“Just Diana being Diana.” I slide my phone away, but not before catching another notification about Tyler’s engagement. The post is up to 612 likes now.
“You saw, huh?” Abbysays softly.
“Saw what?” I examine the bar’s exposed brick wall with sudden fascination.
“Tyler. The proposal.”
“Oh, that.” I wave dismissively, the wine making my gesture sloppy. “Good for him. Apparently Malibu Barbie is his‘forever home’now.”
Abby snorts. “What does that even mean? She’s not a rescue dog.”
“I think it’s supposed to be romantic. Like, she’s where he belongs.” The words taste bitter. “Whatever. We broke up because I’m‘emotionally nomadic,’remember? His words, not mine.”
“His loss,” Abby says loyally. “Also, who talks like that?”
“Therapists and assholes.”
“And which was he?”
“Both. Definitely both.”
We laugh, and I’m grateful for her ability to pull me back from the edge of self-pity. I glance around the bar, taking in the carefully curatedauthenticvibe—Edison bulbs, reclaimed wood, bartenders with suspenders and elaborate mustaches.
My eyes land on a poster near the restrooms: a tiny house nestled in the woods with the captionTINY HOUSE, HUGE FEELINGS.
I point it out to Abby. “See? Even the anti-establishment aesthetic is manufactured.‘Look how authentic we are with our tiny carbon footprint and enormous emotions!’”
Abby raises an eyebrow. “You know what your problem is?”
“My crippling self-awareness?”
“You can see through everyone’s bullshit except your own.”
I wince. “Ouch. What happened to ‘his loss’?”
“Still true. But so is this.” She reaches across the table to squeeze my hand. “You’re so afraid of being stuck that you never let yourself belong anywhere. And then you wonder why nothing feels real.”
The truth of it sits heavy in my chest.
“When did happy hour become therapy hour?”
“When you started needing it.” She drains her smoking purple concoction. “One more round before we call it?”
I nod, grateful for the subject change, and signal the bartender. But Abby’s words echo in my head, mixing with Tyler’s caption:Finally found my forever home.
I’ve never had one of those. Not really. Not when I was bouncing between Mom’s artistic chaos in San Diego and Dad’s rigid structure in Minneapolis. Not in any of the apartments I’ve lived in since college. Not even in my own skin, constantly reshaping myself to fit whatever room I’m in.
Maybe that’s why I’m so good at PR.
I’ve been marketing myself my whole life.
My apartment is exactlyas I left it this morning—stylish, spotless, and sterile as a hospital room. I kick off my heels by the door and pad across the hardwood floors to the kitchen, where I pour another glass of wine I don’t need.
Everything in here came from West Elm or CB2, carefully selected to look effortlessly curated. The walls are the perfect shade of greige. The throw pillows are artfully mismatched in complementary tones.There’s not a single personal photo anywhere.
I open Instagram again, masochistically scrolling to Tyler’s post. 843 likes now. I zoom in on the brownstone behind them—bay windows, flower boxes, a red door that probably doesn’t stick in the humidity. It looks like a place with history. With roots.
“Finally found my forever home,”I mutter, closing the app and tossing my phone onto the couch.
