For the last time ever, I stand in the living room of the apartment I shared with Neil.

Traffic and music from outside filter in through the closed windows. My footsteps echo in the empty space. Boring white walls show no sign we ever lived here.

When I met Neil, I was a fine arts major. I’ve always known I wanted to make beautiful things and accepted I’ll never be rich. In a crisp blue button-down and flat front khakis, Neil promised stability and a solid future with his business major. He was the planner to my free spirit. The calendar to my winging everything.

In school, I spent long nights in the ceramics studio, managing my kilns while Neil slept soundly, getting his eight hours of brain rest every night.

He went for an MBA and I got an MFA. What a difference one letter makes.

For years, I thought he was the ying to my yang. The gravity for my moon. It’s easy to ignore the lack in common when the future is neatly outlined in a spreadsheet and matching Roth IRAs.

With a sigh, I lock the door of our former life, leaving that future behind me.

I stand next to my car trying to figure out if I should cry.

Just in case, I put on my oversized sunglasses for dramatic flair. That’s what Neil would say, how us artsy types have a flair for the dramatic. No matter if clay and theater have zero to do with each other, the “arts” are all the same: full of too much emotion.

Part of me wants to create a spectacle to piss him off, even if he’s thousands of miles away. Force some sort of reaction from steadfast, stoic, there’s-a-rational-answer-for-everything Neil Chase.

For one fantastic moment, I imagine myself lighting a cigarette and walking away as the condo complex burns behind me. Like Heathers.

Of course I’d only be hurting myself. And the innocent neighbors who probably wouldn’t appreciate me destroying everything they own. At least in jail I’d get room and board. Probably some sort of art room to rehabilitate me and my evil, pyromaniac ways.

This is who I am now. Contemplating the benefits of being locked up versus single and struggling.

I need to get out of here. Giving the middle finger to the closed door of my old life, I fail to feel any satisfaction.

A good sobfest sounds like the perfect way to mark this moment. And cake. I’m going to need some cake, too. If it’s appropriate for funerals as well as weddings, then breakup cake should be a thing. Maybe an ice cream cake. With sprinkles. Covered in salted caramel. Or regular caramel with the added salt from my tears.

This needs to happen.

Ignoring the dark sky threatening rain, I open the sunroof on my racing green Mini Countryman.

Rain today would be too much of a cliché.

Like a sad girl eating her feelings, and weight, in sugary carbs.

Delicious cake, here I come.

Large circles of rain splat against my windshield before I reach the rotary into Aspen. Of course. Because this is my life.

As the drops turn into a downpour, I press the button to close the roof.

Nothing happens.

Except rain splashing down on me and everything else inside the car. I press and hold the button, hoping to force it to reboot itself like a computer or phone. Cars should be the same way.

Should, but aren’t.

My windshield wipers swish away the water on the glass, but do nothing to help me. Blindly, I reach behind me in the backseat for a hat.

I touch something stiff and pull a straw hat between the seats. It’s from the rodeo a couple of weeks ago. The wide brim creates an umbrella for my head. I can see why cowboys love these.

The rain continues as I drive to Clark’s and the promise of breakup cake. If I can’t close the roof, I’ll also have to get something to cover the opening so my car doesn’t become a fish tank. A black garbage bag will work, and be the least classiest thing to ever be seen on the same streets where the Kardashians have hung out.

My luck improves when I find a spot right in front of the market. With my new favorite hat on, I only look like a partially drowned cat, one with great taste in accessories.

After finding a towel in the backseat—which is kind of like the car version of Mary Poppins’ bag—I toss it over the dashboard to protect it from getting soaked. Even I know electrical systems and water don’t mix.

I get a few odd stares as I leave the car with the roof open. What’s wet is wet. To prove my point, I step in a large puddle next to my door.

Standing under the store’s awning, a woman holding a pale pink Birkin bag points at my car. “Your roof’s open. It’s raining.”

Tilting my head back, I let rain hit my face. “Huh, I hadn’t noticed. Thanks.”

Water drips from my bare arms while she remains perfectly dry and fresh. I’m tempted to stand close to her and shake like a dog. I’d probably get sued for getting her bag wet. Understandable because it costs about the same as I paid for the used Mini.

Inside, my shoes squeak on the sparkling clean floor. Or maybe it’s my feet making the squishing sounds inside my sneakers with each step. Either way, the stares continue.

I should probably tell someone to set out the Caution Wet Floor sign in the aisles where I walk. When it’s my turn to pay, I set my five items on the belt and try to see them from someone else’s perspective.

Black garbage bag. Box cutter. Duct tape. Cake. Prosecco.

Clearly, I’m celebrating burying a body.

Or kidnapping someone for their birthday, but taking it to the extreme. Because the only triple chocolate cake available cheerfully wishes a happy birthday in bright blue lettering. I plan to scrape off the words as soon as I get home.

Oh wait, I don’t have a home.

I can eat my cake in my wet car with the plastic roof.

Ain’t nobody who can rock a hot mess like this girl.

“Looks like you’re planning a fun evening,” a male voice comments behind me in line.

I give a light “ha ha” without turning around to acknowledge that he spoke, because I have zero desire to engage with some random man about my purchases. I don’t care what he has to say. The quicker I can get out of here, the sooner I can save my car, and my dignity.

“You going to eat that cake with someone special?” he continues like we’re having a conversation. I can’t believe he’s hitting on me when I look like a half-drowned country mouse.

I step forward to pay the cashier and catch a familiar face out of the corner of my eye.

“Oh.” Landon. Sage’s ex. Rugby player. Clueless flirt. Generally annoying human.

“Hi, yourself.” He gives me a sly smirk. “Interesting night planned?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” I try to mimic his expression like we’re playing the mirror game. I’m not sure I master the extra slime he manages to add to his smile.

“Is that an offer? Because I admit I’m more than curious. I never figured you for a criminal. Or kinky.” He says the last word loud enough to catch the cashier’s attention along with two people in the next line.

“We all have a dark side.” I pull out my card to pay.

“No one should spend their birthday alone. Invite me over and I’ll help you celebrate.” He steps closer and into my space.

He has to be kidding. Has to, but isn’t.

“Never said it’s my birthday. In fact, I haven’t told you anything about my plans. But thanks for assuming I’m a loser.”

I pay and say thank you to the cashier, trying to ignore Landon’s presence.

“See you around soon,” he shouts behind me as I leave the store. “Now that you’re single, we should hang out more.”

Great. Guess word of the breakup has spread to the rugby club. They’ll be on me like vultures with fresh roadkill. It’s not a pretty image for good reason.

For years I’ve watched the players of the Pitkin Country Rugby Club flirt and sleep their way through this town. I suffered through Sage’s relationship with Landon. Why would I ever want to repeat her mistake?

The rain has eased to a half-hearted sprinkle.

I open the door and stand on the footboard to reach across the top. The bag covers the sunroof. I use the box cutter to make strips of the tape, praying it won’t damage my paint.

Stretching to reach the far side of the roof, I hear male laughter behind me.

“Would’ve been happy to help you out, but feel like I should say thank you for the view.”

I glance at Landon standing a few feet behind me. In my short cutoffs, I’m sure I’m giving him an eyeful.

“You’re not welcome.” After patting the tape in place, I hop down. “Aren’t there some fresh tourists for you to sucker, I mean, seduce?”

“Got a match tomorrow. You should come and cheer for me.” He lowers his mirrored Ray-Bans so he can wink at me.

His move is so over the top I snort out a laugh. I’m laughing at him, not with him, but it doesn’t matter to a narcissist like Landon. He has my attention and that’s all that matters.

Without another word, I sit down and close the door behind me. Turning on the engine, I realize I’m sitting in a puddle and now it feels like I’ve peed my pants.

This day keeps getting better.

I turn on the seat warmers, hoping it will dry out the leather and my shorts on the way home.

Pulling into Sage’s driveway, I put the car in park. I glance up at the plastic bag ceiling. Unless we get a crazy thunderstorm, it’ll hold until I can get down valley and fix the sunroof.

For giggles, I press the button again, just to make sure it’s really broken.

Somewhere God laughs as the glass slides smoothly back into place.