Page 180 of Just One More Thing

Ding.

Ding.

Fourteenth floor.

The woman with the sympathy smile steps out, and then it’s just me, one overpriced bag of Whole Paycheck groceries, and my own lousy company reflected back at me from three different mirrored angles.

Ding.

My floor.

I step out into the hallway of the old factory building converted into “luxury loft residences,” which is developer speak for exposed brick, drafty windows, and rent that should come with a personal apology.

The hallway is quiet except for the soft click of my hells against the concrete floor.

Twelve steps from the elevator to my door.

I stop halfway through unlocking it.

Twelve.

I hadn’t realized I’d started counting steps again.

I turn the key and push open the door.

The loft is exactly how I left it this morning. Impersonal.

Original wood floors. Brick wall. Old beams. Two distressed leather chairs the last tenant left behind and an antique table I rescued through an alley adoption.

I set the groceries on the counter and look toward the windows, where the sun is dropping behind the buildings. If I stand at exactly the right angle near the third window and squat two feet, I can see a sliver of lake.

We’re not in Blue Crab Bay anymore, Toto.

There, water never played peekaboo. It was everywhere. Under the docks. Around The Point. In the air. In my hair. Here, I have to play Twister to catch a glimpse of it between two buildings and a parking garage.

I reach into the grocery bag, pull out a beer, and pop the top.

Psskt.

The sound hits me square in the chest.

Jake’s text tone.

I take a long swallow, then chase it with a sip of pickle juice straight from the jar because I’m fresh out of ladylike fucks to give. I peel the lid off a container of smoked mozzarella pasta salad the deli label calls a perfect side.

I’m calling it girl dinner.

I drop into one of the leather chairs. It sighs under me like it’s also had a day.

“Same,” I tell it.

I unlock my phone and start scrolling, because nothing supports your emotional health like entering social media. A creamy tomato pasta recipe. BECASA’s newest linen collection. A woman I went to college with pretending she “just threw together” a cozy kitchen the size of a boutique hotel lobby. An influencer hawking a Christmas tree five other influencers have also claimed to be “obsessed” with this week.

In September.

Then—

I stop.