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“No idea. Maybe she’s from Kentucky and he met her on a dating app.”

“Why Kentucky?”

“Why not Kentucky?” I shrug and pull a weed with a huge root system. The sound of it being ripped from the dirt issosatisfying.

Sophie’s button nose, lightly freckled probably from mornings just like this, wrinkles. “Why does Kentucky feel like one of those states that exists but isn’t a place anyone’s actually from?”

“I don’t know, but you’re right. Except Trey’s hypothetical fiancée, I guess.”

“I wonder if she owns horses or has a thick Southern accent. Maybe she’s a debutante who likes to wear fascinators.”

“Those all seem like perfect Kentucky clichés. So, probably yes. All of those. Except … what’s a fascinator?”

“Those little hats everyone wears in England. I’m not sure if that’s what people wear to the Kentucky Derby. I’ve never watched it.”

“Me neither. It’s a lot of anticipation for something that takes two minutes.”

Sophie uses what looks like a miniature rake to level the dirt in the bed we just cleared out, and I slump onto a bench, taking a long swig of water.

“So, you’re feeling okay about the Trey thing? Do we need to talk it out? Hug it out? Maybe go out for ice cream and eat our feelings? You’ve had a lot of blows in one week.”

There’s no heartbreak where Trey is concerned, now that I’ve had a few days to settle in with the knowledge. Just an uncomfortable, sad, and still somewhat painful feeling. Like a lingering bruise fading from angry purple to a sickly yellow. It’s still visible and hurts if you press down hard, but otherwise, it’s easy to forget.

Sophie never met Trey. In fact, she and I became friends the first year PT—Post Trey—when it was less of a bruise and more of an open wound I had to tend, carefully wrapping it up every morning in thick layers of self-talk as gauze.

Once I told her the whole story, she agreed that Trey was never the right guy for me.

I think in some ways, I mourned the loss of time and effort, the loss of the idea that I’d found my great love as much as I mourned the relationship itself. The idea of being a young mom, of having my life mapped out.

All gone in an instant—poof!

“I’m feeling okay. Not sad, just awkward. I don’t want him thinking I’m still here and single, like our breakup left me in pieces while he’s clearly moved on.”

An honest answer. I haven’t had time yet to imagine my life here with the possibility I could run into my ex and his new fiancée—and, I guess, down the road, hiswife—at the grocery store. Or even the awareness every time I see Mom that she knows all about Trey’s life and how he’s doing fromhismom. The idea exhausts me.

“I mean, I’m over him.”

“Of course,” Sophie says. “If you weren’t, I’d toss you in the compost pile.”

I laugh at this, leaning forward until my elbows sink a little into the soft soil I’m turning. The scent of fresh earth, loamy and rich, is a comfort. I much prefer the smell of sugar and vanilla, but I can see the appeal here. I feel better about everything, even if my circumstances have not actually changed. Talking to Sophie and doing something with my hands gives me a fully satisfied feeling.

Amostlysatisfied feeling.

“But it’s a reminder, you know? He’s a reminder. Of what I wish I had. What I could have had, I guess. If I were … different.”

Not for the first time, I think about the baby shower cookies for Bronson and the funk they put me in.

Sophie puts down her rake and stomps over to me. Snatching my water bottle, she takes my hands in hers. The dirt on both our palms creates the tiniest friction as she squeezes.

“You are not the reason that relationship didn’t work,” she says fiercely, her brown eyes blazing. “Do you understand?”

“Please don’t make me repeat after you,” I say weakly.

She smiles, but it’s a smile with an edge. “I won’t unless I feel like you need it. But I need you to know that the reason things didn’t work with Trey was that he was a jerk. He revealed his character when he put you in an impossible situation. His proposal wasn’t a proposal. It was a test. And if someone really loves you, they don’ttestyou.”

I nod because I agree. I know all this. I’ve had to remind myself of it so many times. My therapist says the same thing.

I’ve talked through it with her for the last year, once I finally forced myself to go. And though I still am not fixed—I know that’s the wrong word, but sometimes it feels like the best one—it’s helped me see things more clearly.