Kourtney Kardashian gives birth to Penelope.

And the tears come.

At first they start as a small trickle of wetness gliding down my cheeks. I brush them away impatiently with the backs of my hands. However, they refuse to quit and within moments, I'm sobbing, straight up ugly crying, with snot dripping from my nostrils and my mouth hanging open with terrible sounds escaping.

I pick up the phone and dial Emma. Voicemail. I try again. And again. After the fourth attempt, I bury my face in my pillow and let the tears fall until I feel completely, overwhelmingly empty.

It's then that I have the bright idea to hit up a bar.

No one ever says heartbreak is easy.

The bar I drunkenly wander into is more like a club. For some ridiculous reason, this makes me happy. The loud music, the dark and seedy atmosphere, the pulsing swarm of bodies. I snake through the throngs of groups, the swaying couples, the giggling girls without touching a single soul. I'm like Harry Potter under the invisibility cloak. Stealthy as h.e.l.l. I laugh to myself as I sort of crash into the bar. Flagging down the bartender after what feels like an hour but was probably only three minutes, I order a rum and c.o.ke. I think Captain Morgan. Yes, I tell the bartender, I like parrots. He looks at me like I'm crazy but complies and pushes a gla.s.s with a lime resting on the rim in my direction.

Perfection. The first taste hits the back of my throat. Swirling the little black straw around and around in my gla.s.s, I lean my shoulder blades against the top of the bar and watch the dance floor. Like I did last month.

Jeez, I'm such a pathetic joke.

Is it lame to come to a club alone?

Probably.

That's got to be up there with drinking alone.

It's like worse than trying to be a sneaky little drunk b.i.t.c.h. It's desperate and pathetic.

A beautiful girl with long, pale blond hair and the s.l.u.ttiest dress I've ever seen wraps herself around a tall, hulking figure.

It's also kind of mesmerizing. Freeing really. Being able to people-watch with utter abandon. I mean, I don't know anyone here so who gives a f.u.c.k what they think of me, right?

I take another gulp of my drink.

The song changes and a salsa beat picks up. My hips automatically sway to the music, my hair moving over my shoulders. A guy comes forward and places his hands on my hips, drawing me into the crowd. I toss back the rest of my beverage and hand him the empty gla.s.s with the ice cubes rattling around. I'm not sure what he does with it but soon it's discarded, I'm wrapped in his arms, and we are dancing salsa like no one's business.

I laugh. This is pretty freaking fun.

It's later that I realize how utterly alone I am. Surrounding yourself with strangers doesn't actually make you less lonely. Life lesson right there. Let me drop some knowledge on ya. I giggle to myself as I saunter down the deserted street, the night sky pitch black.

Dressed in a ridiculously short mini skirt, a T-shirt, my North Face fleece, and boots, I know I look a hot mess.

I also know I am not appropriately dressed for winter weather.

Luckily, the booze coursing through my veins does more than temporarily take away my sadness. Keeps me warm too. Plus, the snow has mostly melted. Score!

The little tufts of gra.s.s that snake through the cracks in the concrete look sad and forlorn. I can relate to them. I really can.

Sitting down in the middle of the sidewalk, I begin to pick at the strands of gra.s.s. Poor little guys, struggling against everything, even freaking concrete, to reach toward the sun, just to be plucked back into darkness. It's a rough world.

Life's unfair.

It really is.

I mean, why should Adrian die? And my baby?

And why would someone as great as Cade, right on the cusp of living his dream that he worked so hard for, be diagnosed with cancer?

I shake my head.

Definitely not fair.

My phone vibrates with a message. Hoping its Emma, I pull it out of my little purse that I'm amazed and proud I haven't lost yet. Sometimes I really am awesome when intoxicated.

Hector.

Blech.

Delete.

Scrolling through my messages, Zack's name pops up.

Zack. He's so hot. And nice. And warm.

Plus, he smells good.

I should call him, right?

I mean, he's always telling me to call him if I need something.

Do I need anything?

My a.s.s is starting to get numb.

I guess I could use a chair or a couch or something to sit on.

Debating for several seconds, I stare at the dead gra.s.s around my feet.

Life's too short.

I push the call b.u.t.ton and hold my breath while is rings.

Chapter Forty-Three.

Zack

"h.e.l.lo?" I answer groggily, surprised my phone would ring at nearly 3:00 AM.

"Zack? That you?" Maura yells into my ear.

"Yeah." I hold the phone several inches away. "You okay?"

"'Course I'm 'kay. Whatcha doin'?"

What the f.u.c.k?

"Maura, where are you?"

"On a sidewalk." She laughs. "The poor gra.s.s is dead. Like everyone else." She laments for a moment, sadness creeping into her voice.

What the h.e.l.l is she talking about?

"Where did you go tonight?" I ask, sitting up in bed. There are a million sidewalks she could be sitting on in Philly.

"Don't know. Wanna eat? I think I'm hungry." She pauses. "Yep, I am."

I stifle a laugh. Drunk Maura is sometimes cute. "Sure, I could eat." I'm tugging on jeans and rooting around my desk chair for a hoodie. "What are you in the mood for?"

"You." She breathes out. "But I can't have you. Because you know, you're Adrian's best friend and would never be interested in a train wreck like me so ..." she trails off.

I freeze, my next words lodged in my throat, stuck as I try and breathe around them.

Drunken words are sober thoughts?

Wishful thinking.

Drunken words are drunken words.

Maura needs a friend right now.

"I guess pizza would be good," she says finally. "I like pizza. But not with mushrooms. No sir-eee. Just with pepperoni and extra cheese, 'kay?"

"Okay," I grunt out. "What street are you by?"

"Now you're going to make me move?" she asks, astonished. Huffing and grumbling, I hear her shuffle and wait for her to discern her location. "Oh," she says brightly, "I'm right by Sal's." She laughs and it's like Christmas morning. Or maybe Easter since she still sounds off. "Like, I'm literally right in front of Sal's. This is amazing. Harry Potter is awesome! See you here." She hangs up.

Relieved that Sal's Pizzeria is just around the corner from my place, I shake my head and make my way over there.

To rescue Maura's drunk a.s.s from herself.

And to see just how serious she was about wanting me ...

All good intentions. I swear.

When I arrive at Sal's, only eight minutes later, Maura is already inside, leaning over the counter, retelling some animated story that has the guy kneading the pizza dough doubled over in laughter.

"No way," he wheezes, smacking the dough hard with his open palm. "That s.h.i.t is legendary."

"I know, right?" Maura agrees, nodding enthusiastically, her eyes wide. "Zack!" She squeals when she sees me, taking several unbalanced steps forward before collapsing in my arms. "I found pizza!"

She smells like sweet rum and her usual spicy heat as I wrap her in my arms, holding onto her for a few moments longer than necessary. Her hair is wild and her cheeks are flushed, whether from sitting in the cold or drinking too many Captain Morgans or just because ...

"I see that," I tell her, wrapping the ends of her hair around my hand. "Did you order?"

"A whole pizza."

"Sounds good. What's up, man?" I nod at the guy behind the counter, stepping up and pulling out my wallet.

He shakes his head, still chuckling, little bits of powdery dough flying from his hands as he rings up the pizza. "Man, your girl is a f.u.c.kin' comedian."

I hand him a twenty and smile, looking over at Maura as she gathers a red pepper shaker, parmesan cheese, and a handful of napkins. I don't bother to correct him about Maura not being my girl. I like the sound of it. Too much.

I sit across from Maura in a booth. She's breathless and fidgety, clearly intoxicated, and seems to be enjoying herself more than the situation warrants. I already feel bad for the crazy hangover that's going to hit her like a MACK truck in the morning, so I grab her a bottle of water and toss a five down on the counter.

"Drink this," I tell her, uncapping the bottle and sliding it in front of her nose.

She sighs, as if I'm scolding her like a parent, but she picks up the bottle and takes a few large gulps. "I love water."

I smile. "Yeah?"

She nods seriously. "And being on the water. It's so special, you know? Especially at sunrise. And sunset." She tilts her head for several seconds, her fingernails picking at the Poland Spring's label. "And the ocean. The ocean is so powerful and overwhelming and amazing. Don't you think?"

"Sure." I try not to laugh. I don't think I've ever heard Maura talk so much. Or look so sweet and innocent. It's as if the pain from the previous year isn't suffocating her for a few moments. "So, where'd you go tonight?"

I bite the inside of my cheek as I take in her short skirt. Even though I don't have the right to ask her, the right to interrogate her, I hate the thought that she went out with some guy tonight. Let him put his hands on her, kiss her, dance with her. But if that was the case, where the h.e.l.l is he now? Did he just leave her? Who the f.u.c.k does that?

"Just out." She shrugs. "Felt like dancing." And just like that, the sadness is back in her eyes, and I could punch myself in the face for saying anything that would erase her moment of carefree playfulness.

I nod, grateful that the pizza arrives at that moment. I watch as Maura pulls a slice from the pie, sliding it onto her plate and using her finger to break the hot string of cheese anchoring her slice to the pizza as the cheese sticks to the pizza pan. She takes a bite and closes her eyes. The moan that falls from her lips is sinful, her lips pursing in appreciation as she chews slowly and swallows.

I look away, grabbing my own slice and shoving half the piece down my throat. Jesus, I can't take my eyes off of her.

"What'd you do tonight?" she asks, her fingers breaking apart a piece of crust and pulling excess cheese from the pizza pan to make little cheese and crust sandwiches.