Page 212 of Story of My Life
The pillow was snatched off my head, and I squeezed my eyes shut, rejecting the reality of the sun-dappled room and my agent’s annoyingly perky face.
“Go away,” I said, rolling over and taking the blankets with me. A sad burrito.
“What are you going to do? Stay in bed, wallow, and never write again?” Zoey demanded, hitting me with the pillow.
“Sounds good to me.” I snatched the pillow from her and smashed my face into it. It smelled like Cam. I hated that I liked it.
My so-called friend got a grip on my bun and pulled my head out of the bed linens.
“Ow!” I whined.
“Huh-uh. Nope. No. You had your lengthy wallow over Jim. We’re trying something different this time around.”
This time around. I couldn’t think of any words more depressing in the moment…besides “Sorry, we’re out of wine.”
I grunted something uncomplimentary about Zoey’s mother.
She gave me a slap on my blanket-clad ass. “I let you rot in the depression phase last time. That was a mistake. This time I gave you a good forty-eight hours. Now we’re moving on.”
“Moving on to what? I don’t have the energy to move on.”
“We’re going straight to the ‘hold my beer’ stage,” she announced.
“Ugh. Why can’t it be wine?”
“At this point, I don’t care if it’s prune juice as long as you’re giving it to someone to hold for you. Cam isn’t the only man out there. Hell, he’s not even the only hot Bishop. Pull yourself together.”
“I’m too tired. I have a headache. My stomach’s upset. I think I have mono…or internal poison ivy.” I delivered my litany of excuses directly to my pillow.
Hands circled my ankles a second before I was rudely dragged out of my cocoon of depression.
I scrambled to find a grip on something, anything, but found myself dragged to the floor, clutching my duvet.
“It’s worse than I thought,” came a crisply British accent.
I slithered onto my side and found Sunita, boutique owner and judgmental trespasser, cringing at my ancient pajama bottoms and Cam’s T-shirt. A regular person would have had thegood sense to be embarrassed. But I was so far down the shame spiral that I didn’t care who witnessed me in all of my pathetic glory.
“Hi, Sunita,” I said wearily.
“Hi, Hazel. Cam sucks.”
“Yeah.”
I ignored the glance Zoey and Sunita shared.
“‘Put yourself out there.’ ‘Be authentic.’ That’s what everyone says, isn’t it? Well, it’s bullshit. They’re just waiting to stomp on your face. I belong on the sidelines, lurking. I’m a lurker. That’s my lot in life,” I complained. “I watch other people have lives, and then I write about it.”
“This will be fun,” Sunita joked.
“Wait.” My eyelids opened like they were spring-loaded. “Did you say forty-eight hours? Does that mean it’s not Sunday?”
“Congratulations. Your math is correct for once,” Zoey said, wrestling me into a seated position.
“It’s Monday,” Sunita said helpfully.
“Monday? As inMonday? As in workday Monday?” As in Cam showing up here and darkening my doorstep only to find me crushed like a bug from the breakup. I didn’t say that last part out loud, but the squeaky panic in my voice made it unnecessary.
“There she is,” Zoey said cheerfully.
