The tears are so unexpected and excessive that even I’m surprised by them. I stand there helpless, trying to stop and failing at that as miserably as I’ve been failing at everything else.

I’ve never been one of those girls who can cry prettily—I’m one of those who whoops and sniffles and gets all blotchy and gross-looking. So poor Ryan is confronted with not only a hysterical female, but a horrifying one, as well.

Fortunately, I have excellent taste in assistants; Ryan is an extremely competent young man. In short order, he produces a box of tissues and a glass of cold water, and sits me down on the little loveseat in his office. We decided to buy it last year so that people waiting to see me would have a comfy place to sit. At the time, obviously, I had no idea it would come in handy for my as-yet-unimagined nervous breakdown.

“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I just had a very bad weekend.”

“It’s really none of my business, of course,” Ryan says, “but do you want to talk about it?”

“I slept with my ex.”

Maybe I should have told Ben. I’m certainly telling everyone else.

The corners of Ryan’s mouth turn down. “Ew.”

“I know it was really stupid, you don’t have to tell me I’m an idiot—”

He cuts me off. “Hey, I had no intention of telling you any such thing. You’re not an idiot.”

“Well, you looked—”

“I’m just surprised. I thought he was engaged.”

I take a sip of water, then set the glass on the side table. “They broke up. I actually don’t want to tell the whole story again; I’m sure you get the gist.”

“And … did it not go well?”

“Honestly?” I put my head in my hands and blow out a lungful of air. “I don’t even know how to answer that.”

“‘Well, Ryan, it was spectacular,’” he says. “Or ‘Well, Ryan, I would have rather been doing laundry.’ Like that.”

I smile a little, and I’m grateful to him for causing it. “Well, Ryan, I would rather have been doing just about anything.”

He nods. “Yeah, I thought as much. What with the crying and self-recrimination.”

“It was just so stupid.” I look over at him. “Listen, seriously: can I just be straight with you? Now that I’ve cried all over you and told you my most shameful secret to date?”

“Have at,” he says.

He reaches for the trashcan beside the loveseat and holds it out; I drop my wad of tissues in there and press my fingers against my eyes. No more. I pick up my water again and take a long drink.

“I didn’t want to be there,” I say, “and I don’t even feel like I was there for most of it. My head was off somewhere else entirely.”

He squints at me. “Do you think he—” He mimes pouring something into my glass of water.

“Oh, God no.” I shake my head vehemently, and set the glass back down. “He would never. No, I was just being a moron. I wish I could blame someone else.”

“You’re not a moron. You did something that a lot of people do, even people who are smart enough to know better. You’re not the first person to fall into bed with an ex.” He pats me awkwardly on the back. He doesn’t seem any more comfortable than I am, but here we are. “It’s only been a year, and he still had a hold on you.”

“Not any more,” I say, and I mean it. I really, truly mean it. I don’t care if I never see him again. He’s dead to me. “Lesson learned, never to be repeated.”

“Well, since I’m an overprotective and, when necessary, violent friend, I could also offer to beat his ass if that was something you wanted. You can watch or whatever. It’ll be great.”

“That won’t be necessary,” I say, but the offer makes me feel immeasurably better.

“Hey, don’t hurry to make a decision one way or the other,” he says. “I never liked that guy anyway.”

“Yeah, well,” I say, taking a deep breath, “sad as I am to admit it, he didn’t do anything this weekend that I didn’t walk right into with my eyes open. Open but unseeing, of course. My specialty.”

“It’s the worst, isn’t it?” he says, and he sounds really sympathetic.

“Being your own worst enemy?” I ask. “Yes.”

“Been there, believe me.” He holds out the wastebasket again.

I drop the crumpled tissues into it, then take a deep, shuddery breath.

“Okay, back to work,” I say. “Soldiering ever onward.”

He puts the wastebasket back in its spot beside the loveseat and nods. “Ever onward. But”—and here he looks thoughtful for a second—“you know what’s funny?”

“Absolutely nothing about this situation?” I suggest.

“Well, yes, but also … the thing is, I thought you might be starting to move on. With Mitch.”

Oh, hell. So much for ever onward. I collapse under a fresh wave of tears, and Ryan supplies a fresh round of tissues.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m so sorry. I don’t cry. I never cry. I don’t even know what’s happening.”

He holds the wastebasket out again; I drop in another wad of tissues. Deep breaths.

“I shouldn’t have brought him up,” Ryan says. “You were doing admirably well, all things considered.”

“It’s okay,” I say, “but I really don’t want to talk about Mitch. I can’t even think about Mitch. I was supposed to see a movie with him Saturday, and I just … I just looked at him and—” Ah, well. In for a penny, in for a pound. “I looked at him and I knew Drew wasn’t what I wanted anymore. I figured it out just a little too late.”

“Ah, hell,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

I pick up my water, take a sip. “He’s upset with me about it, I could tell. I’m sure he thinks I was stupid, and I’m lucky I didn’t get a big lecture from him—”

“Wait, what?” Ryan leans back, looks at me with his eyebrows raised. “Mitch knows about this?”

“Yeah.” I fight off tears again—successfully this time. “I told him about it when we went to the movies.”

He’s looking at me like I’ve taken complete leave of my senses. “You went on a date with Mitch and told him—”

“It wasn’t a date.”

“Yes, it was. Do you even know any guys?”

“What?” I can’t follow him at all. “I know lots of guys.”

“Well, you wouldn’t know it by this,” he says. “You don’t do that to a guy.”

“He agreed that we’re just friends. He said that was for the best.”

“I don’t care what he said; you go out to the movies with a girl you like, and that’s a date. And then she tells you about banging some other dude—”

“It wasn’t a date. He doesn’t like me that way anymore,” I insist. “And I didn’t tell him about it … well, I kind of did.”

He just looks at me.

“Yeah, I guess I told him pretty much everything.”

Ryan shakes his head. “I know I’m overstepping here, but you’re an idiot.”

“You said I wasn’t!” I’m indignant.

“Not about that, about this.” He takes my glass of water and sets it aside, then grabs me by the shoulder and looks directly into my eyes. “Listen to me, because this is important: I can guarantee, 100 percent, Mitch did not want you to tell him you had sex with your ex.”

“Well, he asked what was wrong.”

Ryan just shakes his head again. “Seriously, have you ever, even once, met a guy?”

“Stop saying that. I know guys.”

“What did he do when you told him?”

“Well, he looked kind of …” I trail off, thinking about Mitch’s face: jaw clenched, eyes focused on Lafayette Street.

“Mad?” Ryan says.

“Furious,” I say quietly.

“And then what happened?”

“He said he had somewhere to be,” I say. “But I know he didn’t.”

“Of course he didn’t.”

“And then he looked like he wanted to say something, and then he left.”

Ryan sighs. There’s a lot of sympathy in that sigh, but then he says, “I can’t believe you needed me to explain this to you.”

“I just—” I stop, start again. “He asked. And I didn’t stop to think how it might make him feel.” I turn my hands, palms-up, as if to say What was I supposed to do? “I asked him if he was mad at me, and he said no, so what am I supposed to do now?”

“I don’t think mad would even be the right word for what he is right now. He’s crazy about you, Jenna.”

“Don’t say that,” I wail, and he hands me some more tissues, but I don’t need them. I’m not even sad any more. I’m just angry. At Drew, for being selfish. At Mitch, for not telling me he was upset. At me, for being completely, totally, all-the-way the biggest dumbass on the entire island of Manhattan.

And probably the other four boroughs, too.

“It’s just the truth,” Ryan says. “He brought you a damn picnic.”

“See, that was after we agreed just to be friends. It was a just friends picnic. He’s fine with it.”

Ryan snorts. “He is not fine with it. He is lying to you—and I will admit, possibly to himself—about this.”

“Well, I’m not a mind-reader, am I?” I scowl at him. “I can only go by what he says, and if he said he was fine being friends, what am I supposed to do? Assume that every man I come in contact with wants to date me?”

“You can’t tell me he’s never acted interested, or put the moves on you.”

I close my eyes and try not to think about it. I wish I could think about anything else. “He kissed me once.”

“But you’re just friends.”

“I decided—we decided—after that happened. And there’s been nothing since.” I scowl. “He said it was fine. If it wasn’t really, but he said he was? That part’s not my fault.”

Ryan nods a little. “Fair enough. But you’re still dumb to have believed it.”

“I know.”

We sit in silence for a moment, then he says, “What did you mean when you said you realized Drew wasn’t what you wanted?”

I shrug a little. It’s too much, and I actually wish I hadn’t said that part. Especially now that it’s too late.

“Well, did you mean you gained some clarity and you want to be on your own for a while?” He lifts his eyebrows at me. “Or did you realize you don’t want Drew anymore because you want something else?”

I wish Kari were here. She wouldn’t have to ask—she would know—so I wouldn’t have to say it out loud.

“I saw him there, waiting for me? And I thought—I mean, I made myself not think it, but for a second I thought about how we might have had a shot at something, and then … this business. I ruined it.”

“So how do you feel about him?”

Tears threaten, a little, but blinking gets rid of them. “I think … I think I really like him.” I nod. It feels right, when I say it. “I think I don’t want to be just friends anymore. I’m not sure I ever really did. But now it’s obviously way too late.”

“Maybe,” Ryan says. “Maybe not.”

“He was pretty upset.”

“Well, of course he was. But do you want him?”

“I think I do.”

He raises his eyebrows at me again. “You’re going to have to do better than that.”

“Yes,” I say. “I do.”

“Well, then,” he says, patting my knee. “You’re going to have to do some serious chasing.”

“I don’t know how. Can you help me?”

And that, right there, is the most pathetic thing I’ve ever said in my whole life.

Fortunately, Ryan is nothing if not helpful. “Of course I can.”