Chapter 9 The Ex

I stood outside her apartment for an hour.

It was close to an hour, at least. I wasn't keeping track. None of it was planned . I didn't plan to follow her home. But then when her steps quickened and it became clear she was afraid, it energized me. I wanted her to be afraid. I wanted her to know there are consequences to dating Joel Broder.

I wouldn't have really harmed her. For starters, I had no weapons aside from the nearly empty bottle of mace in my purse. (I haven't used it on anyone, but I give it a practice spritz every time I go out late at night by myself.) And also, that's not me. I am not a person who attacks a young woman on a deserted street.

But yes, I enjoyed giving her a scare. Joel broke my heart—what can I say?

In the light of day though, I was embarrassed by my behavior. I immediately deleted the WhereAmI app from my phone. Nothing good will come of tracking my ex-boyfriend's whereabouts on my phone. That's the last thing I should be doing.

Not that it's any big revelation. "Stalking your ex-boyfriend is bad" ranks alongside "the sky is blue" and "don't put metal in the microwave."

Now it's a week later, and with Joel a little more out of my system than he was a week earlier, I'm doing my version of window shopping. Technically, window shopping involves looking into windows and admiring stuff you can't afford. But that's not much fun. My version involves trying on outfits I can't afford and spritzing myself with perfume I can't afford.

For the most part, it's fun. But sometimes I see a top or dress I really love that fits me perfectly, and it's impossible to keep from buying it. It's too easy to plunk down my credit card, knowing I can deal with the bill at another time in the future.

This black cocktail dress is a battle of wills. I tried it on and it was so sexy—the plunging neckline nearly made me gasp when I got a look at it. If I wore this dress and "accidentally" ran into Joel, it might make him forget all about that girl he was kissing with the olive skin. Of course, now that I deleted WhereAmI, I can't engineer such a meetup anymore. And anyway, I'm forgetting about Joel. He's distant history.

I look up from the dress and see a familiar face at the other end of the store. Lydia Lansing. One of my closest friends.

Who also happens to be the wife of Joel's best friend Pete.

Lydia is one of those women who you can't decide if she looks beautiful or intimidating. Really, it depends on her facial expression. When she's having a good time and her white-blond hair is falling in soft waves around her delicate features, she's gorgeous. But in a courtroom, with that same hair pulled back into a severe bun, her blue eyes staring daggers into the witness she's cross-examining, I'd imagine she's terrifying.

Lydia and I used to talk or text nearly every day, but I'm struggling to remember the last time we exchanged words. To be fair, I wasn't fun to be around right after Joel dumped me. We did have a few late nights together with a tub of ice cream. Or something stronger.

She's examining dresses from a rack. In addition to her attorney's salary, her husband Pete is an ER doctor like Joel, so she could afford to buy clothing from this store, rather than trying it on and looking at it longingly for several minutes before replacing it in the rack. For a moment, I hesitate, wondering if I should say hello. But then I realize I'm being silly. This is Lydia—one of my closest friends.

"Lydia," I say. "Hi."

She looks up. Blinks. "Oh…"

Immediately, I wish I hadn't said anything. I wish I had quietly slinked out of the store while I had the chance.

"Are… are you busy?" I ask. Of course she's not busy. She's looking at freaking dresses.

"No." But her smile is tight. "How have you been? You look… good."

Oh no. Now I remember the last time Lydia and I got together. We went out to a bar, I had a few too many drinks, and I cried, and then threw up in the ladies room. She had to get me home in an Uber. No wonder she's looking at me like I'm a mental patient.

"I'm well," I say, forcing a confident smile. I don't have to tell Lydia she looks good because she knows she looks good, in her expensive dress with that white-blond hair swept up in a loose French twist. I've seen Lydia put her hair into one of those twists in five seconds—I tried to do it once and it was harder than solving a Rubik's Cube. "And how are you?"

"Very well." Lydia always talks so formally, like she's at a royal dinner party. She even calls her husband "Peter" while everyone else says "Pete." I used to find it charming, but now it's grating on me. "That dress would look wonderful on you."

I look down at the black cocktail dress I'm still clutching in my right hand. I should have put it back—it's far too expensive. Lydia must know that. Or maybe she doesn't. I've always tried to hide my financial situation from her. It was easy when Joel and I were a couple and he always footed the bill when we went out with her and Pete. But the last time Lydia and I went out to dinner, she suggested a swanky French restaurant, and I had to invent a reason to veto it. My French restaurant days are over.

"Maybe," I lie. "But it's just a little too…" Horrendously expensive.

"Short?"

"Yes," I say gratefully. "Too short."

She nods, because "too short" is something Lydia can understand.

"So," I say, "have you seen Joel recently?"

Why did I say that? I hadn't intended to ask about Joel. It was the furthest thing from my mind. It just… popped out. And now Lydia is giving me a strange look.

"Yes," she says. "I have."

"Oh." I shrug like I couldn't possibly care less. "I hope he's doing well."

"Yes," she murmurs. "He is."

Change the subject. Change it quick.

"I should tell you," she says, "he's been dating. Other women. One in particular."

"Well, so what?" I force a smile. It feels odd on my lips. "So have I."

Lydia gives me a skeptical look. Rightfully so, since I absolutely have not been dating. I haven't been on one single date since the night Joel moved out.

"I have," I insist. "There's one guy who I've had… well, our fifth date is coming up. He's great." Lydia is still giving me that look so I keep babbling on. "His name is Charles. He's in sales, so he's on the road a lot."

Have I said enough to sound convincing? I can't tell. And I don't know why I'm so desperate for Lydia to think I've got a boyfriend when I most definitely do not.

"Do you want to grab some coffee?" I ask. My voice sounds unnaturally high, and I clear my throat. "If you have time…"

"Um…" Lydia looks down at her watch, then glances around the store. "Listen… the thing is…"

Oh my God, is Lydia breaking up with me too ?

"Pete and Joel are so close, you know?" She shakes her head. "It's just that… it's awkward if you and I are… I mean, I don't feel comfortable talking about things that Pete told me in confidence."

"Of course," I say quickly. "We don't have to talk about Joel." I add, "I don't even want to. Honestly. I've moved on. Completely."

Her eyes are full of pity, which is worse than anything. Everyone looks at me that way now. Even my own grandmother. "I just don't think coffee is a good idea," she says.

She is breaking up with me.

Lydia just broke up with me. I hadn't realized how many of my friends were connected to Joel until he broke up with me and I lost all of them. I know Joel and Pete are super-close, but I thought Lydia and I were close too. Apparently not.

"But I heard you got a new apartment." Lydia's face brightens. "Something in the village?"

Oh Lord, the lie I told Joel is starting to spread. "Well, maybe. I haven't decided yet."

I'm moving in with my grandmother in Brooklyn.

"If you have a housewarming party," she says, "I'd love to come. Please invite me. And I can meet… Charles, was it?"

She's throwing me a bone. If I had any dignity at all, I'd tell her only my real friends would be invited to the housewarming to meet my imaginary boyfriend. But since I don't even have an apartment to warm, the point is moot.

"I will," I promise, around a lump in my throat .

And all the while, I keep thinking about this new girl that Joel is dating. The young one with the olive skin and long, dark hair.