YOU KNOW THOSE days when it just feels like the universe is out to get you? And even though you know intellectually that the universe is way too busy to sit around planning your personal destruction, it still feels that way, anyway?

The next day was one of those days.

I hadn’t been awake an hour before I’d stubbed my toe, burned my toast, and watched Peanut throw up on my seagrass rug. Which happened sometimes. It didn’t necessarily mean he was sick, but I called the vet anyway. They said it was nothing to worry about, but we made an appointment for a checkup on Thursday, just to be safe. I was supposed to watch him until then and call if he seemed worse.

An appointment with Dr. Addison should have been a sunny patch upon the horizon.

But he still had never called to apologize after standing me up, so I really wasn’t sure at all how he felt about me.

I wasn’t entirely sure how I felt about him, either.

Because that “fake, not fake” kiss with Joe kept popping into my head in flashes: The tension of his surprise, and how fast he’d melted into the moment. The tickle of his hair as I’d cupped his neck with my hand. His arm tightening around me, pulling me closer. The velvety smoothness of the skin on his lips.

If anybody at all had asked me anything about it—including Joe himself

—I’d have sworn up and down it was one hundred percent platonic.

But those flashes of memory were full-body experiences. And when they appeared in my mind, I had to suck in a quick cool breath, and then stand up and walk around for a minute.

Dr. Addison needed to pick up his pace. I could feel Joe gaining on him.

But then I remembered that I was the one who’d wanted to take things slow in the first place. What was I even doing? I shouldn’t be thinking about anything at all right now except getting that portrait done—or killing myself trying. I shouldn’t be going around kissing people! Even for humanitarian reasons.

Screw humanity! I had work to do!

But first—today—I had a long to-do list. None of it fun. Starting with a brain scan with Dr. Estrera. Which meant I had to walk along Joe’s hallway and past his apartment to get to the elevator. Which was a full-body experience on its own.

This was his floor.

This was the spot where he’d handed me a box of tissues. That was his apartment door.

And there was the man himself, in his pajamas—

—coming out—

—of Parker’s apartment.

Wait—what?

I darted into the stairwell before he saw me and held my breath. Did I just see that?

It was eight in the morning. Why on earth would Joe be coming out of Parker’s apartment first thing in the morning?

Besides the obvious.

I tried to put it together. Joe. Pajamas. Parker’s apartment. Eight in the morning.

It couldn’t be what it looked like, right?

I mean, it was hard to ignore the probability that he had somehow, just hours after a fake kiss with me, added Parker to his charcuterie board of women. That he really was a mutton muncher, or whatever that old-timey insult was.

I so badly wanted there to be some other explanation. But—what?

My mind paged frantically through the possibilities. Had she pretended to faint again? Had she begged him to come kill a cockroach? Maybe her toilet was clogged and he was helpfully plunging it for her, like a gentleman?

Ugh. Ridiculous.

I couldn’t even convince myself.

While I waited for it to make sense, Parker’s hairless cat, of all things, wandered into the stairwell, as if pets were allowed to roam the halls at will. It appraised me petulantly for a minute, and then it walked right up to me, turning as it did to back up and lift its tail. I leapt away within seconds of getting peed on.

How had it come to this?

One thing was for certain: The pleasant, Joe-infused buzz I’d been feeling all morning? It stopped buzzing.

THE DAY WAS downhill from there, if you can believe it.

I mean, by the end, this day made burned toast seem adorable.

Hiding in the stairwell made me late, so I cut it a little close with the crosswalk light. I made it across, but a guy who I inconvenienced for three seconds decided to roll down his car window, shoot the bird at me, and shout, “Fuck you!” before flooring it and tearing off.

I glared after him, like, Really, sir? Wasn’t that just a little much?

He was clearly doomed to a life of rage and disappointment. But it still kind of smarted, I admit.

Next, I climbed into my waiting Uber and, trying to multitask, checked the comments on my Etsy shop on the ride—only to discover the hands- down meanest review of my work I’d ever beheld.

I took a screenshot for posterity:

These portraits are an insult to the art world. Banal, trite, and cheesy to the max, this is “art” I can’t unsee. Seriously. My eyes are burning. Trash like this is the reason humanity is doomed to hell.

Okay. Whoa.

You can’t please everybody. I get that. But “doomed to hell”?

I mean, ArtWeenie911 clearly had some issues. The level of his or her viciousness toward pleasant, smiling, fairly photorealistic portraits of people from all walks of life was … a bit extreme?

I tried not to take it to heart. For all I know, ArtWeenie911 was a troll bot. Sent to sow discord in … what? The barely-making-ends-meet online

portrait painting community?

Maybe not.

I was two for two with random acts of douchiness today.

Not counting the Joe-in-pajamas incident. By far the douchiest of all.

On the heels of that, after spending several cold hours in a medical gown in waiting rooms and various imaging scanners, I got a totally unhelpful report that showed no reduction in the edema—and then I was told again to “just be patient.”

Which of course I would. Because what choice did I have?

But how much time and money did I waste just to be instructed to do what I was already doing? There was “no change” in my situation? I could’ve told you that.

I’d been hoping against hope for a last-minute disappearance of the swelling. A lifetime of movies with underdog champions had primed me to expect that I’d find a way to triumph just in the nick of time.

But that wasn’t happening.

Not to mention all day long I was getting stalked by Lucinda, who insisted she needed to speak with me “urgently” about “a matter of great concern.”

Texts and phone calls I ignored, of course.

Pro tip for dealing with Lucinda: If she ever says anything is urgent, just run and hide.

Add to my list of grievances: Strappy sandals that were giving me a blister. A phone with three percent battery. The moment when I forgot my purse in a waiting room and had to race back to find it. Not to mention: The art store was still out of linden-green gouache, and the grocery store was out of the only vet-recommended dog food that Peanut would eat.

By the time I limped home, the sun was setting, my Achilles tendon was stinging, and I felt like the day was positively bullying me. Somewhere along the way, I’d started keeping a mental tally of the insults and injuries

—almost as if I could submit the list and demand a refund.

Even the prospect of seeing Joe that night felt like an attack. Either he wouldn’t tell me about Parker—which would be bad. Or he would tell me— which would be worse.

One thing I knew: I did not want to know.

But there was no wriggling out of any of it. The only way out of this day was through. So as I geared up for the home stretch, I stopped at Bean Street for a half-caf latte—for both comfort and caffeine.

And that’s when Parker descended upon me, just as Hazel One handed me my coffee.

“Lucinda’s been trying to reach you all day,” Parker said.

Parker. Of course. Who else would reek of Poison and know that about Lucinda?

“Yeah. Well. I’ve been kind of busy.” “I bet you have.”

She wanted me to ask her what that was supposed to mean. So I didn’t.

She went on. “Saw you smooching the Vespa guy last night. Which of course provoked me to retaliate.”

Retaliate? What did that mean? Did that explain his morning walk of shame? Had she shown up at his door at midnight in a bustier and garters? I felt disloyal to myself admitting this, but Parker was, technically, a good- looking person. She had enough to work with in the looks department that she could have pulled off a stunt like that.

She wanted me to react to that. So I didn’t.

And then I had a freeing thought. I didn’t have to stand here. I could just … leave.

I didn’t have to stay. I didn’t have to let her push my buttons. I didn’t want to let this escalate. I just wanted to get outside. I could see the sunshine just past the windows.

I started walking toward the exit doors. But Parker followed me. I’d just reached them when she caught up.

“You didn’t let me give you my news,” she said. “I’m coming to your show.”

And there it was. So much for just leaving. She got me. I turned back. “My what?”

“Your little art thingy.”

The portrait show? The biggest, most important moment in my entire career? She was coming to that? “You can’t,” I said. “You’re not invited.”

But she shook her head and shrugged. “Open to the public. It’s on the website.”

“You’re not invited,” I said again.

“Sure I am.”

“You can’t.” Then, panicking—looking for a strong enough word: “I forbid it.”

She looked at me like I was contemptibly funny. “Lucinda and Daddy and I are all going.”

Had Parker just called my father Daddy? Nobody called my father Daddy. Not even me.

“We’re going to make a night of it,” she went on. “No,” I said.

She went on, “Maybe hit a Brazilian steakhouse for dinner. Too bad you can’t join.”

“No,” I said again.

She absolutely loved how furious this was making me. “No what?” she asked, knowing perfectly well.

“No. This is my thing. And I don’t want you there.”

“That’s so funny,” she said. “Because, as usual, I don’t think you can stop me.” Then she waved at me all cutesy, like Buh-bye, before seeming to remember one last thing. “Oh! Did you get my comment?”

I shook my head. Curious, despite myself.

“The one I left at your Etsy store today.” Then she gave me a mischievous shrug and turned to go.

But I guess this was when the tsunami started to reach the shore. “Why?” I called after her.

Parker turned.

“Why?” I said again—all the pressure in my body making the sound tight and sharp. “Why, why, why, why, why can’t you just leave me the hell alone?”

And there it was. She got me in the end. As always. And now her work was done. “I don’t know,” she said with a cheerful shrug before turning to walk away. “It’s just so fun to watch you fall apart.”

I blinked after her for a second, and then I turned to push out the doors and escape into the sunshine. But as I did, all that building anger somehow shot into my arm like a bolt of lightning—and I accidentally on purpose slammed the coffee-shop door behind me.

The glass coffee-shop door.

Which, apparently—I was about to discover—had a broken soft-close hinge.

Because when I slammed it? It slammed. Hard.

It felt satisfying for a second, I’ll admit. But then, as if in slo-mo, all the glass popped, shattered, and rained to the floor.

I turned back at the sound and stared at the violence of what I’d done. The gaping hole of the empty doorframe. Glass everywhere. People staring. All movement and conversation frozen. A teenager started filming with his phone.

I put my hand to my mouth. I looked up and saw Hazel One over by the coffee station. She was the first person to spring into action, and she grabbed a broom and a dustpan and came my way.

“I’m so sorry,” I said as she got close. “I didn’t mean to do that.” Then, of course: “I’ll pay for it. I’ll fix it.” I’d figure it out somehow.

“Don’t worry,” Hazel One said kindly. “The hinge is broken. Happens all the time.”

It definitely did not happen all the time. But I was too mortified to argue.

And then the craziest, trippiest, most unreal thing I’ve ever seen in my life happened right before my eyes. Hazel One leaned her broom against the doorjamb for a second, preparing to start sweeping up the mess, and she pulled out a ponytail holder from her apron pocket, lifted her hands behind her head to twist her hair into it, and when she dropped her hands again … she was Hazel Two.

What I’m saying is this: Hazel One always wore her brown hair down, and Hazel Two always wore her brown hair in a ponytail—and that’s how I could tell them apart. And in that one impossible moment, I watched Hazel One become Hazel Two right before my eyes.

Like a horror movie.

I gasped out loud at the sight.

“Wait…” I said, taking a step back. “What just happened?” “When?” Hazel Two asked, starting to sweep.

“Are you Hazel One or Hazel Two?”

Now she looked up. I could feel the confusion in her expression. “Huh?”

“Of the two Hazels who work here,” I said, with a feeling like this question was already doomed, “which one are you?”

A pause. Then she shook her head. “I’m the only Hazel who works here.”

“Always?” I asked. “Has there ever been another Hazel working here?” “Nope,” Hazel said, getting back to sweeping. “Just me.”

Oh, my god. There was only one Hazel who worked here. The girl with the bob and the girl with the ponytail were the same person.