I'm about a block away from the bookstore when it dawns on me why I've been dismissed so early.

Man, I'm pretty sure Roz and Willow are gonna ... adult things.

I'm not jealous. Just, for the record. Feels like it should be obvious, but maybe it's not, so, yeah. I am so far removed from being jealous right now.

What's there to be jealous of? Of Willow Bitch-Face Leave for hooking up with Rosalind Lindbergh immediately after I was put in the assistant-zone, arguably an even worse zone than the friend-zone? Or of Roz, for staying behind to sign copies of her multiple bestsellers and then hook up with an annoying-but-gorgeous woman?

Maybe I need another drink.

The subway seems to take forever. I hop off and make my way up to surface level, still debating if I'm in the mood for a cheap bottle of wine. I'm not a big drinker, so much so that I've never drank by myself before, but maybe today's the day to make a goddamn exception.

After arguing with myself, I take the slightly-longer way back to the apartment to hit up the slightly-nicer bodega on the street over. I like this one better, because the owner and his son are funny as fuck. Also, the Korean lady who owns the bodega below our apartment hates me. She loves Gina, so I don't think it's a homophobia thing. I think it's a me thing. Which, like, fine. Gina can take judgy Ms. An, and I'll take my besties, Ibrahim and Waleed.

I wonder if we're going to have to split our friends, too.

Waleed, Ibrahim's lanky son, is leaning on the counter when I walk in, scrolling on his phone. He might be a couple years younger than me, but I'm not entirely sure. He has a sister who goes to Johns Hopkins or some shit, but Waleed has simply always been here. He's a goddamn institution. Like, I swear—he doesn't leave, doesn't sleep, doesn't age. He's, like, Mr. Bodega. Well, I guess Mr. Bodega Jr.

"What's up, Waleed?" I ask, adjusting the strap of my tote bag.

He glances up. "Oh, hey, what's up? You're never here at this time."

"Yeahhhh...." Usually at this time, Gina and I would be preparing for some kind of dinner. When I still had my grant money, I'd usually come to the bodega for a quick lunch and to stretch my legs before getting back to writing. I've also been known to come here to get breakfast for Gina when she's "too hungover to function."

Otherwise, Gina and I might stumble in here for a warm snack on our way home from the bars. It should be noted that I was hardly ever drunk, whereas Gina would need an arm around her waist to keep her upright. Waleed and Ibrahim always seem to appreciate that I've never been so drunk that I knocked a stand of bagged chips over, burst into tears, then proceeded to throw up on the sidewalk outside their door.

Maybe that's why I'm the favorite here.

It also makes this question slightly embarrassing.

"Do you guys ... you guys sell alcohol, right?"

Waleed raises a brow. "We sell really, really terrible beer. Not worth it. You're not that desperate."

"Damn, bro." I lean towards the counter. "Do I seem any, like, remote ounce of desperate?"

"I dunno," he says, shrugging. "You smell like you've already drank enough today, though."

"Okay, damn."

He shrugs again, longer. "I just call it like I see it."

I sigh. This kid. "Fine, then, lemme get, uh—" I reach for the closest thing. "—this bag of chips?"

He shakes his head, waving his hand. "Just take it, go, go."

"Are you sure?" I ask him, my stomach swooping. I guess I haven't really eaten anything—only drank. Maybe that's part of why I was hit so hard earlier. I felt awkward taking Roz up on her offer of lunch, so I stuck to that matcha. And then, of course, breakfast was rudely interrupted, thanks to Gina.

Fuck. I haven't eaten anything all day.

I set another bag of chips down. "Let me at least pay for one."

"Whatever. It's not my money," Waleed says, shrugging once more.

"You shrug a lot," I tell him, reaching into my bag and pulling out my card to hand to him. "Like, a lot a lot. Did you know that?"

He doesn't say anything. Just shrugs.

When he hands me back my card, he's smiling, I'm smiling, and I feel like I can finally fucking breathe. This—this is what I needed. A simple interaction with someone who doesn't have the ability to ruin my day, whether intentionally or not. Slay, Waleed.

"Thanks, dude," I tell him, carelessly tossing the card and the chips into my tote bag. By now, he knows that I don't need to be given a bag. "This.... I needed this. I've had a really, um, crappy day, so.... Yeah. Thanks."

Waleed draws his lips into a tight line, inhales loudly, exhales louder, then reaches over and tosses another bag of chips on the counter.

I stare at him, slack-jawed. "My guy."

"Take the chips!" he says, gesturing emphatically at said chips. "Just take the chips!"

"What? Why? Why the chips?"

"Because you look like someone ran over your puppy!"

"Waleed!"

"Drunk Girlfriend Girl!"

I frown and snatch up the bag of chips. "Do you not know my name?"

"You're Drunk Girlfriend Girl to me," he says, shrugging once more. "But from the way you look right now, I almost wanna say you're now just Girl. No more Drunk Girlfriend."

Ope.

It takes me a moment to manage to unpause myself. I flash him a quick smile as I toss the chips in my bag. "Um, yeah. It's ... just Marcie now."

"That's rough, buddy." I think he's about to shrug again, but he crosses his arms instead, shaking his head. "Never did like that girlfriend of yours. Her vomit was really weird-looking."

I sigh. "Thanks for reminding me." It really was weird-looking. Not a mental image I need after drinking on an empty stomach.

"So...." Now Waleed is standing there with his arms crossed, awkwardly bobbing his head back and forth. "You gonna be okay?"

"Oh, yeah, for sure," I tell him. I hate how thin my voice sounds, how flimsy and shaky and obviously unsure of itself it is. "I just got a new job with my favorite author? So, that's pretty exciting. I'm just gonna focus on that and wait for everything else to pass."

"Sounds fun," says Waleed. "Who's the author?"

I hesitate. I'm allowed to tell people, right? Yeah. I can ... I can tell people. "Rosalind Lindbergh?"

His eyes widen. "Oh, what? Really? That's actually crazy, bro."

"Yeah? Thanks."

"No, like, actually." The head bobbing is more invigorated now, and he's smiling. "I'm gonna have to tell my dad. He's obsessed with her book, um, oh.... The one with the, uh, flight attendant and the viral outbreak stuff?"

"Oh, A Sky and All Her Miseries?"

He snaps his fingers. "Loves that one."

"That one is her saddest one." It's maybe my third or fourth favorite of Roz's books. Nothing has topped All Hail Mary for me, but I'm not gonna yuck Ibrahim's yums. I think Roz's books are universally enjoyed, but that one is her least popular one because it has such a depressing ending. Doesn't seem like Ibrahim's vibe, but good for him. "But, yeah, thanks. It's pretty exciting."

"I'm gonna have to tell him that you work for her. And that she's your favorite author. He's gonna be all up in your face about it, just wait."

I'm already taking a few hesitant steps back toward the door, smiling genuinely for what feels like the first time today. No trying to act more okay than I am in front of Roz, or trying to give her this toned-down version of my usual too-wide, awkward smile. "Yeah, do it. I'm always down to talk about her books."

"Yeah." He waves bye. "Till next time, Just Marcie."

I roll my eyes, stopping in the doorway. "Nah, because if you get to give me some stupid nickname, I'm gonna give you one, Mr. Bodega Jr."

"No point. I already know you know my name."

"Maaan. I'm telling your dad."

"Yeah, he also calls you Drunk Girlfriend Girl."

I toss my hands up in the air. "Am I just an NPC to you guys?"

I can still hear him laughing when I'm out on the sidewalk, speed walking in the direction of my apartment. It would be too much of an inconvenience to go out and get something to drink now, I feel like, and I just spent a dollar on a bag of chips, which is still a substantial decrease in my net worth, all things considered. I'm mostly sobered up now, and in a substantially better mood after my bantering with Waleed.

I whip out a bag of nacho-flavored chips and start scarfing them down as I continue to speed walk all the way back to our apartment.

It took me a while to figure out why, but I used to get bothered a lot more when I moved to the city. Now, I keep my eyes trained ahead and my Airpods in at all times (they're just for form, not function; they're really effective when you're pretending to ignore people). Normally, I also make a really bitchy face, but I'm pretty sure that that's not needed right now. I probably look crappy enough. My bitchometer is probably in the red.

I'm on bag two when I manage to jam my keys into the door lock. It takes a second, for whatever reason. For a moment there, I was terrified that Gina had changed the locks on me.

Luckily, when I get inside, she's not even there.

The first thing I do is toss my empty chip bags into the trash. The second thing? Continue my stitch-inducing speedwalk right to the bathroom, so I can see just how awful I look.

OH. OH FUCK NO.

So ... it's worse than I had anticipated.

No wonder Waleed gave me two bags of chips for free. Fuck, I almost feel robbed that he didn't give me more. My skin is blotchy and red—minor allergic reaction to something in one of the drinks, maybe? My eyes are still red and puffy from all the crying, and there are these truly epic smears of mascara fanning out from my lower lash line. Like, this is seriously some La Llorona shit going on with my mascara, holy cow. I didn't even think I'd put this much on.

Waleed was right. I do indeed look like my puppy died.

I decide I'm going to eat my last bag of chips before I hop into the shower. It's going to be the world's best shower, I'm telling you—I'm gonna wash off all of this awful makeup-y mess, and this alcohol smell, and all the pent-up feelings from today. My chat with Roz was therapeutic, yeah, but I think I really need to decompress on my own.

Ugh, it's gonna be such a good cry. I need it so bad, I'm almost excited.

Also, y'know what? I'm gonna shave my legs. And I'm gonna steal Gina's insanely expensive body scrub (insanely expensive is fourteen dollars, that should not be a hot take), and I'm gonna exfoliate the ever-loving-fuck out of my legs, and I'm going to be smooth like a baby's buttcheek, and it's going to be amazing.

And then I'm gonna use her rich people body butter. Because, y'know what? Fuck her, that's why.

I'm tossing the bag of chips away, half cursing Waleed in my head for basically referring to me as "Gina's girlfriend" for who knows how long, half planning out what music I'm going to listen to in my Mental Health Everything Shower™, when I hear the door swing open without warning.

Of course, there stands Gina. And of course, she looks perfect—barely a hair out of place, her makeup flawless, all while managing to pull off black jeans and a simple black T-shirt. There's that damn perfume too—it's everywhere. That sharp, sinister floral scent. The one I refuse to think about, because the last time Gina smelled like a new perfume in college, she—

Nope. She's not my girlfriend anymore. What do I care?

"Marcie?" she asks, like it could be anyone else. Like she didn't see me just this morning, like she didn't watch my heartbreak in real time.

I force myself to stand a little straighter. "Gina."

"Are you...." Her expression shifts.

Something like hope flutters in my chest. I hate myself for it. "Am I...?"

Gina's expression suddenly hardens, and her brow furrows slightly. "I'm gonna take a shower, and then I'll head out."

She hustles over the bedroom, leaving me standing shocked in the kitchen. "Wait, are you leaving-leaving?"

"Just for tonight," she says, pausing in the doorway. Her fingers linger on the doorframe. Her gaze is cast downward—something that, for whatever reason, fills me with this familiar sense of dread. "Well, okay, more than just tonight. I'm gonna stay with a friend till you find a place to go."

"Right. I forgot. I'm only staying here till I can get back on my feet." I hate how my voice cracks on "feet." Not a fun word to have your voice crack on.

"Marcie," she says. Her voice is stern, warning. Her gaze is soft, pleading. "Don't make this any harder than it has to be."

My mouth kinda flops open and shut for a few seconds. Doesn't she see that she's the one making this hard? My voice is still shaky, but I manage to avoid any more voice cracks when I say, "Gina, you're the one who's creating something for me to make hard."

She scoffs. Her gaze goes from pleading to hard in a second.

I frown. "Seriously, Gina. Why? Why now? Right when I got a job to start contributing? Right when I'm working to implement the changes you insisted you wanted to see made?"

"Because," she says coolly, "you don't know how to help yourself. You don't want anything for yourself, Marcie, and I can't do it anymore."

"Gina, that—that's bullshit." Don't want anything for myself? Hello? "We both have dreams we've wanted to pursue. I thought making those happen was always the plan."

She rolls her eyes. Rolls her fucking eyes. My face feels hot. The audacity. "Okay, fine. You want selfish things for yourself. Your dream is more important than mine. How's that? Is that what you want to hear? That you're selfish, and lazy, and I'm sick of it?"

"Don't tell me what I want to hear, Gina. Just tell me the truth."

She breathes in, closes her eyes, tilts her chin upwards. "That is the truth."

"Why couldn't you have been sick of it years ago, then?" I don't remember the last time my voice was this loud. Gina is the loud one. She gets upset, she yells till I apologize; I get upset, I sulk until she apologizes. This feels wrong. The way she's looking at me with her challenging stare and her defensively crossed arms—it's all wrong. "Why did we even stay together if you were so sick of it?"

"I don't have to explain myself to you," she says, taking a step back, her hand finding the doorknob. "I don't want to fight, Marcie. There's nothing we need to discuss. I'm just done."

"So, no explanation?" Fuck. There. The first hot tear rolls down my cheek, sliding along my jaw and wetting my neck. It's followed by a few others, but somehow, it doesn't feel like I'm really crying. Not yet, anyway. "That's it? Six years, down the fucking drain, and you won't even tell me why?"

"I just told you." And then she shuts the door, and I hear the lock click.

Wow. We were never a lock-the-doors couple. Was never needed.

I awkwardly flop down on the kitchen floor, resting the back of my head against the cabinets. I hate everything about this—the insults, the vagueness, the stupidity of it all. But, more than anything else, I hate how out-of-the-blue this feels. Sure, things have been tense with Gina transitioning to her new job and me finding mine, but we've bounced back from worse. This feels random. Feels wrong.

I'm pretty sure we won't be bouncing back from this one.

But ... okay. Honestly, is that even so bad at this point?

I'm not so sure.