I start to get annoyed by the fuss over my face when one of our regulars tells me it's nice to finally see me happy. Apparently, a little eyeshadow and foundation are enough to make people assume I've turned my whole life around. Like not trying before meant I was miserable and single.

But it's Jack's comment that finally pushes me over the edge. It took him three years to call me pretty, and he only managed it when I looked nothing like myself. He didn't notice me until I looked like every other girl who throws herself at him.

I think I have to accept that I'm just not Jack's type and never will be. That's probably why he friend-zoned me so fast when we started working together. I kept hoping his feelings would shift once we started hanging out outside of Mag's, but he always had some girl draped over him at the lake, and I constantly had to watch him shamelessly flirt through every shift like it was a sport.

 Unrequited love is actual torture.

The thing about Jack is that he's smart, rich, and unfairly attractive. His dad and uncle run an architecture firm here in Phoenix, and Jack's sliding right into the family business. His parents are the kind of supportive that borders on mythical, emotionally and financially. Everything seems to fall into place for him: girls, money, happiness... math.

I finally get the door to my pathetic square open and throw myself onto the futon. I usually shower after a long night, but tonight I just don't have the energy. I don't care about skincare routines or sticky skin. I just want to crawl under the covers and ignore everything else. I have tried to make this feel like a fresh start, but the familiar faces and shitty living situation reminds me I am no better off than when I left. Why did I let Blake consume a year of my life? 

I remember the night I met Blake. I had come straight to work after being with Jack in the sun all day. I was glowing from prolonged sun exposure and on a high from having so much fun with my epic crush. I remember I was cleaning up bar glasses from pub tables when a guy with a backward Yankee's cap came over to me and asked if I was a dancer. I had laughed and asked how he knew.

"My sister is a ballerina. You all have this way of walking that exposes you. You're graceful," he said as he leaned into my ear.

"Oh, well, not graceful enough for Juilliard apparently," I joked back, feeling the sting of rejection again, even though it had been years.

"Ah, Juilliard. The name that haunted my household," he said and then added, "My sister always thought she'd go there."

"Really? I asked, "Did she?"

"No, she wasn't accepted. She still lives in New York, though. That's where I am from originally, came out here for work. I'm trying to get back out there." Hearing New York come from this attractive stranger's mouth tugged on my soul. Oh, how I had longed to meet someone who loved New York as much as I did. 

"Oh no way, I'm from New York! My mother was a violinist in the New York Philharmonic until her arthritis moved us here. I went to Juilliard for a couple of years and then wound up back here," I told him, as I realized I still had dirty glassware in my hands. 

"I grew up on 57th. Near Lincoln Square."

"Oh, no way! I was on 46th. Near Rockefeller." I was shocked that we grew up ten blocks from each other in the same part of the city and were now in the same bar in Phoenix. He then started talking about his favorite spots in the city, and I talked about how much I missed it. I stood there talking to the handsome stranger until Jack shouted that he needed backup at the bar. 

It wasn't until Hannah handed me a receipt that I realized his name was Blake and saw his number scribbled in blue pen at the bottom. It was the first time I had ever gotten a number while working. The first time I had ever connected with someone so quickly and it wasn't through a text box on a stupid dating app or a setup by Stella. Not only was he charming, but he was from New York and was desperate to get back there. It seemed like fate at the time. 

I roll over and squeeze my face into my pillow. Tears slowly spill onto the cheap cotton, and I am still angry at myself for being so stupid. I found out later he had only come over to talk to me because he was trying to avoid his Tinder date that had just shown up and realized he wasn't attracted to her. He used me to avoid her. When he confessed this, I once again said it was fate intervening because what if he had met her and she ended up being 'the one'? Then we'd never have met. My brain never connected that it wasn't fate. Blake was just an asshole.

Looking back, I keep seeing red flags that I ignored. I liked that this handsome accountant was into me, and I ignored my gut. Things felt so easy at first that I thought it was all meant to be. My parents loved that I had found someone financially stable who had connections to New York. They shoved me toward him because it was moving me toward the life they always wanted me to have. My mother longed to be back in the city; she left her heart in Manhattan and hated her body for forcing her to leave the harsh weather. When she found out Blake's parents' apartment was within walking distance to Lincoln Center, she gave me the same look as she did when I got accepted to Juilliard. 

Blake supported my dream of opening a bakery until he noticed I wasn't tracking my sugar intake. He supported me until he realized I still had two years left before finishing my business degree, and that all of my baking knowledge came from trial and error and a YouTube channel. I hadn't gone to culinary school. I had just perfected a sugar cookie recipe, and Stella pushed me online.

My hundreds of thousands of followers across all my platforms meant little to him because I wasn't earning the kind of money New York demanded. My cute, unique sugar cookies weren't putting smiles on anyone's faces unless I found someone to make up for my lack of business experience and help finance my learning curve.

One of his acquaintances helped get me hired at a bougie bakery near Times Square. It sounded impressive, but in reality, I spent most of my time in the back, whipping up massive batches of frosting and hunching over baking sheets to pipe out perfect rows of macarons.

Gone were the days of creating fun cookie shapes and an array of colors for frosting. Blake hated piping bags littering the kitchen and was always moving my ring light and tripod off the counter. He didn't realize how much time photographing and uploading content to my channels took and he wanted me focused on opening the bakery as I had planned. 

I think he started to get embarrassed when I would advertise my cookie channel to people at his work gatherings. He would quickly add that my followers were just waiting for me to open that bakery. That I was a businesswoman first, baker second. Then he'd mention that I had gone to Juilliard for ballet, and just as my parents ' friends used to do, his peers would become more interested in that aspect of my life.

I'm so irritated that I can't sleep. The hard-as-a-rock futon is making it impossible to get comfortable, so I throw my top sheet off and cross into the kitchen. My anger has finally made me see that I cannot let Blake ruin the one thing I enjoy doing. I cannot lose my beloved followers and neglect my channels because of a cheating asshole. 

I whip the small fridge open and see that I have exactly what I need to put a smile on my face. I came back to Phoenix to focus on school and growing my cookie business, and that is exactly what I intend on doing.