Chapter Thirteen
Brittany
“Happy Valentine’s Day!” My newest coworker, Harlee, beams as soon as I step out of my office.
I raise my brows, something about her words settling wrong in my stomach. “You too.” I force a smile. It’s not Harlee’s fault that I happen to hate Valentine’s Day now.
But I’m a little in my feelings today, given that this is my first Valentine’s Day as a single person in years.
And while it’s been over a month since the breakup, I can’t help but wonder what Cal’s up to, and if he’s found someone else by now.
Ever since he kicked me out, he’s been totally silent.
It’s amazing how quickly someone can just close the door right in your face and then pretend like you don’t even exist.
“You wanna get lunch?” Harlee asks, batting her lashes. “I’m probably the most forever-alone person here, so I was thinking I might as well take myself out. Wanna join me? I’ll buy.”
I laugh, shaking my head at her. “Okay, sure.” Honestly, I have no idea how a woman as eccentric as her is a lawyer, but I have to admit, she’s been a really nice change to the vibe around here.
And I’m on a mission to make more friends.
“Yes, thank you!” Harlee jumps up from her chair and grabs her jacket. “I swear, it’s impossible to meet a man in this city. No one will even make eye contact with me. I feel like eye contact must be a sin in New York or something.”
“Honestly, it might be,” I tease her, leading the way out to the street. “I don’t think there’s anyone around here that’s bursting with the same friendliness that you find in your home state.”
“Have you ever been to the south?” Harlee tips her head up to look at me. She’s an incredibly petite woman, standing no more than five feet tall, and might weigh a hundred pounds soaking wet. Her attitude in the courtroom, though? Yeah, that’s the equivalent of a linebacker.
“I’ve never been to Georgia, if that’s what you’re getting at,” I say, thinking of just how far south I’ve actually been. “I made it to Tennessee once. That was a trip.”
“Hmm,” Harlee says from beside me, both of our heels clicking against the pavement. We make our way to the small sandwich shop a couple of blocks away from the firm, and while doing so, Harlee blabs on and on about the current case she’s working on.
It’s an ugly civil suit between a woman and her ex-husband.
“I just can’t imagine going to my ex-husband’s barbeque, slipping on spilled ice cream, and then saying, ‘I’ll sue you!’” Harlee shakes her head, her southern accent even tinging her laughter. “I could barely keep a straight face.”
“Maybe she didn’t get what she wanted out of the divorce, and this is her way of making it up.”
“Ah, right, the divorce that took place twenty-three years ago.” Harlee and I both exchange a look as she grabs the door, holding it open for me. “That would give petty a whole new meaning.”
“You’re not wrong,” I tell her, stepping through the opening. The smell of freshly baked bread meets my senses, and I enjoy it, my stomach rumbling.
I’m starving.
I follow Harlee up to the counter and wait for her to order first. There are all sorts of Valentine’s Day specials, and as much as I don’t want it to bother me…
It does.
The thought makes my appetite wane, but only slightly.
I order a BLT and then follow Harlee back to a table where she sets our order number down. I slide into a booth on the side that faces the street as she takes a seat across from me.
“So, you’re not seeing anyone?” I ask, trying to keep the conversation off me. “That really surprises me.”
“Well, it’s not for lack of trying.” Harlee sighs, her smile somewhat faltering.
“Like I said, it seems impossible to meet anyone in a city where everyone wants to be left alone. It’s like you can pass three hundred people in a single day, and none of them will even notice your existence.
” She rests her chin against her hand. “It sometimes makes me miss Georgia.”
“I don’t blame you for that,” I say. “I guess I’m just used to it since I was raised here. If anything, overly friendly people make me nervous.”
“Really?! Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry.” She gives me a wary look. “I can’t even imagine what you must think about me.”
I burst into a light laugh. “No, I like you. I just mean that if some random stranger came up and tried to talk to me on the street, I’d be worried I’m about to be mugged or something.”
“Right. I can see how that could feel terrifying.” Harlee giggles, just as our sandwiches are set down in front of us. She picks up her turkey club and takes a massive bite. I follow suit and take a bite of my sandwich, too, letting out a small moan.
Ugh. This is amazing.
We eat quietly for the next few minutes, before Harlee speaks up again.
“So, do you have any romantic plans this evening?” Her tone is light, not at all prying, but somehow, it still lands like a punch to my esophagus.
I clear my throat. “No. My fiancé—well, my ex-fiancé—broke up with me about a month ago, so…” I try to say it with a kind of breeziness, like I’m already over it.
But Harlee’s face falls. She recoils, as if she’s just made a catastrophic faux pas. “Oh my gosh! Brit, I am so, so sorry. Are you okay?” She covers my hand with hers.
“I’m okay, I guess. It’s been an adjustment,” I say, and something about the way she leans in—unapologetically, all-in—makes me want to spill more than I probably should.
I tell her about the Christmas day proposal. How I said yes because, at the time, I thought I was genuinely happy.
And then I tell her about everything that followed: the way Cal called me into the living room and ended it with a ten-minute monologue about “personal growth” and “life trajectories” and how he’d “never meant to hurt me.”
I do not tell her how I sat in the stairwell afterwards, staring at the brass numbers on his door, hoping he’d come out and say it was all a mistake and that he loved me and that I could move back in.
Some things even I can’t say out loud.
Harlee listens without interruption. And there’s something so healing about laying it all out there.
To a friend.
“Girl, that’s insane,” she finally says, shaking her head hard enough to send a stray curl bouncing against her cheek. “He sounds like a real piece of work. I mean, who proposes to someone just to turn around and evict them three weeks later?”
“Yeah, the red flags are basically on fire in retrospect,” I say, giving her a weak smile. “But I was in love, you know? You ignore things when you’re in love.”
“Amen,” she says. “I once dated a guy who told me he was allergic to peanut butter just so he wouldn’t have to eat my cookies.
I found out a year later—when we were at his nephew’s birthday party—that he only said that to get out of eating them because I was a bad baker.
Like, just say my cookies suck! Don’t make up a fake allergy. ”
My eyes go wide. “Did you ever confront him?”
“Oh, honey, I dumped a whole jar of Jif in his brand-new car the day I found out. I believe in consequences.” She winks, then pops the last quarter of her sandwich in her mouth like she’s closing a case.
I burst out laughing. “That’s iconic.”
We sit in silence for a few moments, the city humming just outside the window. People rush past, heads down, scarves tight, refusing eye contact. New York in February is like that—everyone wants to just get where they’re going with minimum exposure to the elements, or to each other.
“Have you ever been to PCB?” she asks, and at first I think I misheard her, thinking she’s talking about some kind of new party drug or something.
I furrow my brow. “PCB?”
“Panama City Beach! You know, the Redneck Riviera. Girls’ trip capital of the world,” Harlee says, chip poised midair. “You ever do spring break in college?”
I think back to my college days but shake my head. “I was invited to Panama City Beach a few times, but I’ve never actually been. I don’t really do the whole party scene.”
“Oh.” She waves me off. “Me neither. But there are a few good spots there that are nice. My friends and I do a girls’ trip to PCB every year. We’re actually headed there next week.”
I must make a face, because Harlee drops the chip and leans forward, suddenly in full Southern hospitality mode.
“You should come with us,” she says. “We’re renting a little condo right on the beach.
Two of the girls had to drop out, so there’s plenty of room.
You could probably use a little escape, couldn’t you? ”
I want to say yes. I want to say, “Sure, I’ll go.” But even imagining it makes me tired. The logistics alone: taking time off work, buying a plane ticket, picking out a swimsuit in the middle of winter.
Plus, I’m just now getting used to being alone—really, truly alone. I still feel fragile, like I’m living in a new skin I haven’t quite grown into yet.
“That’s really nice of you to offer,” I say. “But I just got settled in my new apartment; I don’t want to run away from my problems. Plus, I’ve got a ton of work to do.”
Harlee waves a dismissive hand. “Brittany, if you’re not running away from your problems at least twice a year, you’re living life wrong.
And as your new friend, it is my job to drag you on reckless adventures, even if you only come for a day.
You can leave your problems in New York and just be a hot mess in Florida instead. ”
I almost say no again, but the words get tangled in my mouth. Because the truth is, I can almost see it—the open sky, the sea air, the freedom of being miles away from anything that reminds me of Cal.
Before I can organize a polite refusal, Harlee is already on her phone, fingers flying. “We can all split the cost of the rental, and I’ll even let you pick the music for the drive from the airport. As long as it’s not country. I get enough of that at home.”
“I thought all you Southerners loved country music?”
“Absolutely not. You haven’t experienced true suffering until you’ve been stuck in a car with five drunk girls screaming Shania Twain for two hours.”
I snort, and it feels so good to laugh that I almost forget to be sad. “I’ll think about it,” I promise, and Harlee seems to accept this as a binding contract.
She grins. “That’s all I ask. And hey, if you need backup, I’ll help you come up with an excuse to use for work. I’m very persuasive.”
We laugh and finish our lunch. When we finally rise and bundle ourselves back into scarves and coats, it’s with a kind of reluctant resignation.
We toss our baskets in the bin, duck back out onto the sidewalk, and the city hits me in the face again—bright, noisy, cold.
The wind catches underneath my scarf, stinging my cheeks.
I jam my hands into my coat pockets and let Harlee set the pace beside me, her heeled boots clicking on the salt-and-grit-strewn pavement.
Maybe warmer air would be nice.
I let the idea steep in my mind for a few blocks. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. I could wear sunglasses and read a book by the pool, or go for a long walk on the sand and just … be.
“You know what, I think I will go to PCB with you next week.”
“Yes!” Harlee jumps beside me. “I can’t wait for all my friends to meet you. They didn’t think I’d actually be able to make any friends in this city; they seriously think all New Yorkers are jerks. But you’re one of the sweetest people I’ve met.”
“Well, I’ll be happy to prove them wrong.” I give her a smile.
The rest of the afternoon is a blur of contracts, phone calls, and a particularly excruciating conference call with a client who cannot, for the life of him, remember his own email password.
I tackle a stack of paperwork, rehearse a speech I’ll need to give in court tomorrow, then force myself to clear out at a semi-reasonable hour.
By the time I emerge from the office, the sun has set. I take the long way home, weaving through the side streets and letting the city swallow me. I have no one waiting for me at my apartment, and the prospect is both freeing and faintly sad.
When I finally reach the lobby of my apartment building, I pause at the bank of mailboxes.
I haven’t checked my mail in days. I dig the tiny metal key from the bottom of my purse, turn it in the lock, and open the box.
There’s one envelope inside, heavy and thick, the kind you use for greeting cards.
My stomach flips, just for a second.
Surely Cal wouldn’t send me a Valentine’s Day card, right? That would just be weird.
I flip it over, and instantly, a smile spreads across my face. I have no idea why Weston would be sending me a card, but I tear it open happily. There’s a toilet on the cover, and I giggle as I read it.
Sometimes love stinks, so just flush it!
I open the card to see a poop emoji grinning back at me. It’s the most immature, ridiculous card I have ever seen.
But it makes my day.
Brittany,
I have no idea why this card was ever put in production, but I hope it puts a smile on your face. I feel like it was only fair for me to return the favor since you sent me that nice Groundhog Day card. Did he see his shadow? I couldn’t find the results of that.
Anyway, I love that you painted something instead of just replacing the bear. And honestly? I don’t even have to see it to know it’s better than whatever creature was on your wall before. But I’m dying to find out what you made. I’m sure it’s incredible.
I know you live all the way on the other side of the city, but hey, stamps are cheaper than a subway ticket.
Just saying.
Happy Valentine’s Day!
Weston
I close the card and tuck it into my bag, smiling. As I look up, the world appears just a little less gray than it was before.
Maybe Valentine’s Day isn’t so bad after all.