The sound of the door closing echoes throughout my empty house as I came barreling inside slamming the door behind me. Claudette, was checking her mail when I pulled into the driveway. Seeing her is always a painful reminder of what I lost a year ago.

Violent flashes of catching her and Chris on our brand new couch surrounded by unopened wedding presents occur every time I see her. Being my neighbor makes it impossible to ignore her. A normal day of being the neighbor of the woman who helped destroy my future is agonizing enough; today it bumped up to excruciating.

As soon as I kicked Chris the curb I tried to sell the house. A place we shared during our two year long engagement that Chris let me keep since he was the one to ruin our relationship.

For one thing it was too large and impractical for one person. For a more personal reason, Claudette was an eyesore. Lucky for me, the cheating whore next door was not something you have to disclose. Unfortunately, the housing market, like everything else in my life, was not on my side. Unless I’m willing to take a significant financial hit, selling the house is in the way distant future.

My feet take me straight to the kitchen and once there my hands take over, opening a bottle of wine. Ice cream isn’t strong enough after enduring a disastrous date and seeing Claudette.

Today I need something stronger.

My phone dings and I unearth it out of my purse. It’s another plea from Maria asking me to give Matters of the Heart a chance.

“What the hell can it hurt?” I ask emptying the bottle of wine into my glass.

My fingers itch to hit the website link, just to peek. Not sure if I should blame the wine or Maria’s insistence, I press it and watch in horror as the website pulls up. I reach for my wine glass without taking my eyes off the loading site. Draining the remainder of the alcohol, I continue to stare.

“It looks professional enough,” I mutter to myself, and it does.

For some reason I expected the website to be full of cheese, complete with cartoon hearts and cupids whizzing around. Instead it appears well organized, breaking down individual forums where people can seek help from their peers or from experts the website boasted about employing.

My fingers took off in a flurry before I was able to think about what I was doing. I pour my heart out, explaining everything that happened to me in the past year. All the gritty heart-breaking details about Chris’ betrayal and our broken engagement went flying out and landing on the screen.

On a roll, I add my dad’s wrong doing to my mom and the devastation I felt as a young teen. Ending my rant with my parents begging me to listen to Chris and mend our broken relationship. I left nothing out and by the time I finish tears run down my cheeks.

My body shakes as the adrenaline courses through it. This poor website just received years of pent up emotional turmoil. As I wipe the tears now drying on my face away I press send, letting my cathartic ramblings about bad times gone worse zip through the world wide web and into what I hope to be an experts inbox.

Your message has been sent, appears on my phone screen and I sigh deeply. The process of writing my tragic story of love eased the weight sitting over my heart. I decide right there at my kitchen table with an empty bottle of wine perched on it, that even if I didn’t get the life changing advice the website advertised the liberating feeling of releasing my story was enough.

Feeling lighter than I have in a year I throw the empty bottle into the recycling and get ready for bed. My phone is next to me charging on my nightstand as I drift to sleep a drunken smile lighting my face.

In my dream, it’s our high school graduation both Archer and me dressed in cap and gown, our future right in front of us. Archer’s trying to convince me to be spontaneous with him. My eyes consume his body trying to memorize every detail I can, not bothering to listen to his argument.

I heard it before on the very day I’m dreaming about and I don’t want to relive the heartfelt words again. Archer’s six-foot two frame is just how I remember it. He’s the perfect height for me to fit snuggly to him when he throws his arm around my shoulder, which I desperately want him to do. His lean body’s covered in muscle from working on his daddy’s farm and when I used to stroke them his brown eyes sparkled with mischief.

Frustration swirls around me as I try to get him to understand I can’t just throw everything away on a whim. Every time he opens his mouth my heart shatters more. I stomp my foot to the ground just as I did all those years ago except this time I jerk awake in my bed. My hands hit the mattress knowing I won’t be able to fall back asleep and spend more time with dream Archer. Even though I dreamt the same argument, just seeing a figment of him after ten years makes me want to down a sleeping pill to get back to him.

A dinging rings out next to my head and I notice my phone’s lit up. Reaching over I grab it and my breath hitches, seeing I have a response from Matters of the Heart. My finger dances over the open button not sure if I should read it or not. I just enjoyed the best night sleep I’ve had since the Chris incident, and I don’t see how a response could give me anymore closure.

Ignoring my phone, I jump into the shower. It’s my day off and I plan on watching mindless TV for the remainder of it while scarfing down a whole pizza by myself. My thoughts keep drifting to my phone laying on my bed and what a professional thought of my crazy word vomit from last night. I giggle picturing an old man in an argyle sweater reading my confession with wide traumatized eyes.

“Just a peek.” I tell myself, throwing on my robe and snatching up my phone.

I go to the kitchen and sip a cup of coffee, leaning on the counter. Just like the website, the response is not what I expected. Instead of sage advice on how to move on with my life and find peace in the past there’s a series of questions pertaining to my perfect man and relationship.

Archer’s chiseled cheeks and jaw line is front and center as I read through them. I absorb the reality that Chris never entered my mind. Maria’s right, he wasn’t the one for me.

The websites response is scary as if the expert manifested it out of my own head. Each question makes me think more and more about Archer and what we could have had if we could have worked out our differences.

My answers not only describe my perfect man’s physical attributes as Archer but also my perfect relationship was ripped right out of my high school experience with Archer.

My eyes drift to the high school reunion invitation under a magnet of a frog holding a Be Brave sign. A magnet Archer got me for my tenth birthday because of my fascination with amphibians.

Throwing caution to the wind, I RSVP to the reunion and reserve a hotel room for the week. To ensure my decision I book a nonrefundable flight. I hold my breath until the confirmation email pops into my inbox.

There’s no turning back now.