I pull up to Felicity’s house and once again find myself questioning trivial details like where I should park. Both she and Dan always insist I park in the driveway when I visit, allowing me a shorter journey and insurance of safety, though their suburban neighborhood is the very definition of safe, lined with double sidewalks, dotted with large maple trees that are beginning to bud as the days grow longer, populated by comfortable homes that all show signs of life and family. I opt to park on the street since I’ve never stayed overnight except for after Felicity had the kids and I slept over for a few nights to help with cooking, cleaning, and allowing them both to catch catnaps. But then their van had been parked in the garage and I had been helping them—not temporarily moving in because my boyfriend was a lying cheat.

The next-door neighbor steps out as I close the door and reach for the handle of my back passenger door. “Hi, Brooke!”

“Hi, Mrs. Christiansen.” My heart thrums, preparing for her line of questions.

“How are you, dear?” Using her cane, she slowly moves up the walk to where it meets the sidewalk and continues closer.

My stomach twists and knots, and the back of my neck heats. “I’m well, thanks. How are you?”

Rather than continue toward me, she heads to her mailbox. “We might be in for an early spring,” she says. “I just hope it doesn’t mean an early summer. I’m not ready for the mosquitoes.” She gathers the contents of her mailbox, then closes it as she smiles at me. “You have a good evening, dear.” And then she shuffles back toward her house.

I sigh, leaning against my car until my breathing evens out. She doesn’t care about my love life. She has no idea I’m moving in, and if she does, she won’t care. She lost her husband twenty years ago; I doubt she’d find my situation to be the tragedy I’m feeling lost in.

With another deep breath, I heft open the door and fill my arms with clothes before striding toward the house. I wrestle my keys from my purse as my feet voice their discomfort from the restrictive leather of my favorite heels. That woman in the parking lot of my apartment building flashes through my thoughts. Her leggings, sweatshirt, and tennis shoes are more tempting than a glass of wine right now.

I struggle for only a few moments before the door clicks open, and I shove thoughts of clothes and shoes and wine aside as my shoulders fall with the reality of my situation. Affording an apartment by myself near my old apartment is out of the question. Chicago is too expensive even for the wage I receive with my job at Glitter and Gold. Time, experience, and the fact that my events generate a high percentage of new clients have me earning what would be a comfortable salary in a smaller city.

Unlike the walls of my apartment, which were artfully decorated with rare pieces of art Gabe and I had procured over the years, Felicity’s house is covered in frames and stretched canvases that are filled with pictures of their family. Smiles, laughter, hugs, filthy feet, and dancing paint a colorful collage of memories that make her house feel warm and comfortable yet foreign because they’re pictures of her family and her life, and though I’ve always been a part of it, I suddenly feel like an interloper.

I swallow my discomfort and head up the stairs to the guest room, and as Felicity promised, the room is clean, the bed freshly made, and a clean set of folded towels is waiting for me. I drop the pile of clothes on the end of the bed and peer around. It’s amazing how twenty-four hours can make everything look so different.

I manage to get the contents of my car into the guest room and pizzas ordered before Felicity and the kids arrive home. Dan arrives as we’re setting the table, and once again my neck feels hot, my heartbeat erratic. Dan began dating Felicity when she moved back home nine years ago. I like him and have always felt comfortable around him, yet embarrassment clings to me like a second skin as he offers me a warm smile, the edges of his lips dipped into a frown, revealing his sympathy. I look away because there are few things crueler than pity.

Theo and Gemma smile broadly at me from their booster seats, vying for my attention. They’re used to my presence, but I’m still waiting on pins and needles to confirm my new reality. But tonight, they’re preoccupied with telling me stories about their favorite cartoons and what they’ve recently learned about butterflies at the museum.

After dinner, Dan retrieves an unopened bottle of wine and two glasses that he sets between Felicity and me. Then he helps Theo out of his seat. “Bath time,” he announces.

“I want Mommy to come,” Gemma says.

“Tonight, Mommy is going to spend some time with Aunt Books.” Dan reaches for Gemma’s small hand. “And because Mommy won’t be there to measure the bubbles, I’ll need your help. And we just might accidentally add a little extra tonight.”

Her five-year-old body bounces with glee as she claps, trotting off without a second thought. Dan looks back as he reaches the doorway and winks before disappearing with both kids.

My chest feels warm, expanding with the clear devotion and love Dan once again shows. He exemplifies the perfect husband and father, and I’m grateful my best friend has found what love is supposed to be about. Someone who will put her and their children first and works hard every day to both show and tell them how much he cares. The warmth in my chest becomes an ache as I think back over the years of watching the two together: his hand on Felicity’s lap, his lips at her hairline, the flowers that would randomly be delivered for no particular reason. It takes a few seconds to recognize the ache is jealousy, wondering if I’ll ever find someone who will call in sick to take care of me or let me sleep in every Saturday morning while he quietly plays with the kids downstairs and makes my favorite breakfast.

“You okay?” Felicity asks.

My attention cuts to her blue eyes that are carefully assessing me. “Gabe’s mom texted me today,” I tell her. “She wanted to know what I want for my birthday.”

Felicity’s eyebrows jump with surprise. “What did you tell her?” Her voice is pitched.

I shake my head. “I didn’t respond.”

“I wouldn’t have either.”

“She was pretty,” I admit, dropping my gaze to my plate, where my vegetable pizza still sits. “The woman he’s been having an affair with.”

“No, she’s not,” Felicity says. “At least not in the way it counts. Her heart and her soul have to be hideous to do what she did.”

“Or maybe he just loves her more.”

Felicity shakes her head, refusing to even entertain the idea. She stands and moves to the stove, where she opens a drawer and withdraws a corkscrew that she carries with her to the table and begins opening the bottle. The cork pops, and Felicity carefully untwists it, her gaze focused on me. “This breakup does not reflect on you at all. He made a mistake. Regardless of what his feelings were, he didn’t handle things correctly. Period. There is no competition between you and this other woman—here never was. Don’t allow yourself to fall down that rabbit hole. He’s not worth making you question and doubt yourself.”

She grips my hands when my eyes again fall to the table again. “Brooke, you are gorgeous, smart, successful, and you did nothing wrong.” She dips her chin to follow my gaze when I start to look away, waiting until I meet her stare. “Nothing”—she emphasizes the word—“wrong or anything to deserve what he did. Don’t wear his burden.”

I nod. “You’re right. I know you’re right. It’s just so much more difficult than I could’ve imagined.”

“I know,” she says, squeezing my hands. “But you’re going to get through this, and things will get better. I don’t know if everything happens for a reason, but I do know that everything we experience teaches us something. Prepares us in some way to experience more. This might not have been the plan, but sometimes the fallback can be even better. I mean, look at me. If I’d stayed at school in Boston, I never would have met Dan. It’s difficult to see the positive side of this right now, but eventually we’ll see it.”

“Did Barney teach you that?” I ask with a grin.

Felicity pulls her chin back. “Hell no. Barney would advise you to go hug Gabe and tell him everything’s okay. I still think we should take everything in the apartment and burn it … or at least trash the place.”

I laugh—it’s real and genuine. Felicity grins and releases my hand, reaching for the bottle of wine. She fills both of our glasses to the top and then raises her class in the air. “To moving on,” she says.

“To moving on.” I clink my glass with hers and then sit back in my chair, letting the memories of yesterday and my time with Gabe drain through a fine sieve, depositing thoughts and images of him into a cellar I vow to avoid.

I will move on.

I will be okay.