’s all destroyed now. If it were up to me, he’d be dodging furniture and plates. But I can’t. Emma is right. I need to figure out what to do ifhe turns out to be a petty, evil human being.

“The food is here. Why are you taking so long? Are you getting ready for a wedding?”

His voice blasts from the other side of the door, and I glance at it. Maybe it’s because I can’t see him, but I don’t feel angry. I feel nothing at all. But I also can’t hide in here forever, or he’ll get suspicious. That might lead to questions, and I’m not sure I could keep it together if he were to ask the right one. “I’m coming.”

Wrapping a towel around me, I sprint out of the bathroom as he goes downstairs to pick the food up. I have a narrow window of time to enter the bedroom and get dressed—God forbid he should get any ideas if he sees me naked. When he’s back, I’m wearing my most unsexy orange sweatshirt and a pair of leggings, and my hands are shaking. Should I just say I’m exhausted and I’m going to sleep?

“I got you a burrito bowl,” he shouts from the other room.

I clench my fists, hiding in the darkness of the bedroom. My tremors won’t stop, and he’s going to find out something’s wrong the minute he lays eyes on me. But at some point, I’ll have to face him, so I take a deep, calming breath and enter my white-on-white living room. He’s eating already, and he doesn’t acknowledge me, too entranced with his true crime show.

Throwing a concerned look at the white couch, carpet, and coffee table, I pray he’ll manage to keep the salsa in his burrito. I think of saying something, but he’ll call me a nag. He’ll say that I’m too tense, that a little dirt never hurt anyone—with that derisive tone that usually makes me boil with rage—so I stifle the prickle of anxiety in my chest. “Thank you.”

When he barely nods, his eyes still glued to the TV, my gaze settles on my boyfriend. Half a decade is a lot of time to waste on someone who’s looking for hookups online. He’s not much different from five years ago, and though I’ve seen him in his work clothes a thousand times over, this feels like the first time. I used to adore his sandy blond undercut, the way a couple of locks always fall onto his forehead. I loved his eyes the most. They’re a deep cobalt blue, and the hues in them remind me of the sky. I always told him there’s a storm in his eyes.

I cross my legs on the couch cushion by his side and open my burrito bowl, digging in with the plastic fork that came with it. Glancing at the meat and vegetables sitting on a bed of white rice, I munch on a piece of broccoli as he mumbles something about the cop on the TV show.

My eyes move to him again. To the shape of his jaw, the straight line of his nose, the burrito in his hands. The tall man I spent the better part of my twenties with is a complete stranger. And I hate him.Hemade me hate him.

I hate the way he sits, his knees spread open like he needs all the space in the world to accommodate his average-sized manhood. How he chews his food and the wet noise of his saliva irks me. Everything he does feels like nails on a chalkboard now that I know he’slooking for one-time-only hookups.

My body refuses any nourishment for the second time today, so I wait for him to finish, deciding on my excuse to disappear quickly after dinner. Fortunately, I don’t need to use any. Once he’s done with his food, he glances at me, says he needs to get some work done, then strides toward the home office. But the expression in his eyes is imprinted on my mind. The indifference, the coldness.

I can’t say I haven’t noticed before that he doesn’t look at me the way he used to, though I can’t figure out exactly when it first happened. But for a while, I’ve known this isn’t how it’s supposed to feel. And I have doubted myself too, thinking that it happens to all love. It dies at some point or turns into something else. Affection, maybe. Somewhere down the road, familiarity replaces lust and desire.

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