The knocking at my front door was persistent. Yet so was my determination to ignore it. It was the day before Christmas Eve. Christmas Eve Eve as I liked to call it before I was heartbroken and unemployed. Oh, and my best friend was still mad at me.

“Go away, Juney,” I called from a cocoon of blankets, cats, and sadness on my couch.

“How did you know it was me?” my sister yelled through the door.

“You knock four times.”

There was silence from my front porch.

The doors between my place and Bowie’s were, for the first time ever, locked on my side. I’d said my piece in the very nicely written letter, and when he hadn’t replied or acknowledged it, I turned off my phone and locked my doors. Even my cats were starting to avoid me. Every time I walked into a room, Eddie would sprint out, ears down, tail up as if Satan himself had strolled in.

Knock knock knock knock.

“I’m still not answering.”

“Mom told me not to leave until I saw you face-to-face and spent a minimum of ten minutes attempting to assess your mental state.”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to tell me that part.”

“I’ll set a timer,” June offered.

I pulled the blanket over my head until the warm air made me feel like I was suffocating.

Knock knock knock knock.

My options were: 1. Wait her out. Or 2. Let her in.

June Tucker wasn’t necessarily tenacious. But she was literal. If Mom told her not to leave without proof of life and ten minutes of convincing me that the world didn’t suck, she would camp out on my front porch until she froze to death.

Really, I was doing my sisterly duty by saving her from frostbite. Besides, June lacked the ability to communicate empathy, so I wasn’t in danger of being forcefully cheered up. I pushed blankets and cats aside but carried the sadness with me to the door.

June frowned at me. “You look disgusting,” she said, taking in my rat’s nest hair and my rumpled, stained sweats. When a person didn’t have a job or a boyfriend, what did it matter if she spilled SpaghettiOs straight down her sweatshirt? Also what was the point of cleaning it up when there were two cats eager to eat the noodles right off the couch cushion?

“Thanks, Juney,” I sighed, stepping away from the door.

“It wasn’t a compliment. It was a statement of concern.”

“Thank you for your concern.”

“Wait. Stop talking. I want to make sure all this counts.” She pulled out her phone and fiddled around. “Okay. Timer’s set. How are you feeling?”

“Great.”

June eyed me. “Is this one of those sarcastic jokes of yours?”

I face-planted on the couch. “What do you think?” I asked through the pillow.

Everything hurt. Especially that hole in my chest where my heart had been. I’d gone from having everything—Bowie, a great job, a bright future—to nothing but a greasy-haired, Golden Girls rerun-watching cat lady.

The pillow smelled like old SpaghettiOs. I sat up.

My sister glanced around the living room, noting the mound of used tissues. “From the evidence you’re presenting, I feel that you are not great.”

“You’re very observant,” I said dryly. “No, I’m not great. I suck. Everything sucks.” I was horrified by the sudden urge to cry. How did I still have water in my tear ducts? I should have been dehydrated by now.

June frowned. “But isn’t this what you wanted?”

“How is any of this what I wanted?” I blew my nose noisily.

“Didn’t you want to prove that Bowie would hurt you again just like he did when you were in college? Didn’t you also want to prove that Connelly could and would take your job?”

“What are you talking about?”

June nudged a shredded magazine with her foot. I’d ripped the cover off because it promised me seven ways to keep my man.

“It would appear that at least part of you wanted to be right,” June said. Eddie jogged over to her and peered up at her. “Nice kitty.”

“You’re not making any sense,” I accused her.

June looked at her phone. “You thought Bowie could still hurt you. So you proved yourself right. You thought Connelly had it out for you so you let him force you to resign. I thought you’d be happier.”

I laughed. A dry, hacking, humorless cackle that had George giving me the side-eye and waddling further down the couch.

“Do I look happy?”

June peered at me and shook her head. “Definitely not,” she said with confidence.

She took a seat in the armchair I’d bought because it seemed so cheerful with its big blue flowers. Now I kind of hated it.

“What am I going to do, Juney?”

She blinked. “Either fix it or move on,” she said, as if it were that simple.

The timer dinged, and June stood. She held her phone out at arm’s length, and I heard the audible click of her camera.

“Seriously?”

“Proof for Mom.”

“What? Your timer went off. You’re free to go,” I snapped.

“You’re upset. Do you want me to make you some hot tea? Some people find hot beverages soothing.”

It just about broke me. I shook my head. “Thanks, Juney,” I said softly. “But I think I need some time to myself.”

“See you at dinner tomorrow night.” June let herself out and left me in peace.

Only now the solitude had lost its comfort.

I picked up my phone. There were text messages. Several dozen of them. Missed calls, too. But none from Bowie. None from Scarlett.

Was this it? Was this the end of my honorary Bodine membership? Had I lost my job for nothing?

June’s words came back to me, chipping at my head like a woodpecker on a dead tree. Had I done this to myself?

I needed to know, and there was only one person who would tell me the truth. I picked up my phone and dialed. “Hi. I need help.”

Approximately two minutes later, Scarlett burst through my front door. “It’s about damn time!” she announced, lugging a cardboard box with her. “I’ve been circling your block for two hours waiting!”

“Waiting for what?”

“You to ask for help.” She started unloading the box. The takeout food was followed by a new hoodie, fleecy pants, and two pre-packaged face masks.

“You forgive me?” I asked.

“All I wanted is for you to stop trying to do everything your damn self. You asked for help. I’m here. That’s what friends are for. I love you, Cass.”

“He hasn’t called, Scar,” I confessed, my eyes watering like I was cutting an onion. “No texts. I think this is the end.”

“Neither one of you has ever done the long-term, forever and ever with someone before. There’s bound to be a few bumps along the way.”

“I took Bowie to the wrecked car your mom died in.”

She sat on the couch and heaved George into her lap. “In the course of your investigation to prove our daddy innocent and save our family from public scrutiny,” she insisted.

I dragged my hands through my hair and winced when they got stuck. I really needed to shower.

“It’s my job to be impartial,” I said stubbornly.

Scarlett rolled her eyes. “You can’t be tellin’ me to my face that you believe that you have to conduct yourself as a cop in your personal life. Because that, my friend, is bull-fucking-shit and you know it.”

It was a cop-out—ha—and I was well aware. I’d deliberately kept my opinion from the man that I loved, an opinion that might have offered him the slightest bit of comfort. Worse, I’d done it because I hadn’t trusted him or myself.

“Look, I’m not saying you didn’t make a mess of things. But so did Bow. Y’all are to blame and it’s gonna take both of you to fix it.”

“I don’t think Bowie wants to fix it. He told me this is just a fight and that it’s not a break-up, but he’s shutting me out. But I don’t know if he changed his mind and broke up with me without telling me.”

“Let me ask you this. How important is your pride?” Scarlett asked.

I gave a hapless shrug. “I don’t know if I have any left.”

“You let Bowie walk away from you when you were nineteen.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but Scarlett held up George’s paw. “Uh-uh. You wanted him. You probably had an idea that he was lying to you. And you still let him go. Are you going to let him go this time or are you going to put it all on the line?”

“What if he doesn’t want to be with me?” I asked. Nerves danced through my system, making me feel more scared than sad. Purposely putting myself out there, opening myself up to be devastated?

“Then he’s a dumbass, but at least you would have put forth maximum effort. You wouldn’t be living with any of those ‘what ifs.’ What if you tried one last time? What if you told him how you felt? What if you made him tell you how he felt? You could close the door on all of those things.”

“When did you get so wise?” I asked as she tore open the to-go food containers.

“When Devlin taught me how to grow the hell up a little bit. Now, let’s eat, watch some Arrested Development, and give ourselves facials.”

“I love you, Scarlett. I may not tell you often enough. But you’re the best friend a girl could have.”

“And don’t you forget it. Now, do you want the charcoal mask or the hologram unicorn mask?”