Chapter One
Greek mythology was once my obsession—those passionate gods and forbidden love stories had me dreaming of my own epic romance. But apparently the Fates had different plans. My own thread of destiny turned out to be less indestructible gold thread and more like dental floss—fragile and easily snapped. Now those ancient tales are just another relic in my personal Museum of Abandoned Special Interests, sharing shelf space with cryptography, tiny food videos, that short-lived fermentation phase, and my brief but intense foray into origami.
But deep down, I still yearn to be an Athena—wise, strategic, and worshipped. Instead, I’ve morphed into Pandora 2.0, a mere mortal addicted to the Find My Phone app as I fixate on my ex’s blue dot, pulsing from a trendy fusion joint in East Austin.
“Hey, boss lady.” Hana Lee, my team’s data engineer, pops up like a meerkat over my frosted-glass cubicle wall, peering out from beneath curtain bangs. “Wanna grab some lunch with the team?”
“Oh, hi.” I hastily flip my phone over, internally cringing as the case clacks against the laminate desk surface littered with Post-it notes. I adjust my glasses, aiming for an aura of calm, cool, and definitely not stalking my ex. “Thanks, but I brought leftovers.”
“Again?” Her groan could win an Oscar. “Come on! When’s the last time you’ve gone out with us?”
“How about Friday and I’ll treat everyone?” I suggest with asmall but genuine smile. “We could try that new soul food truck that everyone’s been raving about.”
“This isn’t fair.” She drums her fingers on the cubicle wall, pretending to consider. “So you’re bribing me with jumbo shrimp and grits?”
“That all depends.” I lean in, waggling my eyebrows. “Is it working?”
“What can I say? I’m weak for shellfish.” She glares at me. “Friday—promise?”
I lift my hand and lock fingers with her. “Pinkypromise.”
“And you know there are consequences for breaking a pinky promise, right?” she says. “I’ll change your screensaver to that video from the Christmas party. You know, the one where you’re serenading that potted plant with ‘All by Myself.’”
“Hana Marie Lee.” I gasp in mock horror. “You wouldn’t dare! That ficus and I had a deep soul connection!”
“All I’m saying isyougave me the pinky, and that’s sacred.” She disappears back behind the wall.
I wait until her heels click-clack away on the tile floor—a sound not unlike my departing dignity—before I dive back to my phone. Turns out, my on-off ex for most of my twenties, Zach, never removed me from his Friends and Family list. So now I’ve got a fun lunch ritual that’s one part stalking, two parts masochism, with a sprinkle of “What the hell am I doing with my life?”
The fluorescent lights overhead cast a sickly glow on my sad excuse for lunch. Today’s special: refrigerator-aged pizza. It pairs nicely with this generic cola, which has a lingering aftertaste of disappointment.
Zach’s probably getting cozy with Colette Renard, angel investor and his rumored new situationship. I shouldn’t care, but curiosity is a persistent itch. I bet they’re sipping yuzu margaritas andsharing a dish that’s more art installation than food. What’s on the menu there anyway? I hit a few keys and pull it up. Ah, perhaps they’re noshing on White Truffle Conchiglie with Sous Vide Pork Belly, aka mac and cheese with an inflated ego. I heave a sigh. Zach upgraded to a gorgeous millionaire while I’m contemplating the gentrification of pasta shells.
It’s fine. Totally fine.
And I don’t want him back. It just sucks being the loser.
I grab a sticky note and start folding, dead set on making at least one paper crane before I lose my mind. Guess my version of self-care is frantically creasing office supplies.
I’m definitely not picturing Colette feeding him flirtatious bites from her fork. Or hyper-fixating on those deep appreciative noises he makes whenever he tastes something delicious. The same sounds he used to make when he would—
My mind flashes a mock error message:Stop. Error 404: Healthy coping nowhere in sight. Please reboot your self-worth and try again later.
But I do try to move on. I mean, I deleted the breakup text he sent me. Though that doesn’t change the fact that the guy had the audacity to end things using corporate speak. In his message—which I can still quote verbatim despite deleting it—he used SWOT analysis. I call it BS:
Strengths: You make good banana pancakes.(I’ll add that to my LinkedIn profile.)
Weaknesses: Bedroom performance needs improvement.(Right, because being assertive and knowing exactly what I want is such a terrible thing.)
Opportunities: Chance to find someone more compatible.(Someone who will stroke his ego so he can maintain his fragile illusion of being God’s gift to women.)
Threats: I’m not sure I ever loved you.(Knife meet heart.)
It’s been three months and the universe must have decided that I’ve had enough self-pity for one lunch break because my inbox pings.
Brooke, my ride-or-die since high school, just slid into my inbox with a link to her private YouTube channel. I hesitate, pizza halfway to my mouth. I’m kind of on a roll with my personal dumpster fire, but Brooke’s enthusiasm is infectious, even digitally. The subject line reads:Benji’s One Month Old!
I adore her new baby so I take a bite and click. But the moment the image loads, the crust lodges itself in my throat. My fingers freeze on the mouse, knuckles white against the cheap plastic.
