The Best Thing to Do When You Get a Gift From Your Ex

A woman in New York City can't survive without a cell phone. It's a fact. Especially not a woman working for Nicole Brantley. My old self would have marched into the closest Verizon and walked out with a shiny new phone one short hour later. My new self — and reduced bank balance — waits three days for my phone insurance to ship out a refurbished replacement. My new self agonizes over the $200 fee. And I hate Vic a little more with every inconvenience he has caused by taking my phone.

Having to wait in a 20-minute line for Nicole's double espresso with NO Candy Crush to pass the time.

Unable to call an Uber and having to chase down a taxi.

Eating alone at that new sushi spot because Cammie had to cancel but didn't have a way of letting me know.

My Trivia Crack games expiring due to non-activity.

Having to answer emails like a Neanderthal, my responses delayed until I can physically get to a computer with Internet.

My job probably wouldn't have survived the three-day period had it not been for the set walkies — a giant radio that hung on my hip, a cord running from it up to an equally-s#xy headpiece that Nicole insisted I wear. I look ridiculous but can hear Nicole's voice loud and clear when she barks at me. And she has been barking constantly. Even if I hadn't found the pregnancy test in her purse, I think I would have figured it out eventually. She looks exhausted, her time in hair and makeup doubled. And she's been requesting the oddest foods. Olives, coffee-flavored ice cream, feta cheese, and … what was yesterday's … oh. Banana popsicles. Try and track down banana popsicles in 15 minutes. She was frantic for the things. I didn't find them before filming regained and she had a meltdown. Joey bitched, Paulo coddled, and everyone looked at me like I was to blame.

There is one benefit of the constantly affixed headgear. I also can tune into the general set chatter, which is usually absolutely snooze-worthy. Except for today, at lunchtime, when a very excited PA made the comment that Victor Worth was on set. At the mention of Vic's name, I had immediately ducked into the wardrobe trailer, knowing that he was there for me. I hid behind racks of clothes and picked every bit of gel topcoat off my nails (No phone, remember?). I reemerged 45 minutes later when word circulated that he'd left.

When I returned to Nicole's trailer, there was a box for me, too big to hold just a phone, and I growled a little under my breath. I was not in the mood. I ripped at the ribbon with angry hands, the white lid yanked off to reveal the purse — a Balenciaga City Bag — black leather, with a card hanging off one strap. I flipped open the card, steeling myself for the message, ready for something s#xual and inappropriate, as was Vic's style.

This one zips shut. Better for not losing things.

I had to roll my eyes at that. Peeking in the bag, I spied my phone.

So he had returned it. No face-to-face meeting required, no lording the phone over me in exchange for contact.

Call me paranoid, but I didn't necessarily want it back. Not when it had been in his hands. Not when he could have gotten his geek squad to do God-knows-what to it. Tracking software? Keylogger programs? Remote access? Probably all of the above.

I ran my hand slowly, lovingly over the supple leather of the bag, its clean and beautiful lines. Then I opened up the lid to the trash and dropped the bag, phone and all, inside.