I stare up at the peaked ceiling of the living room in the guesthouse, watching a spiderweb flutter in the breeze. I’m not exactly sure if a spider in the middle of Gayle’s spotless house could have ever caught a fly, but one way or another, the web is abandoned now. At least, no one’s come to claim it in the fifteen minutes I’ve been lying on the couch.

If Abigail could see me now she’d categorize my current condition as “Wallowing, Stage Two. Minus showers.” In the two days since I walked away from Jackson, I’ve reclaimed my spot on the couch, and the idea of being up and active makes me cringe. It’s been hard enough to breathe—why bother asking my body to do anything else?

As I twirl a strand of unwashed hair around my fingers, my phone buzzes with an alert. I reach for it warily, but it’s not a text message on the screen. It’s another lube sale. My grand total so far? Six bottles sold.

Thank you, Penchant. Let’s keep it up.

The feeling of temporary success is enough to launch me off the couch. Six times $19.95. It’s not nearly enough to pay for the whole shipment, but it’s a start and that’s all I need right now. Anyway, I can’t let this panicky feeling win. If I want this independent life for myself, I need to claim it.

This idea for Penchant, it was a good one. No matter how many times I’ve told myself that, no matter how many times I’ve checked my numbers to make sure that, yes, people actually buy a ton of lube, nothing makes it quite as real as seeing some orders come in.

There are real people buying my products. Real people who are going to use them. I may not be using my products with Jackson, but at least someone’s benefitting from them. And that validation feels damn good.

I sweep my hair into a bun and grab the key to Jackson’s place. Time to cut the final ties. It needs to be done.

But when I step in front of his apartment door the world tilts and leaves me reeling. There’s a chip on his front door, a tiny scratch just below the 203 that I never noticed before tonight, and when I see it, it gives me pause. Was the damage always there? Did I just miss it every time Jackson and I came in together, too absorbed in the magic of him to pay attention? Or is it new, created in the time since I’ve been gone?

There’s no use wondering about these things, not with so much else happening, but I touch my thumb to the gouge before I push open the door. It’s the tiniest scrape, but I still feel it under my skin.

My footsteps echo as I walk into Jackson’s darkened apartment. I shiver—it feels colder with him gone. Thanks to his last text message, I know he isn’t here, but until my breath rushes out of me in a long stream, I didn’t realize I’d been halfway expecting to see him.

So.

A case of lube waits for me on the coffee table, just as Jackson promised. So far I’ve smuggled a few bottles of lube into the guesthouse so I could send them off to bloggers and other customers, and Jackson shipped the rest of the packaged lot to Amazon’s trusty warehouses. This case, though, was too big to hide from Gayle, and Jackson agreed to keep it for me until today. Tomorrow I’ll drive it to Boston for its official debut at Aphrodite’s Closet.

I heft the case of lube onto my hip and leave a check on the coffee table in its place. The check amount is most of my Holy Grounds earnings, aside from what I’d used to pay the deposit on my new apartment. I can’t stand the idea of owing Jackson anything, not after this, even though he’d told me I could pay him back whenever we recouped our initial investment. This check should be the last business tie I’ll have with him, and that, at least, feels like the independence I’d wanted.

In a week, my little two-bedroom in Coolidge Corner will be ready for me and Mandy to move in. It even has the perfect corner for Precious, who’s looking better every day. I have no idea how I’m going to get a pallet of lube inside, but that’s a problem for a different day. Hopefully by the time I move in, I’ll be making livable money off of Penchant and be back to a writing schedule. But with the heavy box in my arms, all I feel is empty. The $119.70 from earlier feels like pennies right now. Does every win have to be undercut by the sadness of losing Jackson? I’ve got what I came for but it still feels like a loss.

I glance around the room one more time, saying goodbye to all the spaces I’ve come to know. Then I gently place his key on top of my check. After tonight I probably won’t be back in Jackson’s house, in his bed. A wave of emotion rips over me, everything stinging all at once. The feeling of nervousness for tomorrow, the feeling of saying goodbye to someone who isn’t here. It’s not a matter of whether or not I could have loved him, because I did. I do. It’s a matter of whether or not that’s good for me. And in my mind, I can’t make the math work.

It was always going to come down to this—to Jackson and me going our separate ways—and even though it was my choice to walk away, it hurts more than I could have imagined. Why did I have to go past the point of no return with him and my fragile little heart? I should have stopped before I started, because now I know what it means to have lost him twice. It’s more than twice as bad.

By the time I get home my muscles ache and I feel like I’m treading water. I set down the case of lube on my kitchen table, catching sight of my nails. Crap. The last week of packing has not been kind to my hands and, well, they look like I’ve packed a few thousand bottles of lube. I want to walk into Honey’s shop tomorrow looking like I deserve to be there. Maybe a little self-care in the form of painted nails is just the thing.

I dig a bottle of pale pink polish from my toiletry bag and sit on the couch to apply it. If Gayle could see me now, an open bottle poised next to her precious furniture, she’d probably have a heart attack. All the more reason to enjoy this.

I paint each nail and then glance around the living room. I should have turned on the TV or some music or something. Sitting alone with wet nails, the world feels quiet and huge, and I finally realize what I’m doing: Leaving Jackson’s life. Closing the door behind me.

When it hits me, the ice I’ve formed to get me through the last few weeks melts all at once. I go straight past the numb stage to the point where the feeling floods back into my chest again. It feels like pain. It feels like sadness. It feels like something crushing and huge, like the biggest mistake I might have made and also the most important.

I’m not surprised when I start to cry. I’m mostly surprised that I cannot stop.