Page 44 of A Taste of Vanilla

Not in a woodland-creature-assists-the-heartbroken-heroine way, where he’s there to chirp encouragingly while I rediscover myself and somehow learn to French braid.

No.

This squirrel looks like he’s committed at least two felonies and knows where the bodies are buried.

Sir Nubsworth sits on the fire escape railing outside the apartment window, one cloudy eye aimed directly at me. His tail twitches like he’s disappointed, which is rich coming from someone actively chewing on what appears to be insulation.

I stare at him from my mattress on the floor.

“Good morning to you too.”

He keeps chewing. At this point, I’m not in a place to judge survival tactics.

My mouth tastes like sleep, crying, and the emergency peanut butter cups Marley shoved at me last night. My hair is everywhere, my T-shirt is twisted sideways, and oneof my arms is completely numb after being pinned under me for who knows how long. The fitted sheet Oliver tucked so carefully last night has popped off one corner.

For three whole seconds, I don’t remember.

And then I move my left hand.

No ring.

My stomach drops, and everything comes back in flashes. Grant’s office, Elise sitting on his desk, the iced coffee, my apology croissant.

My engagement ring disappearing into a puddle of dark coffee like the world’s saddest magic trick.

I close my eyes.

“Absolutely not,” I whisper.

Sir Nubsworth scratches at the railing. “I wasn’t talking to you.”

He stares, and my shoulders slump. “Okay, I was a little talking to you.”

The apartment above Saints & Sinners looks worse in the daylight.

The nighttime softened it. Nighttime made the chipped paint, half-stacked boxes, abandoned furniture, and the mattress on the floor look charming. Like maybe I was some quirky woman starting over instead of a fully grown adult sleeping above her best friend’s bar because her fiancé couldn’t keep his pants on at work.

Morning is rude.

It shows the dust on the windowsill, the paint roller I forgot about six months ago, the stack of holiday cake boxes in the corner, and the three blue storage bins Oliver judged so violently with his face last night that I almost apologized to them. It shows the extension cord I found late last night running from the only outlet that works to my phone charger and the peanut butter cup wrappers by the wall.

Home. Well, maybe.

I reach for my phone on the floor. Seven unread texts. Threefrom Marley, two from Oliver, one from my mom, and one from Boat Shoe Judas.

My stomach folds in on itself.

I do not open Grant’s message. Instead, I look at the preview, because apparently I really love bad decisions before breakfast.

BOAT SHOE JUDAS

Halston, we need to talk when you’re ready. Yesterday got out of hand and I think?—

I flip the phone face down. “Nope.”

Sir Nubsworth twitches.

I sit up too fast and immediately regret having a spine. Everything aches. My head, my neck, my ribs, and even my skin. Crying should count as cardio, and yet somehow I still feel like a woman who got hit by a truck, locked in my walk-in freezer, and left to marinate in humiliation.