him leave me. I want to snatch him up, hold him in my lap, squeeze him, smell him, and kiss his soft cheeks. The other part is happy for this momentary reprieve; my encounter with Alice has drained me. Wrapping both my hands around the warmth of my coffee mug, I exhale deeply, lift my chin toward the ceiling, and close my eyes.
“That bad?” my sister inquires.
“Yes.” I hold my position. Avoiding eye contact with her is the best way to keep her from seeing what is going on with me.
“How’d it go with Alice?” She will not let it be.
I shrug, lower my chin, and open my eyes, only to see her take an enormous bite of the lemon-cream cheese Danish she set out with the coffee. She says something else, but it comes out muffled—along with a few crumbs of pastry—as she tries to chew.
“Nice manners. Mom would be proud.”
Her mouth still full, she widens her blue eyes, purses her lips, then flips me off.
“Ooo, nice manicure, too!”
Jess finishes chewing, takes a sip of her coffee, and admires her nails. “Thanks. I just got them done last night.” She holds up the Danish. “You should have one of these.”
I eye one—the biggest, of course—thick and gooey with bright yellow and creamy white sweetness. I sigh. “No, I shouldn’t. My ass is spreading like butter just looking at them.”
She pushes the plate toward me. “You had to give up booze, for Christ’s sake. Have a damn Danish.”
She has a point. I grab the one I want and take a small bite, letting it melt on my tongue. I fully intend to eat only half of it. Two minutes later, I’ve devoured the entire thing. “Mmm. God, I hate you,” I say.
Jess pulls her chin into her neck, perfectly plucked eyebrows raised. “What did I do?”
“You won the genetic lottery. You never exercise, eat like a horse, and don’t gain an ounce. You suck.”
“Whatever. You have multiple orgasms.”
I snort. My stories of four, five, even eight orgasms one night with Martin—back before we went all to hell—drove her mad with envy. It’s the one area I can one-up my sister and though I know I shouldn’t, I revel in it.
“Okay,” I consent, “I suppose that makes us even. Sort of.” I sip my coffee. “Where’s Derek?”
“Showing property. He’s trying to get some horrible couple to buy a condo downtown. He bet me ten bucks he could have them writing an offer by the end of the day.”
“Huh.” I don’t pretend to understand the real-estate industry, though I do attempt sympathetic and interested noises when my sister begins to talk about her job. Since the boys were born almost three years ago, Derek carries the weight of the upfront selling and Jess works behind the scenes to run the business from home. She picks up clients where she can to help make ends meet, especially since the market took a nosedive. Luckily, their brokerage was strong enough to weather the economic downturn, but even so, most months they’ve been forced to dip into the savings they’d each built up during the late 1990s housing boom. Accordingto Jess, those funds are quickly depleting, so each sale they make today takes on greater significance for their financial survival.
“How’s work going for you?” Jess asks.
I shrug. “Okay, I guess. I’m having a hard time getting back into it.” For too many months, pulling the words from my brain to write has felt like trying to squeeze fluid from stone. It made sense when I was actively drinking, I suppose, since my thoughts were muddied by alcohol, but Andi says this is normal even now; for up to two years my brain cells will be in the process of rebuilding. Post-acute withdrawal symptoms, she calls it. Memory loss and the lack of ability to focus are only the tip of the dysfunctional iceberg. I already went through Baby Brain; apparently, Booze Brain is a similar experience.
“I did get a call from Peter the other day,” I say. “My old editor at the
Herald
?”
“Oh, right,” Jess says, taking
“That bad?” my sister inquires.
“Yes.” I hold my position. Avoiding eye contact with her is the best way to keep her from seeing what is going on with me.
“How’d it go with Alice?” She will not let it be.
I shrug, lower my chin, and open my eyes, only to see her take an enormous bite of the lemon-cream cheese Danish she set out with the coffee. She says something else, but it comes out muffled—along with a few crumbs of pastry—as she tries to chew.
“Nice manners. Mom would be proud.”
Her mouth still full, she widens her blue eyes, purses her lips, then flips me off.
“Ooo, nice manicure, too!”
Jess finishes chewing, takes a sip of her coffee, and admires her nails. “Thanks. I just got them done last night.” She holds up the Danish. “You should have one of these.”
I eye one—the biggest, of course—thick and gooey with bright yellow and creamy white sweetness. I sigh. “No, I shouldn’t. My ass is spreading like butter just looking at them.”
She pushes the plate toward me. “You had to give up booze, for Christ’s sake. Have a damn Danish.”
She has a point. I grab the one I want and take a small bite, letting it melt on my tongue. I fully intend to eat only half of it. Two minutes later, I’ve devoured the entire thing. “Mmm. God, I hate you,” I say.
Jess pulls her chin into her neck, perfectly plucked eyebrows raised. “What did I do?”
“You won the genetic lottery. You never exercise, eat like a horse, and don’t gain an ounce. You suck.”
“Whatever. You have multiple orgasms.”
I snort. My stories of four, five, even eight orgasms one night with Martin—back before we went all to hell—drove her mad with envy. It’s the one area I can one-up my sister and though I know I shouldn’t, I revel in it.
“Okay,” I consent, “I suppose that makes us even. Sort of.” I sip my coffee. “Where’s Derek?”
“Showing property. He’s trying to get some horrible couple to buy a condo downtown. He bet me ten bucks he could have them writing an offer by the end of the day.”
“Huh.” I don’t pretend to understand the real-estate industry, though I do attempt sympathetic and interested noises when my sister begins to talk about her job. Since the boys were born almost three years ago, Derek carries the weight of the upfront selling and Jess works behind the scenes to run the business from home. She picks up clients where she can to help make ends meet, especially since the market took a nosedive. Luckily, their brokerage was strong enough to weather the economic downturn, but even so, most months they’ve been forced to dip into the savings they’d each built up during the late 1990s housing boom. Accordingto Jess, those funds are quickly depleting, so each sale they make today takes on greater significance for their financial survival.
“How’s work going for you?” Jess asks.
I shrug. “Okay, I guess. I’m having a hard time getting back into it.” For too many months, pulling the words from my brain to write has felt like trying to squeeze fluid from stone. It made sense when I was actively drinking, I suppose, since my thoughts were muddied by alcohol, but Andi says this is normal even now; for up to two years my brain cells will be in the process of rebuilding. Post-acute withdrawal symptoms, she calls it. Memory loss and the lack of ability to focus are only the tip of the dysfunctional iceberg. I already went through Baby Brain; apparently, Booze Brain is a similar experience.
“I did get a call from Peter the other day,” I say. “My old editor at the
Herald
?”
“Oh, right,” Jess says, taking
Similar Books
