My luggage somehow gets rerouted to Saskatchewan on the way back from Miami, which feels like a supremely fitting end to this miserable trip. I chalk it up to one more loss and take a car back from JFK. Usually, coming home to New York fills me with a corny kind of excitement—after all, how many people actually get to live in this incredible place?—but tonight I barely register the sight of the skyline gleaming in the distance as we cross the bridge into Manhattan. I just want to climb into my bed and never get out again.

So this is what a broken heart feels like.

I figure I better cut my losses and just wallow for a while, so that’s exactly what I do. I shuffle around my apartment in a pair of increasingly-grubby silk pajamas, listening to The Best of Edith Piaf on iTunes and watching black-and-white movies on cable like some kind of eccentric old lady. I cancel drinks with my friends. I skip the gym. I even flake on work, letting Alice take care of everything at the office.

I figure that it has to stop hurting sometime, that sooner or later, I’ll snap out of this aching misery and get back to my old, poised self, but after a whole week of moping, I still feel exactly as crushed as that night, crying on the sand.

Is Ryan hurting the way I do? Or has he not even skipped a beat?

I run a bath and sink into the water, then grab my phone and type his name into Google even though I 100 percent know better, hesitating for a moment before I click Go.

Ryan’s not the kind of guy with a bunch of social media accounts, so I click over to the news tab once the search results load. And there he is, in an article from earlier this week. Food is More Than Fuel for Former NFL Star, the headline reads. Underneath it is a picture of Ryan at a PowerBar launch event the other night. He looks fantastic, wide smile and just the faintest shadow of scruff on his face, broad shoulders filling out an immaculately tailored suit.

And he’s got his arm around a tall, beautiful woman.

My heart plummets like a cable has snapped somewhere deep inside my body. I frantically scan the article for more information. It’s got plenty to say about the dozen PowerBar locations Ryan is building, the first of which is set to open downtown later next month, but nothing about the identity of his mystery date. Even the caption on the photo just lists them as Ryan Callahan and Companion.

“Well, that’s not very feminist of you!” I snarl, then proceed to spend the next hour searching every conceivable variation of Ryan Callahan + girlfriend with absolutely no success whatsoever.

Before I know it, the bathwater has gone cold and my fingers are pruny, and I’m feeling more than a little ashamed of myself. After all, Ryan’s not some baseless fantasy of mine, like Tristan was. I’ve got no business spelunking through the internet looking for dirt on his personal life. I just hate sitting around wondering if he’s moved on. I thought what happened between us was special—I haven’t felt something so strong, so real, so right in my whole life before.

And I let it slip through my fingers.

Or rather, he pushed you away, I remind myself, remembering how quick he was to blame me for Tristan’s wandering lips.

But still . . . I look back at that fight, and I know I said the wrong thing. I didn’t argue when he claimed this was all just a transaction.

I didn’t risk it and tell him how I felt.

I’m just climbing out of the tub when my phone dings with a text from Katie. Seb’s working late and I’ve got a recipe for soup that needs testing. Want to come over?

I hesitate. On one hand, I could probably use the company. Let’s be real, I’m basically one brightly-colored head scarf away from turning into Little Edie over here. On the other, I don’t have the energy to pretend to be my normal, pulled-together self—and I hate the thought of letting anyone, even Katie, see me like this. Think I’ll pass this time, I type. Thanks, though.

Katie replies with a single emoji heart and I think I’ve put her off successfully, but I’m halfway through Bringing Up Baby on Netflix when I hear a key in the lock. “Sorry,” she calls, clanking noisily through my front door—she’s laden down with mixing bowls and frying pans, a canvas bag of groceries slung over one arm. “I used the key you gave me for emergencies. It sounded like maybe you needed an intervention.”

At first, I can’t decide what’s more embarrassing, my messy apartment or my voluminous kaftan, but when I see Katie’s easy grin peeking out from behind a giant frond of fennel it’s hard to be anything but grateful. “You’re probably right,” I admit, taking the bag of groceries and setting it on the counter. “All I’ve eaten lately is takeout pho and like a hundred Skinny Cow ice cream bars. Which, by the way, don’t deserve the good name ‘ice cream.’ ”

“What is that, the Heartbreak Diet?” Katie asks, wincing. “You should trademark that shit, do a book maybe. You could make millions.” She sets her enormous cast iron skillet down on my top-of-the-line, never-used cooktop. “I brought all my own supplies because I figured you wouldn’t have anything,” she explains, then peers around at my barren kitchen. “And it looks like I was correct!”

She sets herself up with a knife and a cutting board, humming tunelessly as she bustles back and forth to the stove. Twenty minutes later she plunks a BLT and a bowl of minestrone down on the kitchen island. “Comfort food,” she says.

“Thanks.” It’s such a simple gesture, just soup and a sandwich, but the feeling of being taken care of is enough to have my eyes filling with tears. “Sorry,” I say, swiping quickly at my cheeks. “Oh my God, this is embarrassing.”

“Just don’t get the bread soggy.” Katie shrugs. Then she softens. “You don’t have to be perfectly put together all the time, you know,” she promises, rubbing a gentle hand over my back. “People will still like you.”

“You, maybe,” I say darkly. “Not everyone.”

“Ah, there it is.” She opens a bottle of Pinot with practiced expertise, pouring us each a generous glass. “No word from Tom Brady, huh?”

“Ryan Callahan,” I correct, smiling in spite of myself. “And he has a new girlfriend. Or at least, I think he does.” I fill her quickly in on my new side hustle: Olivia Danvers, Internet Detective.

“You know,” Katie says, taking a thoughtful sip of her wine, “not to insult your skills as an amateur sleuth or anything, but you could always go directly to the source on this one.”

“I tried!” I protest. “I called him—once, which as far as I’m concerned is the hard limit on something like this. But he didn’t answer. And anyway, I’m not about to go groveling for forgiveness when he’s the one who got the totally wrong idea about the whole situation and didn’t let me explain.”

“Not the totally wrong idea,” Katie points out gently. “You did have a crush on Tristan. For, like, years.”

“Sure,” I allow, “but not anymore. As soon as stuff started happening with Ryan, that was totally over.”

“I mean, I get that, but Ryan probably doesn’t. And his pride was bruised.” Katie swipes a leftover piece of bacon out of the frying pan, crunching thoughtfully. “From what you said—and those gorgeous pictures Hallie took at the non-wedding—you guys really had something. But even big manly sports stars get insecure sometimes.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I say, once I’ve swallowed a spoonful of soup, which is, for the record, delicious. “There’s no contest between Ryan and Tristan. There’s no competition between Ryan and any other guy I’ve ever met—when he doesn’t have his head up his ass, anyway.”

“Yeah, but does Ryan know that?”

“I tried to tell him,” I protest. “But he wasn’t exactly in a listening mood.” I sigh, nibbling at the crust of my sandwich. “Why does everything have to be so complicated? I just want something easy and drama-free, you know? Like you and Seb have.”

“Easy and drama-free, huh?” Katie raises her eyebrows. “Seb and I separated for six months once, you know.”

“You did?” I almost choke on my BLT. I can’t even imagine it—the two of them are the picture of domestic bliss. “What happened?”

Katie shrugs. “We were young and stupid and bad at communicating,” she explains, “and it felt easier to just bail and cut our losses than to actually do the work of trying to be honest with each other.”

“So what happened?”

“Eventually he showed up at my apartment with a five-quart Le Creuset full of boeuf bourguignon begging me to forgive him. I said I’d think about it, but only if he’d let me keep the Le Creuset.” She grins. “Then we got back together and went to couples therapy, and the rest is history.” Katie raises her eyebrows meaningfully, spooning a bit of the leftover soup out of the pot. “The point is,” she says, “it’s not about some totally perfect, drama-free match. It’s about working it out when things get tough.”

I shove the rest of the sandwich in my mouth so I don’t have to answer.

I drag myself into work the next morning, caking extra concealer onto my face to disguise my lack of sleep and red-wine puffiness. I’ve got a debrief meeting with Jason Kilcher, the Dungeons and Dragons-loving tech CTO, whose corporate retreat was a smashing success—thanks to The Agency. “I had my doubts, Olivia,” he tells me, shining like a new penny in a brand-new suit, “but you really are the best.”

“I do what I can,” I tell him, mustering a smile. Normally there’s nothing that brings me as much satisfaction as finding the perfect solution for my clients, but this morning I can barely bring myself to care.

Once he’s gone, Alice comes in to go over messages. “Thanks again for saving my ass this past week,” I tell her, raking my hands through my hair. “I honestly don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she says with a sympathetic smile. “It was just the usual paperwork and research.”

“Well, I appreciate it. Remind me to give you a raise,” I say, as I turn back to the schedule.

Alice pauses in the doorway. “Olivia, I was thinking,” she says, the words coming out all in a rush. “What if I jumped in and did some of the field work?”

I look up.

“You know, go out on assignment. See some of the action for myself. You said it yourself, your roster is thin these days,” she adds, looking hopeful. “Maybe I could take a job one of these days.”

I give a hollow laugh. Send her to go get her heart broken the way I just did? I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy, let alone my best employee. “I don’t think that would work,” I reply. “I can guarantee you don’t want the drama.”

Alice’s face falls. “I mean, it wouldn’t have to mean drama, necessarily,” she says. “I was just thinking I could mix it up, that’s all. I mean, I spend all day sitting behind that desk—”

“Which is the safe place to be,” I interrupt, giving her a sad smile. “Take it from me. When you mix business and pleasure, it’s always a recipe for disaster.”

For a moment it looks like Alice is going to argue, but in the end she only nods. “OK,” she says, tucking her dark hair behind her ears. “Well. Just thought I’d mention it. Remember you’ve got that call with the restaurant mogul at two.”

“Thanks,” I say, sitting back in my chair and watching as she heads back out into the reception area. I have to admit, I’m surprised. Alice often jokes that she’s my Moneypenny: keeping the office held down while my agents go out on assignment, but I had no idea she had any ambitions beyond that. Clearly, she thinks it’s all glamorous cocktail dates and fancy parties, but she has no idea how hard it is to keep your feelings from getting in the way.

She might not realize it, but I’m doing her a favor.

One I can’t help wishing somebody had done for me.