Three mornings in a row, I’ve woken up to find a text from Levi from the previous night. He’s a night owl, whereas I go to bed early and wake earlier. Anticipation has me waking even earlier today, anxious to see what he’s sent.

My cheeks burn with a smile. If someone were to tell me a guy had sent them these messages, I’d probably find it cheesy or strange, but receiving them—receiving them from Levi—makes it impossible for me to care.

I remain in the warmth of my bed, enjoying this moment. I consider what to say in reply. Flirting became easier in person, but typing the words out seems next to impossible. Every time I think of something cute or flirty to say, it seems completely ridiculous and immature once I see it on the screen. Clearly the tech age was not made for those of us who can’t think of hilarious hashtags and worry about their words coming across in the wrong manner.

I eventually roll out of bed with the hopes I’ll think of something creative to say to him while I get ready when my phone beeps with another text. It’s from Jamie, a woman I was friends with who moved away a couple of years ago and whom I’ve lost touch with.

Panic sits heavily on my chest. In the months since Gabe and I broke up, I’ve only received a handful of messages that contained condolences, and they all came within the first couple of weeks. I assumed it was because I never came forward and shared the news—instead, I avoided it by removing my relationship status on social media accounts and ignoring messages that were intended for both of us. I’d stripped all the pictures of him from every account of my history, including the ones in print, because I stopped wanting him back or even considering him asking to come back within a few weeks of our breakup. It wasn’t because I was strong. It derived from stubbornness and refusal to allow someone an opportunity to hurt me more than once.

My thumb twitches over my keyboard as I consider how I can ask how she found out without sounding like I care.

I read her message twice—and then twice more before I set my phone down and leave to shower. The hot spray doesn’t help subdue my tension. Rather, my muscles grow tenser, my stress intensifying as though my thoughts are tangible objects, feeding off the water and my concerns and embarrassment.

I towel off in a haze, consumed with variations of what to tell others if I receive more random messages. It hasn’t been a thought for weeks, and I hate that I’m focusing on it now.

“Shit!” I hiss, noticing the late hour on my phone. I’d intended to be at work by now in an effort to get some things done before having to head to the city to meet with Catherine’s son. I pull on the dark skinny jeans and loose tee I’d picked out and dart back to my room to dispose of my dirty laundry and find my cotton blazer and heels. I wade through the clothes, finding a golden cuff bracelet stuck to a hanger I’d thought I’d left behind. I grab it and quickly put it on before I resume my hunt. Because we make our own hours, I’m not necessarily late, but I’ve made a habit of arriving before Catherine. It’s necessary for my sanity because as soon as she arrives, she spends the first thirty minutes or more of her day in my office, complaining about something or other. And though I’m not ready to admit it yet to Levi or even Felicity, I’ve been distracted lately with thinking of new things I want to discover for my blog, Tales of Being Single, and even more so by Levi.

I spend another thirty seconds shuffling through a small Tupperware I’d poured my jewelry into. I pull on a long drop necklace and return to the bathroom to brush my teeth and apply as much makeup as I can in two minutes. I feel sloppy, my hair still wet, caked with product so my curls don’t become a frizzy mess. The collar of my shirt is off-center, and the sleeves of my blazer are creased from previously having been rolled.

I take a deep breath and stare at my reflection.

“Gabe doesn’t define me. This breakup doesn’t define me.” I roll the cuffs of my blazer, straighten my shirt, and grab my hair dryer, taking a few extra minutes so I can leave the house feeling slightly more in control.

When I arrive at work, Catherine’s parking spot is still empty. I make my way inside and past Andrea with a smile that’s only moderately forced. The text from Levi distracted me, and my attempt to flirt with him took too much time. But it was the message from Jamie that completely derailed my morning, but I refuse to allow it to take more of my time, thoughts, or energy. I take a seat at my desk and grab my phone, intent on sending Levi a message and forging through today with a better mindset.

I pause and then erase the word “first” because it comes across sounding almost virginal.

Then I send a message to Felicity.

I take a deep breath and glance at my phone a final time to ensure I don’t have any messages from Levi, Jamie, or any other ghosts from my past. I set it aside and get a solid hour of work in before Catherine comes in. She’s wearing a deep-cut black dress and a pair of heels that defy her age.

“I should have gone to school to be a meteorologist,” she says. “No one else can be wrong so often and still keep their job.” Catherine snatches a tissue from the corner of my desk and wipes the wet grass from the side of her shoe. “It’s nearly summer. Why is it raining?”

Loaded statement followed by a loaded question equals the recipe for a particularly persnickety Catherine. I carefully lace up my proverbial ballet shoes and attempt to dance over the landmines I sense. “You look great. If you need a spare umbrella, I have a couple behind my door. Feel welcome to help yourself.”

She sighs, stretching a hand across her flat abdomen. “I have a meeting today with that man who came in to discuss a work party on a boat. Obviously, I need to suggest Lake Michigan.”

I stare at her, waiting to hear the issue, knowing the attractive owner and her concerns of making this proposal perfect are what’s causing her particularly bad mood.

“But the coastline of Lake Michigan off of Illinois is awful,” Catherine says dismissively. “I never go because it’s disgusting. Diapers and trash and beer cans are everywhere.” She shudders. “Do I try to convince him of something else? A nice terrace event? Renting out a jazz bar?”

I shrug. “He seemed determined to have a boat party when we met, but I’ve met plenty of brides and grooms who’ve thought they knew what they wanted and didn’t.”

She lowers her chin, clearly not appreciating my answer. “Are you telling me I should offer him something else?”

I open my bottom desk drawer and thumb through several files before pulling one free and handing it to her. “My approach would be to suggest this company if he’d like to do a small cruise ship. I’ve worked with them several times for weddings, and they’re very professional. They’re a little further north, above Oak, so you don’t see most of the trash that follows the tides. Also, I’d mention it, but he and others likely already know about the beaches and might even realize it looks a hundred times better than it did ten years ago. But I’m sure he’ll be impressed to hear a couple of other options that you casually suggest in an effort to provide him with alternatives.” My tone reflects that of one I use when speaking with a client: concise yet kind.

Catherine opens the folder and scans the contents before looking back at me, the corner of her lips teased with a smile. “And you’re meeting my son today at noon, right?”

I nod. “I am.”

She nods in return and then takes the file and strides toward my door, stopping before she makes it all the way out. “By the way, how are things going with the Gilbert wedding?”

I know she’s searching for her authority. It always follows instances when I help her resolve a problem. The Gilbert wedding has essentially become another event of mine, though Selena will ultimately receive credit and compensation for it.

“We were able to pull a few strings, and the venue is officially booked. Invitations are ordered, food is booked, and they’re doing cake tasting on Friday. Selena sent samples of flowers over yesterday, and as soon as that decision is made, we’ll start ironing out the final details.”

Catherine looks both relieved and disappointed. Sometimes, I’m pretty certain she’s hoping I’ll tell her I’ve failed. “And how are you doing?” she asks, confusing me. In nearly ten years of working together, I can’t recall a time she’s bothered to ask me how I am. I don’t mind. Catherine’s not someone I’d give an honest answer to anyway. A boxed and common answer like “well” is all I’d give her, as I do now.

She glances at my desk. “And things with the breakup?”

I sit forward, resentful the idea of Gabe still has an effect on me, especially when I went through this rigmarole this morning. A fake smile pulls my lips northward as I shake my head. “We’re both much happier.” I’m shocked how convincing I sound. Maybe it’s actually true. I haven’t put much thought into it. For so long, I’ve worked to be happy, but now that I finally don’t have to remind myself to be happy, am I actually happier? Happier than what? Did I ever measure my happiness before this breakup?

“Good.” With a curt nod, Catherine turns and disappears down the hall and out of sight.

I lean back in my chair and consider her question again. Measuring happiness seems impossible. Too much has changed in my life for there to be any level of comparison.

I leave the office twenty minutes before I need to, saving the time to call Grammy and make plans for the weekend. The rain has stopped, but gray clouds darken the sky.

“Hello?” She answers after the fifth ring. It’s what she does. Grammy refuses to get caller ID, and therefore she waits until the last ring before the answering machine picks up, hoping that if it’s a telemarketer, they will have hung up.

“Hey, Grams. How are you?”

“Brooke, honey, how are you?”

“I asked you first.”

She chuckles, and there’s a slight background noise. “I’m fine, dear. Just got out and swept the back porch.”

I’d tell my seventy-nine-year-old grandma she shouldn’t be doing that, but she’d threaten to wring my neck if I did. “It’s warm out today,” I tell her instead.

“Feels good. The humidity and the mosquitoes haven’t come out yet.”

“This is true.”

“Now, tell me how you are. How are things going at Felicity’s? I bet they enjoy having you around.”

Irrational or not, guilt swims through my thoughts. I lived with Grammy from the time I was ten until I was twenty, and to have chosen not to live with her now makes me feel as though I’m betraying her for taking care of me for so long. “Things are going really well, but I was calling in hopes that I could come and stay with you this weekend. I don’t want to intrude, so if you have plans—”

“Child, hush,” she tells me. “You’ve been on this planet for nearly thirty years now, and if you haven’t yet learned that you’re always welcome round here, then I didn’t teach you a thing.”

“I just don’t want to impose.”

“When have you ever imposed?”

Lately, it feels like all I’ve been doing is imposing. But that’s just one more thing I don’t mention. “Do you want me to stop at the store and pick anything up?”

“Just bring yourself,” Grammy says.

“All right, well, if you think of anything, let me know. Today and tomorrow are going to be pretty busy, but I should be able to get out of the office by lunchtime.”

“Good. That way you won’t run into too much traffic. I’ll call your brother and see if they can come for dinner on Friday. It’s been several weeks since we’ve all gotten together.”

It’s actually been longer, not since my breakup with Gabe—we haven’t even discussed getting together. “That would be nice.”

“Okay, dear. Well, I’ll see you Friday, then.”

“See you Friday. Love you.”

“Love you, too, sweetie.” She hangs up, and I wipe an errant tear from my cheek. Its presence is as random as it is unwelcome. I’m done with crying and don’t have any idea where it’s derived from. Whether it’s guilt for choosing to stay with Felicity, or because my breakup with Gabe has impacted so many people, or possibly because sometimes while talking to Grammy I still feel like I’m a child.

I glance into the rearview mirror, checking my makeup and searching for that confidence Felicity keeps telling me I possess.