I eat too. Buffalo wings with bleu cheese dressing. A chicken avocadosun roll (which is like an egg roll pretending to be healthy). Something called tornado shrimp, which is sweet and spicy and nestled in a bed of lettuce. Halfway through dinner, I order fried Oreos, and when I’m done with those, I order a pear and goat cheese salad with house-made cheese bread on the side.
It should come as no surprise to anyone when I excuse myself to go to the bathroom and end up vomiting on a birthday cake being delivered to a family by a brigade of servers.
Next thing I know, I’m right where I was a week and a half ago, sitting in the backseat of an Uber, being driven home as a punishment for my indiscretions.
Out the window, the world whizzes by. Streetlights flash so quickly that they make me uncomfortably dizzy. I fish my phone out of my purse and look down at my lap, unlocking the screen to maintain my focus on anything other than the spinning sidewalks outside of this fine Toyota Camry driven by a man named Rolf, who I casually mention has the same name as the piano-playing dog fromThe Muppets.
Rolf is not amused by this, so it appears he is done speaking to me.
My $300 cellular device informs me that I have four missed calls, all from the same number. I do not have this number programmed in my phone. I try to call it, but my thumb is too rough with the screen, so nothing happens. I try again with a gentler touch, and voila! Success. I put the phone to my face and listen to it ring.
“Hello?”
I know this voice.“Colin?” I ask.
“Gracie! Where have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you all night!”
“I have been out celebrating!” I declare.
“Really?” he asks. “Celebrating what?”
“Why, the death of my career, of course! And I have you to thank!” I announce. Rolf looks at me in the rearview mirror.
“About that,” Colin says. “I am so, so sorry, Grace. I went in there to try and talk somesenseinto her—”
“But instead, you destroyed the tiny bit of hope I had left in my life. Really, Colin, well done,” I say.
“I’m sure it’s not that bad,” he says.
“Not that bad?” I cackle. “Colin, do you know that I have about $46 in my checking account at the present moment?”
Rolf shakes his head, undoubtedly concerned about the overdraft fees I’ll be accruing in order to pay him for our time together this evening.
“No,” he mumbles.
“Well, it’s true. I’m just a heartbeat away from homelessness, you could say. And theonething I had going for me—a book I wrotewithoutyour help—was supposed to sell for $500,000! I was getting ready toretire in style, Col-in!”
“I didn’t know that,” he says.
“I didn’ttellyou because it wasn’t important. I’m a grown woman. I can take care of myself without divulging the details of my bank statements to you. And maybe I was afraid that if I did express my momentary impoverished status, you might classify me with the likes ofElle—a financial geologist mining the trenches for buried treasure and such.”
“I don’t think you’re a gold digger, Gracie.”
We hit a bump, and I feel half-digested food shift in my overfilled stomach. I burp aloud. “Excuse me, Rolf,” I say. He makes a disturbed face. “Bottom line, Colin. I was walking a fine line when you reentered my life. I’d been to hell and back and was holding myself together by a thread.” My voice keeps getting louder. “And you, my friend. Well. You”—I consider my metaphors—“are the scissors in my ass.”
“You don’t mean that,” he says.
“Oh, but I do. You ruined what little glimmer of hope I had left! Now I have literally nothing!”
“I canhelpyou with money, Grace,” he says. “And it wouldn’t be like it was with Elle! I know you’re working hard. Iknowyou’re not looking for a sugar daddy.”
“I don’t need yourcharity,” I seethe. “In fact, I think you should really quit while you’re ahead.”
“What are you saying?”
I hiccup. “I think you’ve done enough.”
“What does that mean?” he asks in a small voice.
