And neither of us wanted to redraw them.
Chapter 7
Threedaysofnothinghad turned me into a human refresh button.
I sat cross-legged on my mattress, laptop balanced on my knees, hitting F5 with true dedication.
The apartment didn't smell like failure anymore. That was something, at least. Lemon cleaner had replaced the stale wine bouquet, and every surface gleamed with the kind of manic attention that came from having too much time and not enough information. I'd even scrubbed the baseboards—who the hell scrubs baseboards unless they're losing their mind?
Sir Reginald watched from his perch on the windowsill, tail twitching with feline judgment. He'd forgiven me for the chaos, mostly, but still side-eyed the empty corner where wine bottles used to live.
"Don't look at me like that," I told him, hitting refresh again. "This is called being proactive."
He yawned, clearly unimpressed.
Every impulse purchase from that nightmare night sat boxed by the door, return labels printed and attached with theprecision of someone proving they could adult. Two hundred and thirty-six dollars already credited back to my cards. Not much against the mountain of debt, but it was movement. Progress. The kind of thing you did while waiting for your ex-therapist to decide if he wanted to be your . . . what?
Boyfriend seemed too small.
Daddy felt too big for daylight hours.
Another refresh. Another empty inbox.
I'd drafted approximately forty-seven texts to him, deleted them all. What did you say to someone who'd seen you at your absolute worst, cleaned you up, made you come, then vanished with promises to "sort things out"?
Thanks for the intervention, hope your license is okay, BTW I can't stop thinking about your fingers?
My phone sat face-down beside me, removed from temptation after I'd nearly called his office three times. Mrs. Delgado would have been kind about it, probably, but I couldn't handle her sympathy. Not when I was barely holding myself together with cleaning products and compulsive email checking.
The laptop screen blurred. I blinked hard, refusing to cry over an inbox. Three days was nothing. Administrative things took time. Resignation letters had to be filed, ethics boards consulted, professional boundaries properly demolished before personal ones could be built.
But what if he'd changed his mind? What if the cold light of professional consequences had made him realize I wasn't worth the career risk? What if—
A soft chime cut through my spiral.
New email. Subject line: "Status Update & Plans – N. Whitlow"
My heart forgot how to beat. Then remembered all at once, hammering against my ribs like it wanted out. My finger hovered over the trackpad, suddenly terrified. This was it. The verdict.Either permission to move forward or the polite kiss-off that would send me back to wine bottles and credit cards.
I clicked.
The email loaded in pieces—header first, then that familiar professional formatting that made my chest tight. But the words. Oh, the words were anything but professional.
"Resignation accepted by ethics board. I will arrive at 19:30 to return paperwork and—if you still consent—begin a very different relationship. Wear something that feels like 'you.' No panties necessary."
I read it three times before the last line registered. Then a fourth time just to see the winking bee emoji he'd actually included. Dr. Nathan Whitlow, former bastion of professional boundaries, had sent me an emoji. And instructions about my underwear.
A sound escaped me—half laugh, half sob. Sir Reginald's ears flattened at the noise, but I was already rolling off the bed, laptop abandoned in the rumpled sheets.
7:30 PM. I checked my phone—4:47. I had a whole two hours and forty-three minutes to become whoever 'me' was supposed to be.
My closet doors banged open, revealing the schizophrenic wardrobe of someone who'd never figured out her style. Professional blazers hung next to club dresses I'd worn twice. Thrift store finds mingled with impulse purchases still bearing tags. But his words echoed: something that feels like you.
Not the trying-too-hard wrap dress. Not the expensive lingerie that had already failed spectacularly. Something real. Something Emily.
My fingers found it buried in the back—a sunflower-print sundress from Goodwill, soft cotton worn to perfection by someone else's summers. Yellow flowers on white, buttons downthe front, the kind of thing I wore on good days when I didn't hate my body.
The bee socks were already laid out on my dresser, waiting. Some things were inevitable.
