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My stomach dropped.

“He said he was separated,” my mother said.

“Mom.”

“What? People separate, Sloane.”

“They also lie to strangers on airplanes.”

She huffed. “You’re determined to see the negative in everything.”

“No, Mother, I’m determined not to become evidence in someone’s divorce proceedings.”

My father muttered something that sounded suspiciously like fair point.

My mother ignored him. “You never know where you might meet someone.”

“I know where I don’t want to meet someone—through my parents after he met them at the airplane bathroom.”

“That’s not what happened,” Mom argued.

“It’s the exact sequence of events you described.”

A burst of sound came through the phone. Footsteps. Bells. People talking. A car horn. My mother said something to my father about the tour group leaving without them, then said with sudden urgency, “We have to go, but promise you won’t dismiss him immediately.”

“I promise nothing.”

“Sloane.”

“I have work to do.”

“All right. Buh-bye.”

“Bye.”

“Try to sound happier when he calls,” she added.

I ended the call before she could provide additional instructions for attracting a married middle-aged man who still had all his hair. For several seconds, I stood in the middle of my kitchen, holding the phone against my palm.

I leaned against the counter, suffocating under the weight of my own endless waiting. I was constantly waiting until I felt prepared enough to actually enter my own life—waiting to reach out to people until I knew the perfect thing to say, waiting to apply for better opportunities until my portfolio was beyond critique. But waiting hadn’t protected me. It had just kept me trapped in place, alone in a quiet room.

I should have been used to the silence since I had lived alone for several years now. Nobody moved my things. Nobody left dishes in the sink. Nobody interrupted me while I worked.

It was peaceful. Not lonely.

At least that’s what I told anyone who pressed.

I returned to my desk and started the process of taking out a cash advance through my credit card. It wasn’t a great solution, but it would get me through the slump. Then, I logged into my work email, hoping productivity might repair whatever the phone call had unsettled. Instead, thirty-two unread emails appeared.

I stared at the number. Then refreshed, because I wanted to be certain the suffering was current.

Thirty-three.

Fuck me.

It was Saturday, but I had nothing better to do. And if I didn’t pare my inbox down, I’d hate myself on Monday morning.

The first message came from a boutique fitness studio owner who’d requested “clean, elevated minimalism” for her rebrand. I’d sent three options featuring neutral colors, restrained typography, and open spacing.