“Gerald wants his latte.”
“Ah.” He nodded sympathetically. “Did he do the thing where he yells your name across the entire floor like you’re a misbehaving dog?”
“He did the thing.”
“Classic Gerald.” He held out one of the donuts. “Chocolate glazed. Figured you could use it.”
I took it, because I was not above stress-eating pastries at ten in the morning. “You’re a saint.”
“I’m really not.” He grinned. It was a nice grin. Easy in a way that made my shoulders relax slightly. “But I’ll accept the compliment.”
We stood there for a moment—me holding Gerald’s latte and a donut, him looking at me with an expression I couldn’t quiteread. He opened his mouth to say something else, but Gerald’s voice thundered across the newsroom again.
“PAULINE! TODAY, PLEASE!”
I sighed. “Duty calls.”
I delivered Gerald’s latte and spent the next three hours transcribing an interview about municipal water regulations. Thrilling stuff. The kind of hard-hitting journalism I had always dreamed of doing.
By the time I got home that evening, my feet ached and my head throbbed and I wanted nothing more than to collapse on my bed and not move for twelve hours. Instead, I kicked off my shoes, grabbed leftover Chinese food from the fridge, and called Claudette.
She answered on the second ring.
“Finally! I was starting to think you’d forgotten about me.”
“Impossible,” I said, wedging the phone between my ear and shoulder while I struggled to open the container of lo mein. “You’re like a fungus. You grow on people whether they want you to or not.”
“That’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
“I’m very poetic.”
“Michael!” she called, her voice muffled like she’d turned away from the phone. “Pauline says I’m like a fungus!”
I heard Michael’s voice in the background, amused. “She’s not wrong.”
“I’m surrounded by traitors,” Claudette announced. “My own husband. My own best friend. The betrayal is staggering.”
I smiled despite myself. This was what I needed. Claudette’s warmth cutting through the cold of the day, reminding me that not everyone in the world was trying to step on me to get ahead.
“How’s married life treating you?” I asked.
“Perfect. Absolutely Perfect. He makes me breakfast every morning. He leaves little notes in my lunch. Last week he bought me flowers for no reason at all. I’m living in a Hallmark movie,”
“You should do an advert for marriage. You’d convince anyone.”
She laughed, bright and happy. Claudette had always laughed like that, like joy was something she had in endless supply. Even when she was sick, even when the tumor was eating her alive, she had still found reasons to laugh. “Okay, but enough about my disgustingly perfect life. Tell me about yours. How’s California? How’s the apartment? Have you been eaten by Meatball yet?”
“Meatball and I have reached an understanding. I don’t make direct eye contact, and he doesn’t try to sit on me.”
“That sounds like a healthy relationship.”
“It’s the most functional relationship I’ve had in years.”
Claudette snorted. “That’s depressing.”
“I prefer ‘realistic.’”
“Same thing, babe.” She paused, and I could hear her settling into what was probably a bed. “Okay, but seriously. How are you? How’s work going?”
