Twenty
SORA
If you’re looking for someone else to tell you who you are, they are going to get it wrong every time. Only you can define you. No one else can. #GoSolo.
—SOLO FEBRUARY CHALLENGE
Jack calls many times that night. And the next morning. I send them all to voicemail. I just … can’t. I can’t anymore. That’s the plain truth of it. But the photo of Mal licking his face … the possessive way she’d taken hold of his arm at the awards, the fact that she sat at his table. What am I supposed to think? It’s Dan all over again, and me wandering around a banquet hall that is hosting an electricians’ union meeting instead of a bar mitzvah. And it’s Marley, too, sputtering on about how sexting isn’t cheating—technically. And Chris, telling me he was going to Cancún with a buddy from college, but then busting himself when he sent a picture of the view from his balcony, failing to note that the frame included a neon-yellow thong bikini hung out to dry over the railing.
A little voice inside my head whispers, This is what men do. You knew he was too perfect. He was going to save Valentine’s Day, and now he just reinforced what I thought all along: it’s the devil’s holiday. How could I be so gullible—again? How could I believe that Jack wouldn’t be just like the rest? I should’ve listened to my gut early on. It had been warning me all this time Jack wasn’t over Mal.
I think about Marley. About Dan. About my rotten luck. I’m spiraling down into a pity party even as I’m choking back tears. Why did I ever let Jack in? Why did I believe after a lifetime of evidence that men just lie, lie, lie, that I’d finally and at long last found one who would tell me the truth?
My nose is so red and raw that it’s peeling, and I’m so incredibly sad that I don’t know how I’ll drag myself out of this. I’ve been brokenhearted before, but never sucker punched quite like this.
I can’t even imagine considering Jack has an explanation that will make everything okay. It’s exhausting me to even try.
I’m so tired. So bone-tired. Of the lies. Of hoping it will be different this time. Being optimistic is freakin’ exhausting. Put a fork in me. I’m done. I’m tired of being duped. And the only way to stop being duped is to stop believing what everyone tells you.
In fact, to stop believing anyone. Ever.
Larry wanders over to the couch with his tongue lolling out and I crush him in a bear hug. At least dogs are loyal. From here on out, this will be the only male in my life.
I cry into his fur, acutely aware that I’ve been here before. Larry knows the drill. He turns and tenderly licks my face. Miraculously, his depth perception works right then. He doesn’t even miss this time. He gets it on the first try.
At least Larry loves me.
Sniffling, I swipe my face with paper towels because I’m out of tissues, and I realize I’ve been derelict in keeping my condo well-supplied. The fridge stands empty, and Larry’s bowl barely has kibble in it. And I’m not even 100 percent sure I have toilet paper.
My phone rings. I fumble for it and see Arial calling.
“Hello?” I answer, my voice sounding like I swallowed a cheese grater. Ugh. The ugly crying jag still lingers, apparently.
“Sora.” Arial sounds serious. Zero question marks or upward lilts. Uh-oh.
“Yes?” I sit up on my couch. Larry, who had been zonked out next to the coffee table, raises his head at the sound of my voice.
“Have you seen the reaction. To your piece.”
“No?” Now I sound like Arial, with all my sentences ending in an upward lilt. What’s happening? “Is it bad?”
“It’s not good.”
I frantically pull up Slick’s page and see a billion comments about my “take your own road” post, that I absolutely, positively wish I could take back. How stupid I sound in it. How naïve.
And the comments are brutal.
You couldn’t even make it the full month for Solo February? Are you that desperate for validation?
Or …
I can’t believe I believed you when you talked about empowerment. You were just using it to get with someone. How pathetic.
And …
I believed in you. You let me down.
How could you? Seriously! How could you?
You should be canceled. Immediately.
Hate this. Hate you.
Quitter.
Liar.
Fraud.
It’s no wonder you can’t ever find anyone to love you. You’re pathetic.
The warm community I’d built has turned cold and horrible and mean. All the people who held me up are now tearing me down. I never thought they’d turn this fast. There are hundreds of thousands of dislikes.
“You’re going to have to fix this.” Arial sounds stoic.
“Let me work on it. I’ll get you something in a couple of hours.” What, I have no idea.
“Good, because … I don’t know, Sora. If we can’t do damage control now, then no job. No benefits.”
I actually don’t know that I care. The Solo February people hate me. Jack betrayed me. My life is desolate and empty. Who cares about a job that I’m not sure I even wanted in the first place? Larry licks my elbow.
“Don’t worry. I’ll fix it,” I say anyway, even though I’m not sure how.
I hang up with Arial and immediately head to my feeds. It’s getting ugly fast.
#GoSoloFraud is trending. Wow, it’s brutal out there. Part of me knows I deserve it. But … ouch.
A hard knock comes on my door. Larry barks, confused. There was no buzzer, so he’s not sure what to make of the knock. A small part of me hopes that, somehow, it’s Jack. Another, larger part of me, dreads that possibility.
I head to the door, Larry on my heels, and peer through the peephole. Pam stands on my welcome mat.
I sigh. Really, universe? I crack open the door. Pam literally jumps back when she sees Larry. Maybe she really is afraid of dogs, and it’s not just some hate vendetta she’s got with me.
“He’s really friendly,” I try to explain.
“I’ve got your dog food box.” Pam shoves a dented farm-to-table dog food box at me, and I grab it.
“I can’t believe you brought me Larry’s box,” I say, shocked. I would’ve thought she would’ve taken this directly to the dumpster out back, given her hatred of dogs and Larry in particular.
“Just trying to be a good neighbor.” Those are the words I said to her a few weeks ago. And she’s not being sarcastic. Wow.
“Thanks,” I say, and mean it.
“Did you really quit Solo February?” she asks me.
“Yeah.” I sigh. I wonder if she’s going to pile on.
“People are being brutal to you online right now,” Pam notes. Now’s the time she can gloat. Sure, why not? I deserve it.
“They’re not being any more brutal to me than I’m being on myself, actually,” I admit. “It was a stupid mistake. The guy I broke my solo vow for lied to me.”
Pam lets out a disgusted-sounding grunt. “Don’t they all?” She sighs. “Stupid men. Thom was a liar, too. He spent our mortgage money on a woman he was having an affair with. She was a college sophomore. Can you believe it? A college kid. Nineteen years old! Nineteen! He helped pay some of her tuition.”
“Seriously?” I had no idea.
“Yeah. It was my fault for trusting him to pay all the bills. We were one missed payment away from foreclosure. But I got everything back on track. Had to dip into my 401(k), though, after I kicked him out.”
“Oh, Pam. I am so, so sorry.”
“Well, you’ve been through the wringer, too. With Marley and now … this new guy.”
“Listen, about Marley…” I start.
“It’s not your fault.” Pam waves a stiff hand at me, to stop whatever I’m going to say next. “He’s just one more jerk, just like the rest of them.”
“Yeah.”
We smile weakly at one another, a Wikipedia of shared disappointments passing between us.
“Hey … about Larry,” she adds. “I don’t have anything against Larry, exactly, I just … I got bitten by a dog when I was younger. Never really got over it.”
“Oh.” Now I kind of feel like an ass. “I’m sorry.”
“I know I’m kind of irrational when it comes to dogs.” Pam shrugs.
“Larry really is a sweetheart. I promise. He’d never hurt you. Want to pet him?”
Pam glances at Larry’s snout through the cracked door, hesitant. “I don’t know.”
“Only if you want to. You can let him sniff your hand. I mean, you did lug up his fancy kibble.”
Pam glances at me and then at Larry. She reluctantly lowers her hand to Larry. He gives it a sniff, followed by a slobbery, full-tongue lick. She jumps back a bit.
“Ew,” she says, but she laughs a little as she wipes the back of her hand on her tights.
“He likes you.”
“Great.” Pam eyes Larry. But do I see … a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth? “Okay, well. This will pass. Soon, people will be angry at someone else, and they’ll move on, and this new guy, you’ll forget him and move on, too. You’ll handle it. Because we’re the kind of women who just handle our shit.”
She nods at me, and I nod back.
This might be the kindest thing Pam has ever said to me. And her encouragement came right at the moment I needed it most.
“Thanks, Pam.”
“Well, I’ve got to get back to my laptop. I’ve got a meeting. Have a good one.”
“You, too—and, uh, thanks,” I say, shutting the door as she trots back down the stairs. Well, will wonders never cease? Did Larry and I just call a truce with Pam? Huh. That was a surprise. I think she felt sorry for me, now that all the Solo February people want my head on a pike. Still, I’ll take the pity. She’s been through it and so have I, and maybe we are pretty damn tough.
I kick the door shut with my foot and rip open the box with Larry’s gourmet sample bricks, infused with only the freshest and most organic and expensive ingredients, cooked by some celebrity chef for dogs, and packed with only the finest dry ice to keep it cool. At least, at long last, I can finally give Larry the treat he truly deserves. Larry trots over to sniff the box, but misses, again by about six inches. I pull out a vacuum-sealed brick, and wave it under Larry’s nose. He smells it, cautiously.
“You’re going to love this, Lar. All the influencer dogs are eating it. You’re going to be trendy!” I take the brick over to the kitchen, noticing it does seem to have real chunks of meat and peas in it, which I guess is good, but otherwise, it just … smells like dog food. Also, it’s an unpleasant shade of mud brown. I glance at the brochure inside the box, the one with the adorable little fluffy white dog with one paw raised in anticipation of her owner setting down her fresh lunch. That dog’s bowl really looks like it has carrots and chunks of steak in it. Hmmm. Well, we’ve got it, so why not give it a shot. I open the plastic package and spoon a little into Larry’s bowl for a taste, and then place it down in front of him. He sniffs at it, six inches off again, but then sits down and glances up at me, skeptical.
“You don’t like it?” I can’t believe it.
I take a spoonful and put it right up to his mouth. He licks at it, suspiciously, and then shifts away from it, turning his head to one side, as if I just offered him kale. He flashes me a guilty look with his one good eye.
“You really don’t like it.” I can’t believe it. One truffle-infused lamb brick costs as much as a GrubDash from the local bar and grill. I suspect Larry would rather have the double cheeseburger. What am I going to do with a box full of curated, hand-hewn dog bricks?
Larry lies down in front of his bowl and puts his head on his paws, looking contrite. I guess he just doesn’t have fancy tastes. Still, I feel like I can’t even do something nice for my dog without it backfiring.
I can’t even make Larry happy?
My life is a mess.