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I stare at the message, trying to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to say. Is there an emoji for sorry your wife is the fucking worst? A thumbs-up feels psychotic.

This is so weird. I know what his dick looks like from every possible angle and exactly what sound he makes right before he comes, but I don’t even know when his birthday is.

GOLDIE: are you okay?

This time, he takes longer to answer.

SUMNER: Not really

A second message follows.

SUMNER: But I will be

I’m still staring at his last text when Scout starts yelling that the middle of the mattress isn’t catching fast enough and Tatum tells her she’s going to lose an eyebrow if she gets any closer.

Yeah. I should probably supervise.

GOLDIE: I’m sorry

GOLDIE: for what it’s worth, I’m glad you got out

I shove my phone into my pocket and turn back toward the fire before this gets even more out of hand.

For the next couple of hours, my phone stays in my pocket while the girls turn burning my mattress into an entire production. Scout takes control of the speaker and starts building a playlist specifically for the occasion, Tatum keeps vetoing songs for not being angry enough, and Andie stands off to the side with the hose looking like she regrets being friends with all of us.

By the time the fire burns down, we’re exhausted, sweaty, and getting eaten alive by mosquitoes.

Ellie hugs me before heading toward her car. “You sure you don’t want to stay at my place tonight?”

“I’m good. The couch is comfortable, and I have about six thousand throw pillows. I can build a nest.”

“You call me if Grant comes back.”

“I will.”

One by one, they hug me, repeat some version of what they’d like to do to Grant if he shows up again, and head home.

Then the back door closes behind the last one and I’m alone.

The house is weirdly quiet after having the girls here all day. I stand there for a second, listening to the hum of the AC and staring through the glass door at what’s left of my mattress smoking in the dark.

What a fucking weekend.

I should probably be devastated. But the only thing I really want to know is whether any of the completely insane shit I did last night worked.

I look down at my stomach.

Nothing feels different.

Of course nothing feels different. It’s been, what, twelve hours?

Still.

I pull out my phone and open the calendar, counting the days again even though I already know the answer.

“Fuck.”

That might actually be the longest two weeks of my life.