Page 30 of A Solid Guide to Surviving a Situationship

“You’re asking for a god.”

She smiled. “I am a goddess.”

I shrugged and nodded. “Fair enough.”

We continued browsing like she had just won the argument, our fingers brushing past fabrics—satins, silks, things neither of us needed but deeply believed would fix our lives.

Shopping heals. Or so they said.

“And besides,” she added, holding up a black dress against herself and inspecting it in the mirror, “if I lower my standards, what does that say about me?”

“That you are human?” I answered.

“It means that I’ve given up,” she corrected.

I leaned against the rack, watching her.

“You do realize the men you’re describing probably also want someone who looks like them, right?” I said.

She looked at me through the mirror.

“And?”

“And you’re competing with gym memberships and protein shakes,” I said.

Honey scoffed. “Please. I am the prize.”

I laughed. “I know you are. I’m just saying, your prize category is… elite.”

She turned fully to face me now, crossing her arms.

“And what about you, Mr. Three Exes in One Night?” she asked. “What exactly is your type?”

“Bears? Daddy-looking?” I answered. “At least I don’t expect perfection.”

Honey raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure about that?”

I frowned slightly. “What does that mean?”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she turned back to the mirror, smoothing the fabric of the dress against her body, studying the reflection like she was deciding something.

“We’ll get there,” she finally said.

By lunch, we ended up at Tampé—because apparently, emotional crisis required good lighting.

Tampé was the kind of place that made you feel like your life was more put together than it actually was. Light poured in through massive windows, softening everything—your skin, your problems, your questionable decisions from the night before. The space felt clean but not cold, with just enough warmth to make you want to stay longer than you planned.

The place smelled like espresso and something sweet—cakes, maybe. Or delusion.

We took a corner seat.

I sat across from Honey, but my eyes were drawn to the beautifully painted face of a woman on the wall behind her. She had red curly hair that spread across the canvas like swirling fire, and honestly, she looked like she had her life together more than I did.

Honey was already scrolling through the menu like she hadn’t just spent the last two hours judging men and fabrics equally.

“I need something iced,” she said. “Preferably something that makes me feel refreshed.”

“Water,” I suggested.