Page 186 of Bitter’s Sweet

By lunchtime, I can breathe without something sharp catching beneath my ribs. By afternoon, the numbness begins wearing off.

That is worse.

Anger comes first.

Good.

I can use anger.

He cheated. He lied. Then he stood in front of his brothers and made me sound like some desperate woman who mistook sex for commitment.

He knew that was not true.

Trixie knew.

Nevermore knew.

Half the damn club probably knew.

He did it anyway.

I am not embarrassed because I cared.

I repeat that until I believe it.

I am not ashamed because I trusted him.

He should be ashamed because he asked for that trust and then treated it like something cheap.

The thought steadies me.

I put down the palette knife.

Petal watches me carefully. “You okay?”

“No.”

She nods. “Want a cookie?”

“Yes.”

She opens her purse.

Pregnant women apparently carry emergency food like survivalists.

She hands me a chocolate chip cookie wrapped in plastic.

I take it.

Lark looks over. “Can I have one?”

“No.”

“You have six.”

“They're emotional support cookies.”

“I have emotions.”