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What doesn’t kill you counts as work experience.

M eg Gates studied her empty apartment through bleary eyes.

It was her and Watson. She sank into the papasan wicker chair after moving the empty wine bottle from last night next to the other one on the floor.

Meg had kept a case of Queen Anne White from the shipment that was supposed to be used to toast the happy couple at her wedding reception in two days.

Instead, her father had scheduled an appreciation party for his Stephen Gates Accounting clients.

He’d taken the wine, the reception location, and her caterer and charged them to his company credit card.

Now her wedding failure could be a tax deduction for his company rather than another hit to his bottom line, like when she’d left college to work for that start-up.

As her father always reminded her, since they weren’t related to that Gates, they had to make sure the lemons turned into lemonade.

Or, more likely, imitation lemon-flavored water.

As Meg sat staring at the Space Needle and drinking water, trying to get rid of her hangover headache, she realized she was now a three-time loser. She’d failed at college, work, and now love. But who was counting? Besides her, her family, and everyone she knew?

Last night she’d sat in this same chair, listening to John Legend and Bruno and any other artist with a sad song she could find on her phone.

She’d never figured out how to pair her phone to Romain’s pricy Bluetooth stereo, which was tucked on a bookshelf in the living room.

All his belongings were here, surrounding her.

Waiting for Romain and Rachel to return from their Italian vacation, which was supposed to be her honeymoon.

Romain Evans had been her fiancé. A few weeks before the wedding, he’d changed.

He’d been distant. Cold. She’d thought it had been pre-wedding jitters. It hadn’t been.

Rachel had been a bridesmaid and a sorority sister. What she hadn’t been was a true friend.

Mutual friends had whispered to her that Romain was moving into Rachel’s condo down by the sound. She hoped he tripped and fell off the dock. Maybe he could drown, too. But that seemed unlikely. Tripping on the way to happiness was more Meg’s style.

Several times last night, Meg had considered throwing the sleek black stereo over the side of the balcony, but it had seemed like too much work to commit to the failed relationship. Besides, at the time, she still hadn’t finished the task at hand, drinking the wine in her glass.

By the end of the night, or maybe sometime this morning, she had been playing Barry Manilow, Joni Mitchell, and the Carpenters, her mom’s favorites.

As the music played, Meg spent the time cutting her designer wedding dress into pieces that matched her shattered heart.

The lights from the Space Needle sparkled in the window and kept her company while she destroyed the dress.

Worse, she vaguely remembered possibly making a few Facebook Live posts during the night.

Her eyes felt dry from all the tears and probably also the wine. Looking at the pile of chopped white lace on the floor by her chair didn’t make her feel better. She loved the dress. Destroying it was symbolic of what Romain’s betrayal had done to her soul.

Meg had been called dramatic before.

Today, she reminded herself, was the start of a new chapter.

Twenty-six wasn’t too late to start over.

Again. Or at least she hoped it wasn’t. She might be single, unemployed, and sans degree, but there had to be real jobs out there for someone like her.

She was alive, young, and though not vibrant this morning, she could fake it.

To tide her over, her mom had hired her to work evenings at Island Books, the family bookstore on Bainbridge Island.

Meg figured it was her mom’s way of keeping her out of trouble as her heart healed.

Today was moving day. Moving home. One more indicator that her life was in the toilet.

At least she wasn’t moving back in with her mother.

Instead, Aunt Melody and Uncle Troy had let her have the apartment over the garage.

She groaned and leaned back into the chair, closing her eyes.

Maybe she could put moving off until next week.

The hangover should be gone by then. Or at least the wine would be.

Waiting meant she’d run the risk of seeing Romain. And probably Rachel. She didn’t know if she could stop herself from throwing things at them or, worse, projectile vomiting like in that old movie. Today was as good as any day to run home with her tail between her legs.

Watson, her tan cocker mix rescue, jumped onto her lap and licked her face. He must have read her mind about the dog analogy. Watson liked sleeping in, so if he was awake, it was time to take him outside for a walk.

“You know I’m destroyed, right? Heartbroken and worthless.

” She stared into his deep brown eyes as he whined his request. “If you want to be a Seattle dog, you should break free of your leash and run as far away from me as possible. Go toward the Queen Anne neighborhood. Maybe someone rich will adopt you.”

Watson patted her chest. He didn’t care about her heart; he needed to go out. She pushed him off her lap and finished the water in one gulp. Then she grabbed Watson’s neon blue leash. It matched his collar and his bed. Watson’s dog accessories were stylish and expensive.

“Don’t wear these out, buddy. For the next year or so, we’re only buying essentials.”

Watson stood at the door and whined again. He wasn’t impressed with her cost-cutting ideas.

“Fine. I’m hurrying.” Meg checked to make sure she had her keys.

No one was around to come to save her if she locked herself out except for the building’s super, who usually slept until noon.

She had people coming at ten to move her back home.

And she hadn’t paid this month’s rent yet. She’d let Romain deal with that.

Home. She’d planned on this apartment being her and Romain’s home until they got pregnant.

Then they would move out of the city and closer to his job in Bellevue.

They’d buy a cute cottage with a fenced yard for Watson and the new baby.

She’d become a tradwife with a side hustle, some sort of craft that would sell like hotcakes online.

They’d be a perfect little family. She’d even make homemade baby food.

She’d be the yoga mom who wore crazy-colored jumpsuits and Birks, except on date nights, when she would shimmer in designer dresses and heels, having magically dropped the baby weight.

Romain would never even look at another woman, he’d be so in love with her.

So that fantasy had a few holes. Romain hadn’t even made it to the wedding night.

Watson did his business, and she cleaned up, using a biodegradable bag. Just like a good dog mom. She’d done everything right. So why was she being punished?

“Wishes and horses,” she said as she found a trash can on the street and deposited the bag. A homeless man leaning against the building glared at her. Her pity party was over. It was time for a new life and a new song. She sang out quietly, “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”

Thank God for Kelly Clarkson’s anthems.

When she turned the corner toward the apartment building— Not home , she corrected herself—she saw her moving crew.

Her mom, Felicia Gates; Aunt Melody; and Natasha Jones all stood by her mom’s bookmobile van.

Someone was yelling at her brother, Steve, whom everyone called Junior.

His head stuck out the window of his Ram truck as he tried to parallel park on the street.

Dalton Hamilton, Junior’s best friend, motioned him back near the curb.

Mom’s van was parked in Romain’s spot, since his BMW was at the airport.

“Felicia, she’s across the street with Watson.” Her aunt poked her mom and pointed at Meg. She called out, “Meg, we’re here, darling. Don’t you worry anymore. We’ll have you back on the island and home in no time.”

Meg smiled, hoping she didn’t look as bad as she felt. She should have jumped in the shower, but it had felt like too much.

Bainbridge Island was a thirty-five-minute ferry ride away from Seattle in distance and more than fifty years behind the city in lifestyle.

Residents and tourists hiked and had picnics in the forests that covered most of the island.

Lately, large tracts of land were being sold with a single house built in the middle of the wooded land.

Or on the waterside of the property. Houses that longtime residents like her parents and aunt and uncle could never imagine owning.

In Seattle Meg had lived in an apartment building where no one knew her name, including the super.

She loved that freedom. Now she was moving back to the island to the apartment over her aunt Melody’s garage.

An apartment where her bedroom window overlooked the backyard and her every move could be watched.

Natasha Jones met her halfway as she and Watson crossed the street, and handed her a large coffee. “You look horrible. I should have come over last night.”

“Then both of us would be hungover, and we’d have one less bottle of wine to move.” Meg hugged her friend.

“One? I’m disappointed that you think so poorly of my ability to comfort drink.” Natasha squeezed her back. “Are you sure about moving back? It’s a big step.”