The mention of my grandmother has my throat tightening again. “I wouldn’t turn that down,” I say, the words wobbling.
Pen gives me a wistful smile. “You okay, suga?”
I nod, blinking away the hot tears. I peel the cellophane off the dry mix and aerate it with the wooden spoon. “Yeah. You know me.”
Pen’s lips pinch together. “I do know you, and that’s what makes this so hard.”
I blink at her in surprise. “Why’s that?”
“Because I feel like I nudged you to take a chance with him, and I know he hurt you.”
Hearing her put it into those words gives me some perspective. “No… No. First of all, this isn’t your fault,” I tell her firmly. “Second, he didn’t hurt me.”
My best friend cock’s a brow at me.
“Okay, I’m hurt,” I admit. “But it’s not his fault either. My expectations were too high.”
She scowls. “Stella—”
“No, it’s true,” I insist, flushing hot. “I thought it was the beginning of something, and, for him, it was something else. Something casual.”
Her look is wounded wrath. “He said that?”
“He—No. He didn’t have to.”
Pen stares at me for a while, her frown turning from murderous to confused. “Stella, what happened? You didn’t wanna talk yesterday, I knew to give you space, but clearly he put you in a hole.”
“I-I’m sorry about yesterday.” I flush red again, embarrassed that I couldn’t deal.
“Hush your mouth,” she scolds. “You know I’m here for you. Don’t you dare apologize for taking a few hours to sort yourself out. What do you think this is?The Hunger Games?”
I snort a laugh. “I’m just disappointed in myself for falling apart. That’s all.”
“Well, don’t be. You’re human. We all fall apart now and then.”
Really?Falling apart seems like an irresponsible indulgence. I woke up this morning ashamed for my selfishness yesterday.
“Stella? Stop thinking you have to be The Iron Lady. You get to have a meltdown once in a while. I’m here to help when you need me, and I’m not the only one.”
I heave a wet sigh. “You know it’s not easy for me to ask for help.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have the understatement of the millenia.”
I roll my eyes at her hyperbole.
“Are you gonna tell me what happened? More than just what you texted me yesterday about being denied your Walk of Shame and having a Wallow in Shame instead?”
I wrinkle my nose at my remembered histrionics. Stalling, I uncover the larger mixing bowl of wet ingredients—applesauce, coconut oil, orange juice, and vanilla and start cutting in the flour, oat bran, baking powder, sugar, and salt.
“Stella.”
“Fine,” I huff, clapping the now empty dry bowl into the counter. “Saturday night was nothing short of spectacular.”
Pen stares at me. “Well, obviously, I can see why that would make you inconsolable on Sunday morning,” she deadpans.
“Your snark is not as amusing as you think it is.”
She glares.
