Fall For Me – Chapter One

June 23, 2026Leave a comment

COMING July, 2026

firefighter Romantic Comedy

Running from a wedding… into a fake fall romance!

Fleeing her wedding and a toxic relationship in her white gown, Peyton jumps on the first bus out of town—and straight into billionaire Liam Rockwood. Literally. Distracted by her search for a place to stay, she steps into the street and sends the town’s most eligible bachelor crashing off his bike!

Liam is furious. His suit is ruined, he’s late for an event at his hotel, and now the runaway bride responsible is trying to check in. Worse, the small-town rumor mill quickly decides Peyton must be his secret new wife.

When Liam’s father arrives ready to celebrate the “happy couple,” Liam makes Peyton an offer: a temporary marriage of convenience. She gets protection against her vindictive ex, a home, and a fresh start. He gets the wife his family expects.

As crisp fall days turn into cozy nights, they carve pumpkins, steal kisses in the corn maze, and share secrets in the dark. Suddenly, their fake marriage starts feeling dangerously real. But falling was never part of the plan…

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Fall For Me – Chapter One

Peyton

Being a runaway bride is terribly inconvenient. Nothing romantic or momentous like in the movies. No handsome ex-boyfriend whisked me away from the altar, begging me to choose him.

No, I did this to myself.

Turns out the hardest part of running away from your wedding isn’t making the decision, but doing it in a dress designed to prevent escape.

The bustier of my wedding gown must’ve been engineered by someone who studied medieval torture devices rather than fashion. The boning digs into my sides, turning every breath into a struggle. My lower half fares no better with the skirt smothering me in an avalanche of fabric that wraps around my ankles like tentacles and turns each step into a potential face-plant. And the tattered train drags behind me, collecting street grit like a filthy mop that gains weight the longer I walk.

Why did I let Matt’s mom convince me that more is more and let her pay ten thousand dollars for me to slowly suffocate in silk?

Each step hurts. The stilettos that seemed a good idea in a plushly carpeted bridal boutique send a fresh bolt of agony from my mangled toes up to my scraped heels every time my feet hit the ground.

The early evening air nips at my bare shoulders. I wrap my arms around myself as I shiver on the sidewalk of a random town somewhere on the Lake of the Ozarks, where the bus line ended. The early October weather that was supposed to be atmospheric and romantic in my fall wedding fantasies is just plain cold.

“It’ll be magical,” the wedding planner had said. “Think of the foliage in the photos.” No one mentioned I might end up freezing to death on the shore of a podunk small town if I bolted. Not that I’d planned to bolt.

The wind whips across my back, slicing through the delicate, impractical fabric of my gown. More goosebumps rise along my arms and shoulders.

How stupid to run away in just my dress, but I hadn’t picked out a bolero or a cape to go with it. I’d counted on the champagne to keep me warm. I thought that by evening, I’d either be tipsy enough not to feel the chill or flushed from dancing. Or both. Also the reception was indoors.

Should I turn the train into a shawl? I check behind me, but the fabric is more gray than white by now, and I’d rather not drape myself in street grime.

A bolt of lightning cracks across the sky. Behind me, dark clouds gather on the horizon, and the air smells of rain. Getting soaked would be the perfect cherry on my abandoned wedding cake: five layers of Madagascar-vanilla chiffon with champagne sponge, topped with sugar magnolias rimmed in edible gold.

My stomach growls. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.

I should’ve stolen the damn cake before I left.

I blink the image away and hobble on as my teeth clatter. What was wrong with being a summer bride? In June, I could’ve fled barefoot on a beach somewhere, hair loose in the breeze instead of having my scalp turned into a pincushion for bobby pins.

But hey, nothing says “fresh start” like hypothermia.

Speaking of summer, this wind-beaten town must be a tourist hotspot in the warmer months. Perched right on the edge of the lake, its main street slopes up from the water, crisscrossed by string lights. The road is lined with stores, their picturesque windows marked by wooden signs hanging from wrought-iron brackets and decked in pumpkins, garlands of autumn leaves, pinecones, and other quaint fall décor. But despite the festive effort, the street is deserted now.

I pass a coffee shop, The Daily Grind, closed. A hair and beauty salon, Dye Hard, closed as well. A bookshop, Shelf Indulgent, its window brimming with colorful paperbacks I’d spend too much time admiring despite the shop also being closed. But I’m freezing off, and I need to keep moving. I pass a bakery, a general store, a florist, a hardware store—all closed. The only open place is a faraway pizzeria, A Slice of Heaven. The restaurant overlooks the harbor, where water laps against the docks, moored boats creak in their slips, and the wind looks twice as vicious. I should move more inland.

I stop in front of a clothing boutique, squinting through the darkened glass. A display of scarves and sweaters mocks me from the other side. I tug at the locked doorknob, as if my desperation might somehow override their business hours.

It doesn’t.

The wind picks up again, sending a shower of russet leaves spiraling down around me. A leaf lands in my hair, joining the wilting roses. I pick it out, crumpling it in my fingers.

Main Street is very charming until you realize nothing is open. Every window is dark. The entire town has tucked itself into bed early even if it’s Saturday night. They must’ve wanted to escape the wind that keeps howling off the water like it wants to personally escort me to Pneumonia.

Which begs the question: Where the fuck am I?

I fled the church with nothing but my phone. I have no money except what’s in my digital wallet. No jacket, no change of clothes, no plan whatsoever beyond the primal need to get out, get away.

Fingers clumsy from the cold, I unlock my screen. I put it on airplane mode before anyone could realize I was on the run. And it’s been like that since I climbed out the chapel’s stained-glass window, sprinted to the station, and jumped on the first bus out of town without checking the destination.

I needed to save battery and become unreachable. But I’m down to 15 percent anyway. A red bar of impending doom.

I hover my thumb over the airplane mode toggle. The moment I turn this off, reality will flood back in. I’ll be tossed into the world where I left Matt standing at the altar in front of two hundred guests. The world where my family is probably having a full-blown, Chardonnay-fueled meltdown.

But I have no choice. I need to figure out where I am, find somewhere to sleep while I can still use a virtual card to pay, and get warm. I can’t survive without the internet.

I tap the icon.

The phone convulses in my hand, buzzing frantically as notifications fill the screen. The numbers tick up like an unbridled slot machine:

Missed Call: Mom (17)

Missed Call: Dad (11)

Missed Call: Matt (23)

Voicemail: Mom

Voicemail: Matt

52 new messages

Mom

Where are you???

Peyton, answer your phone. We’re worried sick

Matt is devastated

I doubt devastated is how my fiancé—ex fiancé?—is feeling. Angry. Self-righteous. Vindictive. All would be better suited.

Mom

His family is furious

Yeah, this is more the vibe with the VanCamps.

Dad

Bug, what happened?

Please call us. Let us know you’re safe

I reply only to my parents with a short message to let them know that I’m alive and swipe the rest of the messages away. But more crop up underneath. Notification after notification invades the screen, stacking on top of each other so fast I can barely read them.

Emma

Okay, honestly? Leaving the groom at the altar if you weren’t feeling it: hero move. A heads-up would’ve been nice, though. I could’ve been your getaway driver

Are you okay?

I’m hiding six bottles of champagne in my car. Send me your location. We can get trashed

My best friend and maid of honor is the only person I’d want with me. But first I need a location to send her. I swipe her messages away, too. More follow.

Cousin Greg

Hey sweetie, Cousin Greg here. Sorry to hear the news. Is the open bar still happening, or should we head to Applebee’s?

Aunt Mable

May I take the centerpieces home? The roses are dying, and it seems like a waste

Great Aunt Shirley

I knew your mother shouldn’t have let you eat carbs this week. It clouded your judgment

Rebecca (second cousin)

Mom’s live-stream of the empty altar has gone viral

I’m getting drunk now as her social media has become more popular than mine

Also, is it okay if I hook up with Matt’s brother, or is there a waiting period?

A wave of nausea sloshes in my stomach, making me want to throw up. I shove it down. I can’t deal with any of them now. With a few frantic taps, I enable the Do Not Disturb mode, silencing the assault. The buzzing stops. I push the thought of the wreckage I left behind into a locked box in the back of my mind to reopen later. Or never. Never sounds nice.

I tap the map app. A little blue dot pulses, showing my location. I’m in a town I’ve never heard of called Blue Crescent Harbor. The name suits the curved shoreline of the bay.

I zoom out, confirming I’m still in Missouri. About two hours north of Springfield, where I’m from.

I switch to a travel app and search for “Hotels near me.”

Several options pop up, most with reasonable rates. Thank goodness they’re open even in the off-season.

At the top of the list is a place called “Rockwood Resort” with five-star average ratings, wide-angle pictures of luxury balconies overlooking the water, an infinity pool, and a swanky lobby. The room price per night makes me wince.

It’s four times what the others cost. But it’s also the closest option, less than half a mile away according to the map.

My feet throb in protest at even that short distance just as a raindrop lands on my screen, then another on my shoulder. Perfect timing. The storm that has been brewing all evening is making good on its promise while I’m still out in the open.

Between the cold, the pain in my feet, and the impending downpour, money seems like the most expendable resource.

My bank account can recover. My toes might not.

I search for an Uber, but the closest car is forty minutes away. I’ll be frozen by then. Resigned, I tap on the resort’s “Get Directions” link.

Two blue lines appear on the map, one lining the coast, the other continuing down Main Street with a right turn at the end onto Lakeside Drive. The second is two minutes slower, but the downtown buildings promise a little shelter from the elements. I tap that one.

A calm, disembodied female voice tells me to proceed to the route. I follow its instructions, my gaze locked on the phone, watching as my location dot inches forward. Another raindrop hits my screen. I wipe it away with my thumb, leaving a smear across the glass.

I trudge on. Each step feels like I’m walking on broken glass. I consider taking the shoes off, but limping barefoot on dirty, wet-cold concrete seems even worse.

My train catches on a crack in the sidewalk. I slip, catch myself, tug the fabric free, and keep stumbling ahead.

The hem of my skirt keeps catching under my shoes. I hold the excess fabric up with one arm, but it is not enough.

I trip again, and this time, my ankle gives out. My heel skids off the edge of the curb, and I pitch forward, landing in the middle of the street. I fly my arms out to keep upright, barely holding on to my phone as the underskirts snare my feet more tightly and I land on my hands and knees.

A sound rips through the quiet evening. A deep, guttural rumble that vibrates through the asphalt and up into my bones.

I lift my head and freeze. A beam of light, blindingly white, is rushing toward me. It pins me in its glare. The rumble escalates into the deafening roar of an engine pushed to its limit as a red sports motorcycle barrels down the street at full speed.

I register its advancement in fragments. The lacquered gleam of the bike. The dark figure hunched over the handlebars. The screech of brakes. And the smell of burning rubber filling the air.

The bike fishtails, the front wheel jerking to one side as the rider fights for control. But the headlights still fill my vision, inexorably rushing toward me along with the certainty, bone-deep and absolute, that I’m about to die.

In a wedding dress.

On a random street in an unknown town.

My last thought, absurdly, is that getting hit by a motorcycle sounds less painful than taking one more step in these heels.

###

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Chapter One- It’s Complicated

February 10, 2024February 10, 2024Leave a comment

COMING FEBRUARY, 23 2024 WITH A NEW COVER AND TITLE AND 12K MORE WORDS

(previously published as Falling For Her Best Friend in the My Funny Valentine collection)

A friends to lovers, fake dating rom-com

Lori desperately needs a date to her best friend’s wedding. Especially since Aiden—fair, blond, everybody’s All-American dream—is the lost love of her life.

Enter Jace—her tall, dark, brooding other best friend—who reluctantly agrees to step in. Jace has always been too wild for Lori—the personification of danger and excitement. But when he starts acting like the sweetest, most attentive boyfriend… Lori doesn’t mind playing pretend. In fact, the more she pretends to be in love with him, the more it feels like she might be catching feelings for real…

Available to pre-order In eBook:

CHAPTER ONE – LORI

The moment I flip through my mail and find an ivory wedding invitation, my heart cracks in my chest and my mind snaps back to a spring night of fourteen years ago when I could’ve stopped it all and didn’t.

My two best friends and I were at a home party, junior year of college at Urbana University. I can’t remember much about that night, whose house it was, what day, or even what I was wearing. But I do remember the drinking game we were playing: Never Have I Ever. At least Aiden and I and his then girlfriend were playing. Jace was somewhere probably being hit on by all the single women at the party.

I’d already taken quite a few shots. One for losing my virginity. One for breaking a bone in the fifth grade. One for googling myself—I know embarrassing. One for crashing a party—we were probably crashing that party as well. One for reading an entire book in a day—duh, how are there people who’ve never done that? And one for giving out a fake number—not cool, I know, but I’m not big on confrontations, even for something as small as telling a stranger I don’t want to give them my number, so I always choose the path of least anxiety.

I’d just downed the shot for the fake number, when it became Tracy Dillon’s turn to speak.

A textbook mean girl in our year, she locked eyes with me as she spoke, “Never have I ever…” she paused for suspense, studying me with a malicious glint. “…Been in love with my best friend!”

A dare.

And it must’ve been the six shots I already had in me that made me accept the challenge. Because next, I looked Aiden straight in the eyes, not even caring that his girlfriend was sitting right next to him, and downed the seventh shot of the night.

I drank.

He didn’t.

I don’t know why my mind flies back to that night of so many years ago as I trace a finger over the expensive cotton fiber paper of the envelope. Maybe because my subconscious knows better than I do that something could’ve changed that night. Or maybe it’s just the usual wishful thinking on my part. I can still remember the dumbstruck expression on Aiden’s face as I downed the shot. And the closed set of his jaws as he didn’t touch his. Or the way he frowned as strong arms hooked under my armpits and scooped me up from the floor. Next, I was in Jace’s arms, and he was carrying me away from the game.

“You’ve had enough to drink for tonight, Lola,” my other best friend said, using the nickname he always called me. “I’m taking you home.”

“But I was having fun,” I protested.

“Trust me, you’re going to thank me tomorrow.”

Too drunk to object, I waved at Aiden over Jace’s shoulder as we left whoever’s house we were at. I don’t remember how we got to my dorm. I probably fell asleep in Jace’s arms on the way. But the morning after is another one of those moments that will remain forever etched in my memory.

Aiden knocked on my door bright and early, looking all serious while he asked me if we could talk. That was my moment. I had broken the eggs the night before and I should’ve made the omelet that morning, aka confess to Aiden my undying love for him. Instead, I chickened out saying that if by talking, he meant he wanted to feed me pizza and one of his famous hangover-crushing smoothies I was game because, seriously, I’d never felt more under the weather and couldn’t remember a thing from the previous night. Had the party been any good?

Gosh, how I hated myself at the relieved expression on his face.

Crisis averted, I guess. No one had to deal with silly old Lori’s unrequited crush and unwanted feelings. We could all go back to being The Three Amigos, a trio where I was considered a sort of asexual being—not exactly a man like the other two, but also not someone either of them would ever date. In all the years we’ve known each other, neither Jace nor Aiden ever went for anything more risqué than a hug with me. No matter if I was in sweats watching a movie, or out clubbing in a miniskirt, or even sharing a bed with one of them on a trip. Nothing ever happened. I was friend-zoned from day one.

Now, crushed under the weight of the posh envelope, I lean against the front door for support—I sure didn’t expect such a bomb to come out of my mailbox when I got home after a long day at work.

I shouldn’t feel so blindsided, but I do. It’s too soon to send out wedding invitations. Aiden proposed to Kirsten only a few months ago. And even if I saw the ring, the engagement posts plastered all over Instagram, and have been to the engagement party, a small part of me still hoped he wouldn’t actually marry Kirsten.

I’m an idiot.

Of course, Aiden would marry Kirsten. She’s the ideal woman—beautiful, posh, funny, with her head on her shoulders, and from a good family. She has everything.

But me? I’m a hot mess. I can’t keep a boyfriend for more than a few months—being secretly in love with your best friend will derail most relationships right from the start. And my hobbies are spilling all over the place—none of them are suitable for a wife.

As new cracks spread down my heart, I want to rip the letter into a million pieces. Instead, I let it fall to the floor, holding on to the walls for support as I head for the safety of the couch. To reach the living room, I have to meander through the piles of old novels littering my apartment—inconvenient hobby number one: I rescue books from destruction.

Why do certain books need rescuing? Because when sales of a novel slow and not even a prolonged sojourn in the bargain cart can make copies shift, the unfortunate volumes are returned to the printing facility and destroyed through a process called “pulping.”

I shudder, thinking of the piles of books stripped of their covers and munched into the recycling machines. I can’t stand to fold a book’s page and do my best never to crack the spine while reading, so witnessing the book pulping process scarred me for eternity.

How did I get into this hobby? The manager at one of these printing facilities is a patient of mine—I’m a family doctor, the only accomplishment of my life—and he lets me save some of the volumes destined for the paper grinder. The liberated novels then move in with me and litter my floor until I manage to resell them online or at garage sales. Some I donate to little free libraries. But most just keep on not selling and end up camping in my apartment for a very, very long time.

I dodge another leaning tower of neglected dystopian novels and make it to the open space living room. Four cats await me sprawled on the couch—inconvenient hobby number two: I also rescue animals. The addiction started with cats and expanded to chickens when I moved into my industrial loft that has a cozy backyard. I’ve always been a cat person, but the extension to chicks came after I saw a traumatizing documentary on chicken factories, which also converted me to being a vegetarian.

Unlike books, I have to set strict limits on the pet population I’m allowed to keep. At any given time, I can’t house more than four cats and six chickens.

I wiggle my butt on the couch, plopping down between Leia, a tawny tabby, and Chewie, my ginger, long-haired stud. Sitting down doesn’t help calm my nerves. My mouth is still paper-dry and my heart pumping in my chest on the verge of a full-blown panic attack. I drop my head in my hands, folding my torso over my knees and taking a few deep, hopefully calming breaths.

The Christmas tree lights blink in my face from a corner of the living room. And while I usually enjoy their bursts of colored joy, now they’re making the anxiety worse. Sure, the holidays are over. I just didn’t get around to taking the tree down yet. I’m not in a hurry to do it, either. I love Christmas and the warmth the tree lights sprinkle on the house.

I bet Kirsten is one of those people who take down their Christmas trees on December 26.

Shudder.

And perhaps that’s what’s better for Aiden. Someone organized and efficient, who doesn’t come with the baggage of approximately a thousand books, four cats, and six chickens. Maybe seeing him getting married and hearing him promise his eternal love to another woman will finally cure me of loving him. A disease I’ve carried with me for my entire adult life.

From the moment I met Aiden in college, I knew he was The One, but I have never confessed my feelings. I even encouraged him to date Kirsten at the beginning, when he thought she was too posh for him (I totally agreed and still agree with that assessment). The only reason I told him to go out with her was that I figured she was entirely wrong for him and that they wouldn’t last past a couple of dates. I’m such a fool and such a coward.

I’ve been a wimp since the winter of freshman year when I first fell hard and fast for him.

Aiden was in one of my classes, Introduction to Undergraduate Biology Research, the weirdest class I had that quarter. The professor, George Quilliam, was unconventional and, on the first lesson, he lectured us on how scientific research is 90 per cent rule-following and 10 per cent rule-breaking. He then asked who among us had a problem breaking rules. Aiden and I raised our hands. Jace didn’t.

Bioresearch wasn’t the first class I’d had in common with them, seeing how all three of us were bio pre-med students. But we weren’t friends back then. They were the cool kids, totally out of my nerdy league. Wherever they went, their then-duo made heads turn. Jace and Aiden had to be the hottest freshmen on campus. Both tall, athletic, and broad-shouldered. Jace, dark-haired, with eyes the color of a glacier, and a chiseled profile that would’ve made Michelangelo’s David hide in shame. With his full lips constantly upturned in a lopsided, confident smirk, he was the essence of casual, endless charm. And Aiden, fair, blond, everybody’s All-American dream. His face beautiful, elegant, and ageless—in a hanging on the walls of a museum kind of way. But his expression was never arrogant and his blue eyes were always gentle and warm. Jace was the personification of danger and excitement. Aiden, an angel fallen on Earth.

So, yeah, I’d noticed them before. But despite our many shared classes, they’d never spoken to me, and neither had I to them. I’ve never made friends easily, and after four months of cohabitation I was barely getting comfortable around my dorm roommate, so I wasn’t about to approach the two coolest guys in my year with some embarrassing, never-show-your-face-in-public-again line.

But that first day of the spring quarter changed everything. The course was elective and smaller than usual, with only ten students. So, obviously, that had to be the class where I picked a fight with the professor. Academic contexts are the only ones where I have no problems stating my opinion or openly disagreeing with someone—especially if it is to fight for one of my patients. But, as that day showed, my academic confidence isn’t always a plus.

Quilliam studied us law-abiding losers with our hands raised and smirked. “Very well, class. For your first homework assignment, I’m going to send you on a little rule-breaking quest. The Garden Gnome Liberation Front recently broke into my backyard and depleted my collection. So your first assignment, due next class, is to steal me a garden gnome.”

Students looked between themselves with a mix of amused expressions and is-this-guy-for-real frowns. But of course, I had to be the jerk who raised her hand and asked, “Excuse me, professor, but what do garden gnomes have to do with biology?”

“Ah, Miss…” He paused to check the class roster and confirm my name. “Archibald. As I said, no great scientific discovery was ever made without breaking a few rules first.”

I pouted, and he called me out. “Something you’d like to add?”

“Yeah, even if we bring you a gnome, what would make you think we actually broke into someone’s garden to steal it and didn’t simply order one online?”

“Excellent point, Miss Archibald. Express deliveries are a plague of these times. Let’s agree each of your gnomes must look properly timeworn, then.” He peeked at us from under his spectacles. “And in case you were thinking of fabricating the distress I should warn you, I also hold a degree in applied chemistry and will be able to tell.”

That statement earned me a lot of glares from my classmates, so I refrained from commenting I could just order an old gnome from eBay.

It turned out that I couldn’t. By the time I got home that evening, and on my computer, four out of the five gnomes available for sale that would reach Urbana in time for the next class were already sold. The remaining one had reached a four-figure price tag that was way above my college allowance. Apparently, flexible pricing was another plague of the times.

That’s how the following evening I ended up dressed in all black, complete with a black beanie and black running gloves, strolling through the residential neighborhoods of the small college town in search of garden gnomes to abduct. I was walking alone in a side street, trying to act inconspicuous, when Jace and Aiden overtook me from behind. Jace stole the beanie from my head and twirled it on a finger.

“You’re going to get us caught by stalking the streets dressed so suspiciously. You have garden gnome thief written all over your face, Archibald.”

“I do not,” I hissed as I tried to rescue my beanie.

But Jace snatched up his arm, bringing it out of my reach.

Aiden smiled. “You do look a little suspicious, Lori. Could you at least lose the gloves?”

I was flabbergasted that he knew my name—that they both did—and blabbed, “I didn’t want to leave fingerprints and it’s cold.”

Jace smirked. “I promise you, a crime scene investigator won’t be involved in a case of gnome grand larceny.”

I glowered. “You the expert?”

That’s when Aiden ruffled my bangs—also a thing back then—and I was a goner.

“Are we doing this or not?” he asked. “Jace and I scouted the perfect house filled with creepy dwarfs.”

Jace put on my beanie and started jogging backward, preceding us. “Do you think we’d get extra points for stealing Snow White?”

By the next class, we’d stolen three hideous lawn ornaments. We handed them in, got the bonus marks we were promised, and that was the beginning of our friendship. For shy, self-conscious me it felt inexplicably easy to hang out with them. I just fitted with Aiden and Jace in a way I’d never belonged with anyone before.

Probably because I hadn’t known them growing up. To them I was just Lori Archibald, the nerdy, rule-abider in their pre-med classes and never the “silent girl” I had been in Sarasota, the Florida town where I grew up.

I was born with a very small cleft palate that didn’t extend into a cleft lip and ironically, made the birth defect a hundred times more difficult to discover. Kids in pre-school made fun of me for my nasal voice and things got worse in grade school where I entered the first grade being practically mute for fear of being made fun of.

It was only when our old G.P. retired and we had to switch to a new general practitioner that I was diagnosed. That woman changed my life, she’s the reason I’ve always wanted to become a family doctor growing up. To change lives in return. I had a small surgery and solved the defect. But I still was made fun of as I was behind with my speech development and had a slight lisp, which turned me into an overly shy kid without many friends. And even years later, now my speech is perfectly normal, I sometimes feel like I still haven’t found my voice. At least if my fear of confrontation is any indication.

Anyway, the night of our gnome grand larceny made me feel for the first time like I belonged. Sadly, that’s also the night that stuck me in the friend zone forever. With Jace, it’s never been a problem. He’s always been too wild for me. But Aiden, poised, sweet, caring, fun, gorgeous Aiden, is my soulmate. Only he doesn’t know.

Palpitations make my heart throb again as my mind goes back to the ivory envelope adorning the hall floor. I can’t be alone in my apartment with the dispatch from heartbreak central. And I sure as hell can’t open it by myself.

I roll a finger inside the neck of my blouse. I need air. I need to get out.

I stand up, top the cats’ water and food, fill the hens’ feeder, collect their eggs that I’ll sell at Saturday’s farmers’ market, grab my keys, and get back out of the house merely twenty minutes after getting in.