I fix my hair, using a healthy dose of root cover-up, apply my makeup, then give myself a quick once-over. I walk over to the full-length mirror hanging next to the door of my bedroom and snap a full-body photo and send it to Minnie.
Claire: Heading out to find a job! Think anyone will hire an experienced woman with no work history?
Minnie: Heck yeah! They’d be crazy not to!
Thank God for my daughter. I can’t rant about her father or drag her into the depressing parts of starting over, but she’s an excellent cheerleader.
And currently my only friend.
In return, she sends me a selfie of her standing outside a gorgeous old brick building at Oxford.
Minnie: Do you believe I get to go to class here?
I smile and tap the photo.
Claire: That is stunning, and so are you! Have an amazing day!
I tuck the phone away, grab my bag, keys, and the giant sugar cookies I baked this morning, and walk outside. I pull the door shut behind me, and yep.
It locks.
Across the courtyard, Lorraine stands. “Claire!” She waves and rushes toward me, holding up her phone like she’s recording something. I look around the courtyard and behind me, wondering why in the world she’s putting me in her video.
“This is my neighbor Claire,” Lorraine says to the screen. “Smile and wave!”
I do as I’m told with an “Uh, hi!” unsure how to politely excuse myself because I really don’t need to be in on this call to her grandkids or whoever she’s talking to.
Lorraine smiles at the screen, holding it a little closer. “For any gentlemen out there, Claire is recently divorced, new to the city, and looking for a good time.”
“What the...?!”
“Notthatkind of good time,” she says, holding the phone closer. “I just meant you want to explore Chicago.” Then, back to the screen, “In case any handsome fellas out there want to be her tour guide.”
She pans the phone at me, up and down. “Isn’t sheadorable?!”
“Lorraine,” I hiss. “Who are you talking to?”
“YouTube,” she says gleefully.
My frown deepens. “Who are you really talking to?”
“I told you.” She flips the phone around so I can see the screen. “Smile! We’re live!”
I stare at her phone, slack-jawed. “Live?!”
“Yes, I have a channel,” she says, turning it back around.
A serial dater who owns the building and an elderly YouTuber. Who am I going to meet next—a brother and sister who lead a soul funk band? A quirky child prodigy attending Columbia at age twelve? This building could be a half-hour sitcom.
“What are those?” She nods down at the container I’m holding.
“Oh, I, uh, baked cookies,” I say.
“You bake?”
I nod. “Helps relieve stress.”
She looks at the screen. “And she bakes!” She flips it to face me, and I smile weakly, holding up the cookies.
