"Not really."
"Too bad," she says, tossing me a granola bar. "You need something in your system that's not betrayal and cortisol."
She doesn't hug me. Doesn't baby me. Just gestures to the stool at the counter and hands me a coffee like I didn't almost fall apart twenty-four hours ago.
"You good?" she asks.
I blink at her.
"Right. Dumb question," she mutters. "Okay. New question: you wanna feel better or not?"
I nod, cautiously.
"Good," she says. "Because I made a list."
She slaps a sheet of paper down on the counter. The top reads : "January's Blueprint for Surviving a Dumbass Man"
"Seriously?" I say, staring at the title.
"Dead serious," she says. "You can cry all you want, but you're gonna cry in motion."
I half-laugh, half-sniffle.
She points to item one.
"Join a gym. I already texted December. She's taking you to the one with the cute instructor and the neon lights and the playlist that sounds like a panic attack in Paris."
"January—"
"It's not about getting fit. It's about getting distracted. Also, endorphins. Also, December misses you and I think she's secretly worried you're gonna become one of those sad Pinterest people who journal in cursive and adopt too many cats."
I roll my eyes, but my smile betrays me.
"Two," she goes on. "Use the wedding money. Travel. Go somewhere where no one knows your name. Go dance in the middle of Rome. Or drink something fruity on a beach. Hell, go to Disneyland and scream into Space Mountain. You were gonna spend all that money on a man who betrayed you. Spend it on something that doesn't suck."
My throat tightens.
"Three: You already called your dad, right?"
I nod.
"Good. Go see him. You need someone who knew you before any of this. Who loved you before dance and studios and Aaron. Let him remind you who you are."
She points at the last item.
"Four: Try something new. A class, a hobby, literally anything. I don't care if it's underwater basket weaving or angry haiku. Rebuild yourself from the pieces he didn't care to carry."
I stare at the list, my eyes burning.
"Jan..."
She doesn't look up. Just shrugs and pours herself more coffee.
"It's not for you to fall apart forever," she says. "It's for you to fall apart once. And thenbuild again."
Before I can respond, she picks up her phone and taps a button. A group video chat starts ringing.
"Oh no—"
