Page 88 of Desserts for Stressed People

I peer at Emma, then at the mattress. “Yes, let’s flip it.”

She hands me fresh sheets. We put them on the bed, and once she grabs the yellow duvet, I lay it on top. I hate that one—it makes my skin itchy. But I guess it’s better than gonorrhea, so it’ll do for now.

When we’re done, she tells me to wait there, disappears out of the bedroom and comes back after a minute with another trash bag. As she opens the closet, she shoves in all of Alex’s stuff that didn’t fit into the suitcase.

“You don’t need to do that. He can come pick his things up,” I say.

She jams all his belts and hats into the trash bag. “He can, but they’ll be out on the curb. So he better come fast.”

I won’t leave his stuff on the sidewalk, but once again, she has a point. I don’t want him back in this apartment. So I open up the other wardrobe, the one with his suits, and fit them into the bag, making sure to crinkle them all.

That’s what we do for the next few hours. We go through the entire apartment and fill four ten-gallon trash bags with all his belongings. His video games, the console, his deodorant. Everything but the screen he uses for his computer. Emma wanted to fit that in there too, but I might freaking keep it.

When we’re done, we call Olivia and spend half an hour bitching and whining about him. Then, I’m done. I don’t want to think about what a disgusting human being he is. I am done letting him poison me.

We sit on the couch with a pizza and watch a truly terrible reality show, like we’ve done plenty of times before. Yet it’s the most unfamiliar feeling ever. The sense of relief I expected to feel isn’t there. Instead, my heart feels blackened, struggling with each pump of blood.

This was supposed to feel like an end. A full stop at the end of a sentence. Instead, I sense it’s the beginning of a period just as difficult as the one that ends today. And tomorrow, both Shane and Alex will want to talk.

I’m ready for neither.

Chapter22

A Dirty Dessert

There isa knock on the door, so I turn the light on and check the peephole. I’m not expecting anyone, and it’s almost nine p.m. My heart falls into my stomach as soon as the hazelnut curls over his forehead appear.

Shane. Shane is here.

I haven’t seen him since yesterday morning, and though I spent all day thinking about what happened with Alex, Shane’s been stuck in my brain. How did he even get up here?

With a deep breath, I walk a few steps back to check my reflection in the mirror. My dark hair tumbles down my shoulders, and there’s a rosy glimmer to my cheeks after my recent shower. Infusing confidence with a glorious look in my frightened amber eyes, I try not to cringe. As if the embarrassment of trying to kiss him right before breaking up with my boyfriend wasn’t enough, now I need to face him in my polar bear pajamas.

I walk back to the door and open it, taking his light smile in. The side of his eyes crinkle with sympathy, the deep brown of his irises almost shimmering as he swallows. And he looks so good—his usual suit is gone and instead, there’s a cozy, cream-white sweater that begs to be used as a pillow. His hair—a few shades darker than mine—falls freely down his forehead, so casually messy and soft-looking. He’s a vision. A vision who rejected me.

“Hi,” he says.

My throat tingles immediately.

Shit, I’m about to cry. The tone of his voice is so comforting, so sweet. He’s Shane. There’s no trace of Mr. Asshole anywhere. And after the loveliest non-first date to ever not be planned, I think I royally fucked up.

“Hello,” I whisper back.

His shirt moves up and down as his chest heaves, then he fits his hand into the back pocket of his black jeans. “I hope I’m not intruding. I wanted to see how you’re doing. Though I probably should have called.”

I hold my arm around me. “No, you’re good. Thank you for coming.”

If he’s here to deliver an apology for rejecting me, I definitely don’t want it. It’s not his fault, and he’s helped me plenty since then. But I can’t exactly tell him he doesn’t need to feel sorry for me, so I stand still, and we stare at each other for a couple of seconds.

“I—” He swallows. “I brought something.” He holds up the plastic bag in his hand and takes out a beautiful purple paper box decorated with white swirls and a coordinated ribbon.

He brought me sweets—I don’t need to open it up to know. That’s how he expresses his feelings.

“Thank you.” I take the box, then snap the lid open, the intense smell of cocoa making my mouth water.

“It’s brownies.” My heart stops as flashbacks of our first chat on RadaR sneak up on me. “There’s nothing better than chocolate for when you’re stressed. It’s supposed to reduce levels of cortisol and catecholamines.” He shrugs and rubs his ear. “I don’t know.”

“It’s great. I love brownies. Thank you,” I say again. It seems like I can’t think of anything else. I expect him to tell me we’ll meet tomorrow at work or something, but he keeps silently observing me. “Do you want to...” I ask, pointing at the room behind me.

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