Done deal, I write.Can’t wait to see you guys!
Don’t puke this time, Tori says.
I won’t, I promise.I’m in a MUCH better place now.
Several more texts full of emojis and x’s and o’s fly across my screen, and I get off the train at my station.
I have so much to be grateful for, I decide.
A second shower and quick snack later, I’m cleaning off my kitchen table, daydreaming about ideas for new stories, when my cell phone rings. It’s Lindsay’s office number. I take a deep breath and swallow, willing the sesame bagel and cream cheese I just ate to stay down.She didn’t want to deal with you anymore, I remind myself.She said to talk to her through Evan from now on, remember?I say a silent prayer, hoping it’s Evan on the other end of the line.
“Hello?”
“Happy Spiral Tuesday, friend,” I hear.Thank God.
“Evan.” I sigh. “I’m so glad it’s you.”
“Listen, boo, I can’t talk because it’s like full-tilt armageddon over here. Real end-of-days stuff.” His voice is more serious than I’ve ever heard it before.
“What? What are you talking about?”
“I just wanted to give you the world’s fastest FYI. I’m pretty sure your girl is done,” he heavy-whispers.
“Lindsay?”
“Mm hmm. I’m not exactly sure what the story is, but she threw a chair through the glass wall in the conference room.”
“Shut up! Why?”
“She was meeting with some guy, but I don’t know all the deets because I was in the bathroom. My body’s still working through a new sushi place I regret having tried this weekend.”
“Gross,” I say.
“Yeah, well, all I know is that there’s yelling going on. I feel like we’re all frozen, like that moment inJerry Maguirewhere Tom Cruise goes off the deep end. This is, like, breaking news right now.”
“Why would she—?”
“No idea, G. But she’s in with Sean and Kath right now. And you know that’snevera good thing. Oh, shit! I gotta go. I’ll keep you posted.”Click.
What the hell?
I can’t sit with this kind of news and not talk tosomeone. I want to call Colin, but his secretary said he wouldn’t be in until after lunch and I remember he’s been dealing with the Realtor, so I don’t want to interrupt him if he’s already stressed out by that. I consider emailing him, but we’re in sort of a weird place right now and I’m sure the last thing he needs is more drama concerning his ex-wife. Nobody likes that.
I decide to go grocery shopping. I should be brainstorming, but now that the Cheez-Its are gone, there are no emergency snacks in my house, and I typically brainstorm solutions to life-altering situations best with empty carbs on hand.
I pull on my shoes and get the reusable shopping bags out of my front hall closet. I grab my credit card and house keys, and nearly leave without my cell phone. Dorian Gray gives me a look of pure disdain as I grab it from the windowsill where he’s having a sunbath. I shove it in my back pocket. “Lucky you’re cute,” I mumble at him.
I’m putting together a mental grocery list when I open the door to my building and breathe in the late morning air. The scent of dirt and mulch lets me know the landscapers are doing their thing along the front of the building. A car alarm in the distance fails to drown out the sound of two birds chirping in the tree above. Spring is really here, bringing with it all sorts of hopeful promises for the bright days of summer that lie ahead. I walk with my head held high, breathing in the aromatic fragrances of budding trees mixed with bus exhaust. I get to the crosswalk at Ocean Avenue and wait for thewalksign to signal my safe passage through the intersection. Up ahead, the Stop & Shop promises an abundance of treats to fuel my creativity.
It is as I am crossing the street that I consider a new heroine: an ingenue not unlike myself, an independent young woman with strength, good looks, and a big heart who suffers the misfortune of poor communication with a new lover, resulting in his ex-wife somehow throwing a monkey wrench into their relationship. It’s all too common, but I have lived it now, so certainly I could embellish and exaggerate the romantic interludes to excite my readers. I could give her an exotic name, like Diamonique or Philomena, and she could—
Oh, shit! Ow!
I don’t see the curb.
In fact, the next thing I know, I’m flat on the ground, my reusable bags parachuting in the wind to the side of me. The heels of my hands are scraped and my chin hurts. I touch it with my finger; I can feel the blood.
“You okay?” a driver, stopped at the light, hollers out his window at me. I hold my hand up to wave, then pull myself up onto all fours and survey my surroundings. A black metal grate with oval-shaped holes is clearly the culprit: I must have tripped on the edge of the sewer.
