Waking up to a two-inch penis being thrust in your face is about as appealing as it sounds. In fairness, the penis is only two inches because it’s a photograph on my best friend’s cell phone, and in real life the guy is considerably well-endowed, but still.

I push the phone out of my face with a grimace. “It is way too early in the day for this.” Ordinarily I’d be able to appreciate the fine specimen of manhood, or laugh, or something, but today it reminds me all too sharply that there is no, uh, in-the-flesh penis in my life anymore.

I drop my head into its spot on the couch, the fabric welcoming me back like a friend. Other than the miserable night I spent bawling my eyes out at Mandy’s—The Night We Shall Not Speak Of, as I’m now calling it—I’ve spent the better part of the last week lying on my dad’s couch sixty miles away from the scene of the crime. I’ve finally managed to mold the cushions into the perfect position for a nap. I wiggle my ear and sigh. The lure of the velvety fabric is way more appealing than getting up to face my new reality: I’m boyfriendless, jobless, and homeless for the first time in four years. Shockingly, morale is not high.

“It’s never too early for a dick pic,” Abigail crows.

I roll my head just enough to glare at her. “You’re insane. Dick pics are, by definition, almost always unsexy and unwanted. So, seeing as the acceptable time to send one is never, it can absolutely be too early for a dick pic.”

“Whatever, party pooper. Either way, it’s five p.m. Rise and shine.”

Last time I checked, the door to my parents’ guesthouse was solidly locked and I was settling in for my second nap of the day. The one good thing about being unemployed and off the grid is that no one expects much of you. It makes it much easier to hide, which is why I’m surprised to see Abigail here today. I know for sure I didn’t give her a key.

“What are you doing here?” I glance around my parents’ guesthouse, trying to determine if Abigail has any coconspirators with her. I can see almost all of the small but stylish domain from the couch. A tiny, gorgeous kitchen just past the front entrance opens up to a living room with a lofted ceiling and exposed wood beams. The L-shaped couch I’m sleeping on is deep, plush, and big enough to fit five people. On the other end of the living room, the house opens up into a bathroom and bedroom. From the look of things, it’s just Abigail here. Thank goodness for small miracles.

“I believe this is called staging an intervention.” Abigail sinks onto the couch next to me, her dark hair spilling around her shoulders. “Your stepmom asked me to come over and make sure you weren’t dead.”

“And you thought my reaction to a boner would determine if I had a pulse?”

“I was working with limited options. It was that or a picture of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.” She pockets her phone with a grin. “I thought the first picture was decidedly more compelling.”

“You know, I always had a thing for Michelangelo.”

“Brawn and a sense of humor,” she agrees.

I groan, realizing she’s dragged me into a conversation despite my desire to go back to sleep. “I’m alive. Now can I go back to wallowing?”

“Nope. It goes against best-friend code.” Abigail wrinkles her nose. “You know, if Gayle’s calling me to come rescue you, things are dire.”

“The beast has a heart?” I’m still a little pissed that my stepmom gave Abigail a key to get in here. When my dad and stepmom had upgraded from their condo to a five-bedroom home with a guesthouse last year, I was the first one to point out the ridiculousness of two people living in four thousand square feet. With my dad’s photographs and Gayle’s antique rugs, the main house feels like people actually live there, but the guesthouse feels like a hotel. It’s all very tastefully decorated but kind of sterile, filled with real designer knickknacks that inspired the Target knockoffs I had in my Boston apartment. I’m not complaining now that I’m the sole occupant of the bungalow out back, but I wish that my parents were more judicious about handing out keys.

“The beast wants you out of her guesthouse,” Abigail corrects. “So up and at ’em.”

“But I’m in a loving and supportive relationship with my pillow.” I wrap my arms around the closest pillow I can find, which isn’t hard given that I have a choice of three throw pillows within arm’s length, and another four at the far end of the couch. The sheer number of throw pillows perched just so on every surface of the house reads like a mission statement: your body will rest comfortably no matter how uncomfortable the rest of your life may be. “I don’t need to be rescued.”

Abigail sighs. “Yes, you do. I know you don’t believe in fairy-tale crap about princes rescuing fair maidens, but I’m not a prince and you’re not a fair maiden, so let’s meet in the middle, okay?”

“Mmf.”

She reaches for my shoulder and squeezes gently. “I know this is extra hard for you. Breakups suck for anyone, but when you have…” Her voice drifts off and she shrugs so I fill in the blanks in my mind.

When you have anxiety. I’ve only ever been wired this way, my nerves constantly on alert like I could be under attack at any minute. But I don’t want it to be an excuse. Feeling things is also what turned me into a writer, what gave me an outlet I love. Anyway, everyone has anxiety every now and then. I just have it more often than most.

My throat gets thick. “Everything that’s not sleeping makes me feel like I’m going to have a panic attack,” I admit quietly.

Abby nods and her look of sympathy almost makes my tears come for real. “Would you get up for coffee?” And there it is, my kryptonite. People say wine cures a lot of ills, but it’s coffee that’s never failed me. Spilled wine is the sneaky bitch that got me into this mess. Or, technically, it’s the sneaky bitch that exposed my life as the sham it really was.

Abigail’s weight shifts off the couch, and a few minutes later the rallying smell of coffee fills the air. Brazilian and Colombian medium roast, specifically, with undercurrents of milk chocolate and fig—because while I will not be drowning my sorrows in Cabernet, I have stocked the pantry in my parents’ guesthouse with top-shelf beans. A bracing cup of espresso is good for the soul.

“Here,” Abigail says a few minutes later. When I sit up, she presses a steaming mug into my hands.

I take a sip and give her a tiny smile over the edge of my cup. “Thank you.” Seeing my best friend in real time instead of on FaceTime is the one unexpected perk of having had to haul my rejected ass back to Swan’s Hollow.

“You’re welcome. Now here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to get in the shower because you smell like ass, and while you do that I’m going to attempt to straighten up this place because I am the best friend ever. And when we’re finished, we’re going to eat some food and then we’re going to get a nice stiff drink.”

“As stiff as that dick you showed me?”

Abigail doubles over as she laughs. “Ladies and gentlemen, the smelly woman has a pulse and a sense of humor.”

I ease my body off the couch and grimace at her. Abigail just bats her eyes at me, the picture of innocence.

I pause, turning in the doorway of the bathroom to face her. “You know I really, really don’t want to go out tonight.”

Abigail throws a pillow in my direction. “Just get in the shower.”

I huff out a sigh and go.