Page 83 of Miss Matched

“You are,” she says.

Monica looks to me, but I nod my head.

“Can’t rewrite this ending, honey,” I tell her, even if deep down I really wish she could.

“Fine.” She throws her hands up. “Do what you will.”

“Thank you,” I say, nodding my head. “Besides, it doesn’t matter. It was business; we had our fun, and now it’s over. I’m not going to wallow anymore over a man who doesn’t want me.”

“Damn right, no more wallowing,” Luce says, pouring another round of shots. She means the best, but, unlike Monica, Luce has never let anyone close enough for her to know I’m lying to myself.

Monica clinks her glass against ours, but there’s uncertainty in her eyes.

“I’ll be fine, promise,” I say to her, taking my shot and then shooting her a gritted smile.

“Promise?” she repeats.

I nod.

“Okay,” she concedes, even if I know she doesn’t buy it.

“What’s next?” I ask. “Please say it’s the Chinese food because I’m starving.”

Luce pulls out the plates, and I clap.

“At least we solved it before we got to the porn.” Monica smiles, and Luce gives her a disappointed frown.

A laugh erupts from my chest, the first real one since before that night at the hospital. It’s genuine, shaking through me. Making me appreciate my girls and their support.

If only it could stop this from hurting like hell. I might be feeling fractionally better, but it’s clear there’s not enough vodka, ice cream, or porn in the world to make me forget Zac.

I keep waiting for it to hurt less. Like maybe pain can be measured in finite amounts, like sand running through an hourglass. A handful for a ruined friendship, a sandcastle for a broken heart, a beach for losing a parent.

But then why does Zac feel like all the sand at the bottom of the ocean?

Never ending.

When I finally turn my phone on, he hasn’t called or texted. Not that I expected him to. Adding a hangover to an already lethal dose of misery doesn’t help with the sting of knowing it’s really over.

After avoiding the office all week, I decide it’s time to show my face. Sam and Racine aren’t blind. I know they’ve seen the article, and it’s no coincidence that I asked Racine to draw up Zac’s termination agreement immediately after it came out.

Thankfully, they don’t mention it when I see them. Sam is perched at Racine’s desk, and when they spot me, Racine forcefully swallows the look of pity that briefly crosses her eyes.

“Hey, Kenz. Hope you’re feeling better,” Sam says. “There’s been something going around.”

“I’ve heard that,” Racine jumps in. “My brother had a fever for two days, and then it turned into a stomach bug. Something is definitely spreading.”

Yeah, it’s called heartache, and it’s terrible.

“I’m good, guys,” I assure them. “How’s the Singles Ball coming along?”

“Hectic. We’ve been slammed,” Racine says, spinning her mouse and clicking all over the screen. “I know you don’t like us working overtime because you’re worried we’ll burn out, but it’s been so busy.”

As if I didn’t already feel terrible enough, the article about Zac and I is wreaking havoc for Sam and Racine. Clients no doubt pulled contracts and left them scrambling. And what did I do? I disappeared like a coward.

Way to be a boss bitch, and not in a good way.

“Sorry, Racy, I’ll work with PR on combating the article. I guess I figured Zac would have already.” I’m honestly surprised he hasn’t. The board was riding him before it printed, and now he’s radio silent.

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