"You should have called. We could have planned a different time."

"I lost your number."

"Shouldn't it be on your phone from when you called last night?" he asks, puzzled.

"My phone battery died."

Just then, it beeps in my hand. I reflexively glance at it. Kat wrote Sit down.

I don't.

"Oh, look at that. It must have recharged." My words sound as weak as I suddenly feel.

"Navy, this is hard for me too," Carrick says.

I meet his eyes, challenging him. "Is it?"

"Believe it or not, yes."

"Why? Because you can hardly live with yourself for the guilt or because you can't seem to move on?" That's not what I meant to say. I really wanted to let him have it with a verbal assault like I did last night, but surrounded by a roomful of brunch time civility and the unease tossing in my stomach, I relent.

Behind the finely cultivated Kennely mask of good breeding and manners, his face falls, or at least that's what I want to see. I turn to leave.

"Navy, please. Please. Let's try again."

"Raincheck," I say, turning to storm off. The room tilts in a dizzy wave as nausea rolls over me. I instantly regret using that particular phrase because it suggests possibility and I want nothing to do with Carrick. Not today, not in the near or distant future, not ever.

"When?" he asks.

I step backward, knocking into someone's chair. "Sorry," I say. My cheeks burn.

We have an audience, mostly out-of-towners who lack the New York sensibility to mind their own business.

"Sometime."

"Navy. One hour, that's all I ask. I can explain or at least try to."

"Aw, give the guy an hour," a lady says before eating a piece of French toast slathered in syrup.

I feel like a cat backed into a corner.

"Please?" he asks.

I give a noncommittal turn of my head because more than anything right now I need to get out of the steaming hot restaurant, away from the prying eyes, and find some cold water and fresh air.

"Toodles."

When I get outside, Katya is leaning against the newspaper box. "I didn't think you'd stay." She shrugs. "I had to try."

My shoulders round against the cold and I pull my/her hat back on. "Did he tell you?"

"Tell me what?" she asks.

"To make sure I showed up."

She's quiet a minute, studying me carefully, and then links her arm in mine. "Let's go get you breakfast and we can talk about it."

"I'm not hungry." The last twenty-four hours have been one long tantrum. My emotions snowball away from me in the adult version of me pounding my fists on the ground while kicking and screaming.

"Coffee at least."

"Fine. But not our usual place."

"Oh come on, we can taunt Bash with furtive glances and sly eyes."

"No."

"You're no fun." I'm afraid she's not joking this time.

"That's what they keep telling me," I say in a flat tone.

"Who?" she asks, confused.

"Me."

"You keep telling yourself that you're no fun?"

Hearing her echo my words makes me sound a few feet off center as my grandfather used to say.

"I'm not letting you out of my sight until you talk to me." She flexes her arm, still linked in mine, and I know I won't be able to get out from her yoga grip.

If I were four years old I'd jump up and down, throw things, and shout leavemealone! Instead, I say a sharp, "Fine," and follow her to Starbucks.

She orders us both enough caffeine to outtalk Bash, and a crumbly-topped slice of blueberry bread for me. "All the sugar in that thing will soak up the poison. Now, what's going on?"

I fidget with clammy hands, breaking the coffee stirrer into slivers.

"Navy, I heard you on the phone last night."

"You shouldn't listen to people's calls."

"You were yelling. Slurring, really, but loudly."

I want to yell right now, but there's a hunk of the blueberry sweet bread in my mouth.

When I take another bite she says, "It might help you let go if you talk about it.

I take another bite.

"Navy, I say this from the most loving place, but all that stuff that happened with Zach, that was a long, long time ago now. You need to move on."

She doesn't know the whole story. And I can't possibly tell her.

I take a sip of coffee and a dinosaur groans in my stomach. Honest to God. "Listen, it got complicated with Carrick. What you heard last night was me trying to let go. Having him here in the city doesn't make it easy. I don't know what he wants from me, but you're right, it's time for me to move on."

She nods. Concern softens her features "Right now, the better question is are you alright?"

I shake my head as another wave of nausea slides over me. "No. No, I'm not." I say, rushing for the ladies room.

I pound on the door and a stern, "Just a minute," comes in reply. I don't have just a minute. I try to hold back, to keep it in for just a minute, but coffee, bits of blueberry bread, and so much yuck lands in the nearest trash receptacle, mostly.

Kat rushes over to me with napkins and water.

Where I expect relief from my hangover, the nausea doubles, and it's all I can do to get outside and sip the fresh air.

"Can't go back," I say, struggling to keep myself upright. My vision blurs and my head pounds like the many pairs of boots passing on the sidewalk.

"No, you can't relive the past," Kat says softly, as though picking up where our conversation left off.

Through the malaise of the moment, I'm trying to explain that I can't go back into Starbucks, ever. Embarrassment is an unwelcome, but frequent guest in my life. After this incident, I'll probably be blacklisted for life. I want to shout, I'm not that hungover, I swear, but it's as though a heavy, itchy, woolen blanket descends over me.

"Let's get you home," Kat says, hailing a cab.

The cab ride is a blur. The trip up the elevator is a distorted reflection of me slouching against the wall, my skin a vague shade of Halloween witch green. The walk to my room is almost already a cloudy memory except when I say, "Toodles? Who says toodles?" I try to laugh, but only throw up again.

Chapter 19.

Uncovering After three days in bed, cramps replace nausea, and as luck would have it, I get my period. And a migraine. I didn't even have the pleasure of my usual run of pms puppy fever. I call in sick and worry I'll be replaced before I'm better. After another day in bed with a heat pack, I've sweated out, puked, and wasted away all the weight I gained while dining with Bash-he was so busy talking he'd hardly noticed when I'd take seconds and thirds, especially of the brownies. I'm craving them now but don't trust my stomach just yet. Also, I don't recommend this method for weight loss, FYI.

But the new sense of lightness may be because I purged some of the anger I felt at Mimi and Carrick. Some of it.

I manage to keep my eyes open long enough to catch up on my email and log onto UBoss to tell them I'm alive in case everyone worried I was lying in a puddle of my own misery for the last few days, which I more or less was.

Even if this program isn't exactly what I was looking for, the least I can do is support the other women, ones who, in such a short time, I think of as sisters, or at least distant cousins. These are women who'd understand why I can't shake Kat's comment about how I'm no fun. I don't disagree, but the comment is a persistent, obnoxious echo, which has certainly contributed to my aching head. They'd understand why following my heart is a bad idea. But I'm sapped of the energy to explain.

Kat pokes her head in. "You're awake. Want anything from the store?"

"Dirty brownies?"

"Let's start with toast,"' she says and pads back down the hall.

I can't be that upset with her because if anyone deserves sisterhood status, it's Kat. She's kept a full glass of water or ginger ale by my side, sanitized the bathroom more than once, and made sure I was still breathing when I wasn't moaning in agony.

I balance on my elbows and skim the module for this week of the UBoss program titled uncovering. The PDF outlining what to expect states For most people, one of their deepest desires is to be seen, to be acknowledged, and for their experience and existence to be recognized. However, so many of us hide. We hide behind careers, relationships, stuff, weight, and stories we tell ourselves.

I read on. We hide because we simultaneously want to be seen, but are afraid of being judged.

Truth.

The tasks I missed so far this week were Tell someone you like something about them: it can't be part of their attire, but rather their personality.

Accept a compliment with a smile and thank you instead of something dismissive like, "What? This old thing, it's been in my closet for years."

Speak up for someone who's been skipped in line, who isn't acknowledged in class, or who otherwise isn't using their voice to advocate for themselves. In other words, do for others what you'd like done for yourself.

The last one is Hold your chin high, make an entrance when you enter a room, and dazzle everyone with your smile.

I read the stories of trepidation and transformation in the chat group, suddenly feeling like I'm missing out. I told myself I was done with UBoss and although I have no intention of following my heart, maybe I could try to follow Mimi's week two module and support my accountability partners DaisyDuke31, MelodyMiles, and ShellsXOX.

As I write an explanation of my recent absence, they're already excited to see my avatar lit up writing comments like Glad to have you back!

Where ya been?

We missed you!

Why haven't you been blogging?

I share everything except the encounter with Carrick.

They insist I write up a blog post about my experience with the Man-bun-barista.

I reply It's not funny, he's a criminal.

ShellsXOX comments If eating those meals he made was wrong, I don't want to be right.

I go to my email to copy and paste some of the recipes Bash shared with me, finding loads of emails from blog readers wondering where I've been.

I didn't realize anyone had noticed.

I add a note under my zero stars review of the Man-bun-barista explaining that I've been sick. I title the post The Last Supper, include photos, and click publish. I take a few minutes answering emails and approving comments, before thinking about the uncovering tasks from this week.

After browsing my attempts at food photography, courtesy of Bash's spectacular dishes, my stomach rumbles. I take inventory. Hmm. On the saltines to brownies scale, I think I'm back to neutral. Something other than saltines seems like it might be safe. Best to test the waters before I dive in with a dirty brownie or two.

On wobbly legs, I stumble out of my sick cave to find Kat in the kitchen on her phone. "Hooray! You've returned to the land of the living."

"Thank you for taking such good care of me."

"Of course."

"You're a really good friend and human."

"I'm a unicorn, Navy. It's time you get that right."