Page 90 of Never Your Valentine

I’m furious, but it’s me I’m mad at. Why do I give my heart away so easily? Why do I spend time with men that aren’t suitable for me? Why do I keep doing this?

Instead of working, I’m brooding. Instead of getting on social media and riding the bit of fame I’ve found, I’m stomping around my apartment, cleaning every surface, taking out my frustration on the dusty baseboards and that one stain on the shower pan that I can’t ever get out.

I try to change the throw pillow covers, but one corner is stuck in the zipper, and I pull too hard, ripping stuffing loose. I hurl it across the room, making a cotton snowstorm that matches the chaos inside of me. I grab the other throw pillow and bury my face in it to muffle my frustrated screams. It doesn’t help.

When I can’t take any more, I ask June to open the back half of The Break for me. I request the girl power playlist that Grant used the first time I used the rage room. I suit up and get a five-pound sledgehammer—light enough to lift, big enough to do some real damage.

“Are you sure about this?” June asks when I set my tiered tray on a pedestal, ready to clobber it. “We have dishes and office equipment you can smash. I’ll give you a set of wedding china for free.”

“I don’t want to smash wedding china,” I tell her. “I want to smash this.”

“But you worked so hard on it.”

“I worked hard on a lot of things.” I don’t like where my thoughts are going. I push them away. “This was only ever meant to be temporary.”

“I saw you make this.” June stands between me and the tray. “You made it so carefully. Like you wanted to keep it.”

“I can’t,” I say, and my voice wobbles a bit. I breathe in hard through my nose. “I can’t pack it in a suitcase and take it to California.”

“Is this job a done deal? Like, is it for real, for real?”

“We’re still in talks, but it’s getting realer all the time.”

I haven’t spoken to Grant since yesterday. No texts. No sound from his apartment. I’m not sure he’s even in there.

I’m wobbling again. June pulls me into a tight hug, one I can feel through the padding of the safety gear. “I’m going to miss you, bestie.”

“I’ll miss you too,” I say. “But you’ll be fine.”

Of course she will. June has everything. She has a loving husband, a job she likes, good friends, and the best family. She has it all.

She has what I want. But I’m not going to find it in Echo Creek. Now that I know that, it makes it easier to say goodbye.

June backs out of the room. She closes the door.

I take a few practice swings, testing the weight of the sledgehammer, then I wind up and bring it down onto my beautiful tiered tray. The plates break first. A few more swings and the supports are goners. I kick the pieces into the corner and leave the room.

The next twenty-four hours speed by. Sophie and I get church lady pasties and eat them in her Jeep while listening to Taylor Swift on repeat. I ask Lia to recommend a realtor who can help me sell my building. I make Dove a card with dancing croissants on it. I hug each of the ROMEOs, while they tell me how proud they are of me. They tell me they can see my Nana in me. I tell them I can see Stan’s friendship in each of them. I make sure to get their addresses so I can send them birthday cards.

Lia drives me to Marquette, and I don’t cry even once. I stay dry-eyed as I board the plane to Chicago, and from there, make my connection for my flight to L.A. That’s when the tears well up. But they don’t overflow until I look out the window and see Lake Michigan disappearing behind me as I soar toward the unknown.

Chapter 36

Grant

I’m at The Break. No clients. This would usually be my signal to text Annabelle. We could get lunch, or put on a movie, or actually watch a movie. I could help her pack orders and bring them to the post office, or pretend to think up better captions for her cards while secretly loving the ones she wrote.

Instead, I’m at work with my most annoying sibling. They all take turns. Today, June gets the honor when she hassles me about missing family dinner on Sunday.

“Family dinner isn’t a command performance,” I say.

“You could have texted the chat, though.”

“I was busy.”

“Doing what?”

“Nothing.” Mostly feeling sorry for myself when I wasn’t feeling like an idiot. Bouncing between those two states takes a surprising amount of time.