Why does the word routine get a bad rap? Some routines are good; for example, brushing your teeth every morning or recycling plastic water bottles. But then other routines are deemed unhealthy or pathetic. Things like checking Jesse’s Facebook.

What? Don’t judge me. The man has been a part of my life for over a decade. All of a sudden he’s gone, and I don’t know how to handle it.

The voices of Liza and my mother float around my head.

How are you supposed to move on? You’ve got to stop this, Ry. People leave your life for a reason.

But I can’t stop the compulsion to log on, to check to see if there’s a new sliver of information regarding his life, some tiny crumb tossed into the ether that will allow me to feel connected to him in some way, no matter how small. Nothing good can come from it, but it’s the barest of threads that still binds me to him, and I can’t bear for it to break. Truthfully, Jesse rarely posts on social media. Day in and day out, the same unchanged, un-updated page greets me. It’s remained the same for ninety-three days. I should know. I check. Every. Day.

Imagine my surprise then this morning, when I search his name and a host of new photos greet me. He didn’t post the pics, but he was tagged in half a dozen pictures, with Abigail (Who the fuck is she?) and three other people whose names I don’t recognize, nearly twelve hours ago. I glance at the clock and calculate the time of upload: ten at night.

Despite my gut telling me to close out of the browser, I click the first picture. And then the next. Then the next. My stomach churns as I fall deeper and deeper into the rabbit hole. Jesse looks just as I remember him. Same strong jaw, wide shoulders, casual-but-sexy grin. His clear blue eyes are slightly glazed, half-lidded, at best. He doesn’t look happy, but at the same time he doesn’t look unhappy. He looks neutral, resigned. He wears a steel-grey suit with a lighter grey button down and dark tie. He looks powerful, magnetic, and I mourn the fact that he never wore a suit when he was with me, because he looks damn good.

The bile churns in my stomach as a sick, deep weight settles over me. I’m struck by how relationships change. At one point in time I knew everything about this man, his favorite food (boxed Kraft mac-n-cheese, but only the shapes), his favorite movie (Zoolander), his favorite place to be touched (the inside of his elbow, apart from his penis, obviously).

But now it’s as though we’re strangers. Two separate ships sailing in the vast ocean of the world with no attachment or acknowledgment of each other. I graduated from college—a major life event—and he wasn’t there to celebrate with me. I remember the day of the ceremony I was so absolutely convinced he’d be there that my eyes kept darting to the back of the auditorium. After the President’s welcome speech, the back door squeaked open, and I held my breath, but when my eyes focused on the figure standing in the lobby, they saw a petite older woman. Not Jesse.

I have a new job that he knows nothing about. He has a new girlfriend that I learn about through a Facebook update. How did this happen to us?

My emotions are too raw, too real for nine o’clock in the morning. I’m at work for Christ’s sake. I can’t have an emotional breakdown. Another one. I’m lucky enough to still hold my secretary position after I walked out of our monthly team meeting meant to boost morale and productivity three weeks ago—that’s a different story for another time.

Logging off the site, I head toward the break room. Coffee, my mind screams. Coffee will make everything better.

I slip a K-cup into the Keurig on the side counter, just as one of the newer realtors, Shannah, I think her name is, enters. “A girl after my own heart.” She grabs another pod and stands beside me.

Sighing, I grab the warm mug of liquid gold and say, “It’s only Tuesday.”

She smiles rather perkily—she’s a morning person; God, I hate those, and says, “At least there are muffins.” She gestures to the table behind her.

When my eyes find the sugary confections, I wonder how I didn’t spot them earlier. I plunk a double chocolate, chocolate chip muffin from the box. “Who brought these?” I tear a piece of the top off and stuff it in my mouth.

She shrugs. “Lauren, I think. Mr. Lewg is coming this morning.”

“Oh, goodie.” I know I sound like a complete and total bitch, but part of me doesn’t care. I’d worked at Lewg and Morgan Properties for two months now and had yet to meet the infamous Mr. Lewg. Although we saw little of him around the office, his presence was everywhere.

Mr. Lewg likes the folders filed by date, not alphabetically.

Mr. Lewg insists that all his employees wear the God-awful, poly-blend, black polos that irritate the hell out of my skin.

Mr. Lewg likes the secretary to answer the phones with the approved, scripted message… Give me a freakin’ break.

I bite off another chunk of muffin and chew forcefully before saying, “Mr. Lewg is an ass.” Shannah raises her eyebrows, but I keep going. I’m in such a funk that it feels good to vent, even if it is about something as stupid as my mystery boss. “He needs to get his priorities straight. Maybe if he worried less about how I file the goddamn records and more about the troll he hired as an office manager, this place would be a lot better off.”

“Ah-hem.” A throat clears behind me.

Oh, shit. All blood drains from my face and I drop the remaining quarter of my muffin. Please, tell me that Mr. Lewg isn’t behind me. Please, dear God, I pray to all that is holy, don’t let him be right—

“Those are some great suggestions,” a distinctive male voice says.

Turning around, with my face the color of a ripe summer beet, I stammer out an apology. “I-I’m sorry.” I chance a quick glance at the man whom I suspect to be Mr. Lewg and have just insulted without reason. Well, not without reason, but still. He looks nothing like I had imagined. He’s young, thirty-five years old tops, with a solid build. His dark brown hair is thick and wavy even though it’s a bit untamed.

He holds my gaze for a moment, his warm, honey eyes holding a hint of amusement.

“I’m sorry,” I repeat, clasping my palms in front of me. My job is as good as done.

Shannah, not wanting to get caught in the line of fire, edges along the wall until she reaches the door. She casts one last long look over her shoulder before slipping out. Thanks for nothing, bitch.

“Mr. William Lewg.” The man in front of me extends his hand, and I try to (discreetly) rub my crumby hands on my slacks before extending my own. “You can call me Bill.” He winks. “Or ass.”

My face heats. “I am so sorry.” I stumble over my words. “It was an off morning, but that’s no excuse for my unprofessional comments. I understand if this needs to go on my employee review or if…” I let my voice trail off because I can’t bring myself to say the word “fired.” Christ, what else could go wrong in my life?

He chuckles. “Don’t worry. What happens in here,” he gestures around the break room, “has nothing to do with your employee review.”

“Really?” My eyes widen.

He shrugs. “Besides, I’ve been called a hell of a lot worse than an ‘ass’.”

Another wave of heat flushes my face. “I’m sorry. My life has been kind of crazy lately.” I stop myself from rambling, because this man doesn’t need to know details about my personal life. Nor does he care. I decide to end on a positive note, even if it is a lie. “And I do like these shirts.” I tug at the scratchy fabric.

“No, you don’t,” he says simply. When I say nothing, he continues. “Those shirts are awful. Lauren designed them and submitted a purchase order without my approval.”

“I knew it!” I exclaim. Lauren, my she-devil boss, claimed that Mr. Lewg hand-picked the winning design from the dozens of entries submitted by community members, but I had my suspicions. I mean, really, what businessman would select a graphic where the skyscrapers resembled two tall dicks?

He winks again. “Now we both have a secret.”

Just then, Lauren barges into the break room. “Riley. Get back to work. Mr. Lewg will be here any— Oh. Mr. Lewg, you’re here early.”

“Yes.” He speaks to Lauren but keeps his gaze on mine. “I was just chatting with Ms…?”

Lauren supplies, “Jones. Riley Jones.”

“Ms. Jones was just telling me how much she loves working at LAMP.” His eyes sparkle with amusement. “And how she’s particularly fond of the shirts.”

Is he mocking me? Or flirting? God, I’m so far out of the game, so lost on Jesse, that I don’t even know anymore.

Lauren’s eyes narrow on mine for a split second before she plasters a cheery smile on her face. “I’m so glad Riley’s happy here. Now, Mr. Lewg, if you’re ready, the meeting’s about to start.”

“Yes.” He turns to Lauren and walks toward the door. “Lovely to meet you, Ms. Jones.”

“You, too,” I mumble, but they’re already out the door.

I sigh and stuff what’s left of the muffin into my mouth.

Fuck my life.