Healing

I was sitting curled up on a sofa wearing my favorite loose Gudetama sweatshirt and black shorts. All the makeup was gone, and my chestnut hair was tied in a messy bun on top of my head. I had a mug of hot, dramatically oversweetened cocoa in hand and a half-empty box of mint chocolate ice cream lying next to me. On the table, there were open boxes of cream-onion, paprika, and barbeque-style flavor chickpea chips, pretending to be healthy snacks instead of more comfort food. Yes, I needed a lot of comfort. I needed to deal with the fact that I was an absolute idiot.

I called Emily and Bastian on my way back home. Emily had an urgent meeting with her client before Monday's court trial—yes, her salary was worth sacrificing free Saturdays from time to time. I told her about what had happened, and she said that she would cut the meeting short and be back in our apartment in less than two hours.

Calling Bastian required more courage, and perhaps I should be grateful that my phone woke him