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“Oh, it is. I’m going to guess you haven’t seen the news?”

FORTY-NINE

TALIA

“We are seeing record temperatures across all of Tennessee, with highs of up to one hundred and five degrees in some counties.”

“Ugh.” I switch off the TV, the weather update making me hotter from simply listening to it. The AC is working overtime, pumping cool air through the house, but I’m still a sticky mess. The protective film adhered to the inside of my bicep doesn’t help matters.

I’d planned on working from the office all week, not wanting to sit around the house moping, but it was too hot to be trapped in a stuffy office. So I’m sweating and moping. I should be thankful it’s Friday, but it just means tomorrow is Saturday. And August 23.

I roll off the couch onto the floor, sighing when the cool tiles press into the bare skin on my back and thighs. Slapping around on the coffee table, I locate my phone and drop a text in the chat.

Talia: I can’t survive this. I’m too fair skinned.

Parker: Don’t talk to me. Imagine what it’s like working beside giant, hot copper stills.

Margot: I’m literally watching my flowers wilt.

Harriet: I have you all beat. Ethan is a sweaty barnacle who won’t stop feeding.

Talia: You win.

Talia: My tattoo is itching under the film.

Parker: Do not remove it until at least tomorrow.

Talia: I think it’s healed.

Parker: 3-7 days! It’s been two days! Do you want it to fade?

Talia: Sorry, boss.

Harriet: Any word from Tate?

I stare at the screen, worrying my lip.

Talia: No. He’s in New York for another week and then LA.

Margot: I’m sure one text would be okay. Just let him know you’re thinking about him.

Parker: I still think you should’ve flown out there and shown him your tattoo. Men are always the ones doing grand gestures. Mix it up. Fuck those gender norms.

Talia: I’ll give it another week before I pull out the big guns.

My head thumps against the floor in frustration. How did I survive an entire year without his ridiculous jokes, boyish grin, and constant attention? After just three days, the withdrawal is making me want to claw at my skin.

Harriet: We’re here for you, whatever you need. But not another group hug.

Parker: Second this. If anyone touches me, I’ll scream.

Margot: I second this. The under boob sweat is a problem. I need it to rain or I’ll be out of business.

Then I remember how I survived. My girls.

I drag myself off the floor, finish the last of my work tasks, and sign off for the day. After a sad meal for one, I repeat the motions of the last three nights: slip on one of Tate’s shirts, bury myself under the duvet on his side of the bed, and tick off another day in my mental calendar.

Tomorrow is our ten-year anniversary, and I was always going to be alone, regardless of what happened last weekend.