f*****g messed up life.
There I was, sitting at the kitchen table, fork in hand, staring at the guy sitting across from me—Anya’s boyfriend or fling or... whatever. I didn’t even remember his name anymore. Was it Mike? Matt? Maybe it started with an “R”? Not that it mattered.
He kept giving me that polite, we’re going to pretend this isn’t awkward as hell smile, the kind that made my skin crawl. I stabbed my fork into the overcooked pasta on my plate, twirling it half-heartedly.
“So, Camila,” he started, leaning forward like we were about to have a deep, meaningful conversation. “What do you—”
The sound of Anya’s chair scraping against the floor cut him off, and we both turned to look at her. She was already standing, phone in hand, looking like she was about to bolt.
“Sorry, I’ve
