Page 43 of Desserts for Stressed People

That’s the question I’ve been trying to answer since I proposed we meet. “I’ll go there, and he’ll expect to see you,” I say as I point at Olivia. “Instead, I’ll be there in my sexiest dress. I’ll join him at his table, confidence pouring out of me, and he’ll stutter an apology. I’ll tell him to send someone to get his stuff, that he lost me and that he’ll regret it for the rest of his life.”

It’s like a movie in my head—the wind blowing through my dark locks as I walk away from Alex in slow-motion with a triumphant tune in the background. I just don’t know what will happen after. But I can’t share my apartment with him for the next four and a half weeks. I can’t pretend I don’t know, act as if it isn’t a big deal that he’s been cheating on me all this time. Let him kiss me and sleep in the same bed as him.

When Olivia mumbles, “Your expectations worry me,” Emma rolls her baby-blue eyes.

“What doyouthink will happen?” Emma asks, turning her focus to the screen.

“Well, I think it’ll be awkward. You’ll both make a scene inside the bar, and he’ll try to come up with a million excuses. You’ll leave, and he’ll call you, text you. Maybe show up at the apartment.”

That sounds much less impressive than the movie in my head, but itisa possibility.

Emma shakes her chopsticks, waving a salmon roll around. “Look, Olivia and I talked about this.”

My eyes bounce from one to the other. What does she mean by that? “Okay.”

“We both think Alex is the human equivalent of one of those thick, hairy spiders, and it’s unfair you should be subjected to his douchey face for a whole other month, let alone be forced into a bed with him.” Emma clears her voice, a tiny smile puffing her cheeks up. “So we’ll lend you the money to pay for the rest of the lease. You can officially break up with him.” Before I can open my mouth to object, she moves her palm up to stop me. “You’ll pay us back whenever and however you can. And don’t bother saying no, because we’ve decided already.”

I sigh. Surely, I know better than to argue with Emma. “Guys—”

“Just say thank you, H,” Olivia says with a light chuckle.

I hesitate, but Emma’s warning look is telling enough. “Thank you, I’ll think about it.”

It sucks. No, more than that. It’s horrible and unfair. I know how hard they work on their savings. Olivia wants to save for a solo trip around the world, and Emma plans to apply for a mortgage. But I also can’t deny knowing I have a safety net under my ass releases a load of stress off my shoulders.

I look at the solitary rice grain floating in the soy sauce, my hunger long gone. Maybe Olivia is right, and this is all a big mistake. It won’t be triumphant. It’ll be sad, awkward, and the beginning of a tough breakup.

“Guys, I have to go. My break is over,” Olivia says, and we both wave and say goodbye before she hangs up.

When it’s just Emma and me, she points at the sushi. “Huh-uh. You won’t let that douchebag ruin your appetite.”

I grab an edamame, but I’m not feeling it. My mind is spiraling, and the more I think about my plans for tomorrow, the less reassured I feel.

“And how are things going with Mr. Asshole?” she asks in an obvious attempt to distract me. It works, and at my dreamy expression, she squeals.

Damn. I can’t help it. Every time I think about Shane, there’s the same stretched grin on my face. Ear to ear. “Actually, we spent the whole day together yesterday. And we have a sort of bet going on.”

“Are you kidding?! Why didn’t you lead with that?” she asks, letting the salmon roll fly somewhere on the floor. “Tell meeverything!”

* * *

Emmaand I spend the next hour overanalyzing every aspect of my day with Shane. According to her, the fact that he proposed we get a cup of coffee means he’s interested. As does the fact that he paid for everything. I protested, insisting it’s because he’s my boss, but she won’t change her mind.

When I walk back to the couch, Emma is texting with someone—judging by the corny smile on her face, a new crush.

Sitting, I grab my phone. No new texts, not that I’m expecting any. I half-heartedly open my inbox, noticing I got eleven new emails since I last checked. This is cruel by any definition, but I scroll through them anyway. Catering company, modeling agency, a couple of journalists. Then, my finger freezes on the screen. Shane. There’s an email from Shane. My heart hammers in my chest, but I take a deep breath and open up the email.

From:Shane Hassholm ([email protected])

To:Heaven Wilson ([email protected])

We’re having dinner with the clients. Seven p.m. tomorrow.

Shane Hassholm

Events Director at IMP

“Emma!” I call out, and the desperation in my tone probably alarms her because she appears by my side in a second.

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