Chapter
One
LEXIE
The label printer jams for the third time this morning and miraculously, I resist the urge to throw it across the room. The way this day is going, I wouldn’t be surprised if it spits out a big sticker that reads “LOSER” for me to plaster on my forehead.
“Come on, you overpriced piece of garbage.” I fiddle with the paper feed, extracting a crumpled shipping label. “We’ve got twenty more packages to go.”
The flickering lightbulb I haven’t gotten around to replacing makes the sea of cardboard boxes surrounding me on the living room floor look more like some serial killer’s seedy lair than the home studio my cramped rental has become. My laptop sits perched atop a stack of inventory spreadsheets, open to my store’s admin panel where the orders keep piling up. Good for business. Bad for my Saturday.
My system is efficient. Print label, pack item, seal box, repeat. I’ve streamlined everything down to the second. When your entire business runs from a two-bedroom apartment, efficiency isn’t optional.
The bare walls stare back at me as I reach for the packing tape. I’ve been here eight months and still haven’t hung a single picture. The cardboard boxes labeled “decor” remain stacked in the hall closet, unopened since I moved in after breaking up with Mark. What’s the point? This place is temporary, just like the last three apartments. Just like Mark. Just like they all turned out to be.
My phone vibrates against the hardwood floor, the screen lighting up with Jessica’s face. My sister is caught mid-laugh at last Thanksgiving, when things still felt possible. I pick up on the fourth ring.
“Let me guess, you’re working.” Jessica doesn’t bother with hello.
“No, I’m reorganizing my sock drawer alphabetically,” I say, wedging the phone between my ear and shoulder as I seal another package. “What’s up?”
“It’s Saturday morning, Lex. Normal people are having brunch or going for hikes or, I don’t know, interacting with other humans.”
“I interact with the delivery guy every day. We have a very fulfilling relationship. He brings me cardboard, I give him packages. It’s beautiful, really.”
She sighs. I can practically hear her rolling her eyes. “When was the last time you left your apartment for an occasion other than buying more packing materials?”
I glance at the empty takeout containers stacked neatly by the door, waiting for my next trip to the trash. “I went grocery shopping on Wednesday.”
“That doesn’t count.”
“The cashier and I had a lovely conversation about cucumbers.”
“Alexandra.” Only Jessica uses my full name, and only when she’s gearing up for one of her concerned-sister speeches. Evenour mom hasn’t uttered it since she popped me out twenty-six years ago.
“Jessica,” I mimic her tone, sealing another box with more force than necessary.
“I’m worried about you.”
I stop taping. “Don’t be. Business is booming. I’m thinking about hiring help for the holiday rush.” I don’t mention that the thought of interviewing people, of having someone else in my space, makes me queasy.
“I’m not worried about your business. I’m worried about you being alone all the time.”
Here we go. I resume packing, focusing on folding a cashmere cardigan into tissue paper. “I’m not alone. I have a thriving relationship with my Netflix account.”
“Lexie,” her voice softens. “It’s been six months since Mark. And I know you’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?” I ask innocently, taking out my frustration on a role of packing tape.
“That thing where you bury yourself in work instead of dealing with it.”
“There’s nothing to deal with.” The edge in my voice betrays me, but I decide not to remind her it’s actually been eight months. Eight months since my world imploded.Again. “Mark found his perfect little omega pack, just like the others. Good for him.”
A beat of silence stretches between us. I know what’s coming next.
“I found something I think you should try,” Jessica says, her voice taking on that careful tone people use when approaching wounded animals.
“If it’s another yoga class?—”
