I lean my head back against the window, willing the universe not to add the acquisition of head lice to the endless list of momentous events happening to me today, and close my eyes. I inhale the scent of Headphone Guy’s sweaty armpits mixed with traces of deodorant he likely slathered on hours (or days) ago, mixed with the familiar urine smell all New Yorkers expect from the subway. I consider the gravity of what has happened and draw a picture in my mind. Colin went to Vision Board to try and talk to Lindsay. Lindsay freaked out and threwa chair through the window, thus getting herself fired and losing my book deal.
Essentially, my new boyfriend sabotaged my whole career.
Stop it, I chide myself.He was trying to help. He couldn’t have known she would explode like that.
Oh, really?my cynical side asks.He just told me, like, a dozen stories about the level of crazy that she is. How could he think she would be anything OTHER than clinically insane?
My schizophrenic brain volleys this birdie back and forth over the net of my patience. By the time I get to the Broadway-Lafayette station, I am ready for a drink.
The girls already have a table at Rollicks, no doubt thanks to Melly’s low-cut, skintight dress and this obsequiousMike, who thinks she’s all that. They wave me over when they see me enter the restaurant, which is busier than I’d expect for a Tuesday night.
“Girl, you look toreup,” Tori says.
Alisha smacks her in the arm. “Stop it!” she says. “Gracie, are you okay?”
“Yeah, what happened here?” Melly asks, pointing her finger in a circle in front of my bandaged chin. “This is not a celebration face.”
I sigh. “Did you order drinks yet?”
Melly sits up straight, putting her hefty C-cups on full display. “First round’s on Mike,” she announces proudly.
“Yeah? That’s fantastic,” I say. “I’ll take a double shot of Malibu.”
“Uh-oh,” Alisha says. “Somethingiswrong.”
A waitress comes over and I repeat my order.
“Spill it,” Tori says.
“Before I evenbeginto tell you about my day, I need your phone numbers.” I pull out my new phone and pass it to Tori. “Please just program them in for me. I can’t deal with that thing right now.”
“What happened to your old phone?” Alisha asks.
“It’s probably washed out into Jamaica Bay by now,” I say. “I dropped it in the sewer when I fell and split open my chin earlier today.”
“Oh, honey,” Melly says.
“That’s not even the worst of it,” I say.
“Yikes. What else?” Alisha asks.
I shake my head. “I don’t even know where to begin.”
“We got you, girl. Just say it real fast, like ripping off a Band-Aid,” Tori says. “I mean, don’tactuallyrip off your Band-Aid.” She laughs.
“Very funny.” Melly rolls her eyes.
“I lost the deal,” I say.
Alisha’s face scrunches up so she looks a little like a french bulldog. “Huh?”
“The half-million-dollar deal with Cabaret books,” I explain. “It’s over. Not happening,” I say. My insides twist. My drink is set down in front of me and I gulp it back gratefully.
“How?” Tori asks.
The rum hits me quick, and I eagerly welcome the social lubrication.I’m tired of being Gracie the loser, Gracie the fuck-up, Gracie with the cheating ex-fiancé, Gracie who slips in her own vomit at the club, Gracie who still lives in Brooklyn because her life’s such a mess. I’m so over it!
“Remember I texted you about how I was talking to Colin Yarmouth?”
