A giant tub of ice cream—eaten with a big spoon. An old romantic comedy I’ve seen so many times I know all the words—more like an audio-visual comforter than entertainment at this point. A blue hoodie with paint stains all over it that should have been thrown out three years ago, pajama bottoms that are worn thin enough to see my skin color through.

This is my life now.

I have an idea for a segment: Hollywood breakups. Interviewing major stars on how and why their breakups with other major stars happened, how it affected them, how they got over it. I could tag it ‘Celebs reveal the hardest part of breaking up.’ I’d have no problem getting approval for it.

Then I remember I’ve only got my job for another week, and after that there won’t be any more segments, no more ideas to manifest (or have crushed by Candace). My stomach sinks to an even lower state, and I shovel another spoonful of melting, sugary, chocolate fudge brownie ice cream inside of me to numb the sensation for a few more minutes.

The hardest part of breaking up is how much more difficult the rest of your life gets. It’s like pulling that final Jenga piece, wavering on a tightrope. Flickering back and forth between that moment of believing it might just hold up, and the utter hopelessness of realizing it won’t.

It’s not just work seeming so pointless and insignificant, or the giant spaces of time that would have otherwise been filled with spending time together—it’s the smaller things, the details you only notice in terms of absence. No late-night phone calls where you lower voices and raise the volume on your phone, only realizing by the cramp in your hand and the dying battery level how many hours you’ve been talking. It’s the way the world suddenly seems full of couples, and everything seems like it’s about love. Commercials, music, every single TV show—relationships everywhere, only now they seem so gloating and envy-baiting. It’s the way seemingly random things always draw your mind back to him, how anything you see or hear is just three degrees of separation away from thinking about him. The Santa Monica Pier. Motorcycles. Germany. Any tattoo anywhere.

Actually, maybe the hardest part is knowing that you’ve only got yourself to blame, and beating yourself up over it. Finally seeing the things that you ignored so easily, and kicking yourself for being so blinded. Teo had literally done this exact same thing to me already. Nothing from him in seven years. Then as soon as he pops up again I let him back in without a real explanation, without guarding myself, without any restraint. How could I blame anyone but myself for that? Fool me once…

My phone rings and I jump a little. Partly because I’m so locked in my own bubble of self-pity that even the sudden blare of my phone feels like an intrusion, and partly because there’s a shameful, lingering hope that it might be Teo.

I see that it’s Grace, and take a deep, steadying breath before I answer.

“Hey sis,” she says.

“Hey.”

“You ok?”

I take a moment to actually consider it.

“Not really. But I’m getting there.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t imagine what this must be like for you.”

“Did Dad say anything?”

Grace pauses on the phone, and I can sense she’s biting her lip.

“Um…”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” I say.

“He’s just glad that you found out before Teo did anything worse… To be honest, I think he’s drawing up a list of replacements for you.”

“Oh, God,” I say, facepalming with my phone.

“How’s work? Any better?”

“Um…” Now I’m the one biting my lip. “About as good as my relationship status.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I kind of lost my job.”

“Ash!” Grace says, as if I’m falling off a cliff.

“It’s kind of my own doing,” I say. “I just got tired of being everybody’s lapdog.”

“I’m so sorry,” she says, sounding even more sympathetic than she did about Teo. “So you’re just sitting at home alone?”

“No. I’ve got my ice cream.”

“Listen,” she says, her voice renewed with a decisive edge. “I know you’re gonna want to say no, but we’re having a fundraiser—”

“Oh, Grace, I can’t—”

“Shh, just hear me out,” she interrupts, with political firmness. “I want you to be there. It would be great for me to have my whole family at this thing, and—”

“And I suppose it’ll be a great opportunity for you and Dad to set me up with some ‘appropriate suitors’?”

“Well…” Grace says, drawing the word out. “I mean, there will be a lot of eligible men there. And if you’re not interested in that, fine, but at least come for the chance at networking with people who could help you get a new job.”

I sigh heavily, trying to consider whether I’m actually above this anymore, whether everything blowing up in my face the past week is a sign I should just bite the bullet and start following my family’s advice.

“There will be cameras there,” she says. “It’s going to be on the news. Big networks, anchors, maybe a few producers. You’ll probably struggle not to come away with a promising job lead or two.”

“Ugh…I don’t know.”

“Do it for me,” Grace says, as if sensing my hesitation. “I want to see you. I can’t bear the thought of you sitting at home alone in such a state.”

“Ok,” I say, unable to resist her tone. I would like to see her, and I know that she barely has time for a simple coffee or brunch these days—a fundraiser is about as intimate as it gets when your sister is the mayor of a small town.

“Wonderful. I’ll text you the details.”

“Sure.”

“See you then. Take care, sis.”

I hang up and grab my ice cream spoon. Maybe this will be good for me. A new start, a clean slate. Maybe it’s what I’ve needed for a long time. Maybe my father was right all along. I mean, it makes a kind of sense. I just wish it didn’t feel so wrong.