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You knowthat feeling of instant panic you get when you think you sent a text to the wrong person? That “Oh, crap, what did I just do?” moment? And then you find out it went to the right person after all, and you laugh and move on with your life?

My boyfriend is having that moment right now.

Except, hedidsend the text to the wrong person. I know because he’s never called me “Sugar Baby.”

I read the message several times, having trouble processing it.

Kevin: Hey, Sugar Baby. Piper’s working tonight. You should come over and keep me company. I’m lonely. ;)

Sugar. Baby.

All I can picture is a tiny, diapered cherub waving a giant lollypop. Is that really the best pet name he could come up with? What’s wrong with that man?

“Piper?” Olivia says, startling me.

I immediately jam the phone into my back pocket, filled with irrational shame. LikeIdid something wrong.

“Sorry, what?” I shove my bangs out of my eyes, cursing the cheap hairspray I bought. I then force a smile for my friend, pretending everything is peachy.

Around us, vendors prep for the weekly farmer’s market that begins in less than thirty minutes, hauling things from trucks, vans, and small enclosed trailers. The sights and sounds, even the smells, are familiar, but I feel as if my world just shattered. Now everything is an unfamiliar, hollow blur.

Olivia narrows her eyes. “You okay?”

“What? Yes, I’m good. Totally okay. Nice day, right? I was worried about those clouds this morning, but?—”

“You sound like a caffeinated chipmunk. What’s wrong?”

Hand trembling, I pull the phone out of my pocket and offer it to her. My face flushes, and I begin to feel lightheaded. Before I up and pass out, I press my hands onto the tailgate of my blue 1974 Chevy pickup and hop up. My legs swing as I focus on my breathing. In. Out.

In…and out.

“What the…” Olivia mutters under her breath after she reads the text.

“I know,” I say.

“Seriously, what the?—”

“Yep.” I stare at a fire hydrant across the street.

Olivia looks up, worry written across her pretty face. With her green eyes that tilt up at the outside corners, golden hair with just a touch of copper, and tiny, delicate nose, I’ve always thought she looks like a pixie. Right now, she looks like aticked-offpixie.

Slowly, she returns my phone. “What are you going to do?”

Hands clammy, I respond to the text even though I feel like I might throw up. Then I turn to the flower-filled buckets in the truck bed. “I’m going to work. Did you bring the cart?”

“Yeah, I’ll go grab it. What did you say to him?”

I slide off the tailgate, pull on my dark purple leather gloves, and tug buckets onto the ground. “I broke up with him.”

“Just like that?” Olivia exclaims. “You’ve been dating for two years. Don’t you think you should talk to him?”

“Nope.” My stomach rolls again, but I ignore it. “Are you going to get the cart, or should we haul these to the stand by hand?”

“Just hold on a minute,” Olivia calls over her shoulder as she scurries off. “I’ll be right back.”

Once she’s gone, I close my eyes. A stupid tear runs down my cheek, and I quickly wipe it away with my arm. My chin wobbles, and I bite my lip, trying to hold myself together.