When Girlfriends Break Hearts by Savannah Page Page A

Conner was still in there; I wondered what was going on. Then the door closed harshly and I jumped again.  
    “When you texted me this afternoon that you were going to yoga I didn’t think you’d go after work too,” Claire said.  
    “What?” I asked. “Oh, yeah. Sorry.”
    Claire had asked if I was interested in lunch this morning, to which I’d declined in light of the extra yoga session. On occasion, when our jobs and schedules permitted, Claire and I would meet for lunch together.
    Claire was a social worker. She had a melting heart for the elderly and the disabled and found her calling in the geriatrics department during college. After getting to try out a variety of areas of social work and rehabilitative care, working with disabled veterans and sweet grannies and grampies was what made Claire feel most fulfilled. And she was a rock star at her job. While her home base was at the hospital up on First Hill (a.k.a. “Pill Hill”), not far from where I worked, she often traveled to various clients’ homes and provided in-home aid. And usually her traveling work was never too far from Katie’s Kitchen , making it easy for us to catch lunch together at a favorite café nearby, or on the Waterfront, or at some two-buck taco truck or quick-food stand in Pike Place Market.  
    “Yoga? Twice in one day? Don’t you think that’s a little excessive?”
    “No. It feels so good.” I plopped myself onto the sofa—my sofa that Conner had managed to squeeze into the living room. And it actually was suiting everyone quite well, especially Conner, who took to napping on it often. I stretched out my long legs and yawned. “I’m pooped.”
    “You’re obsessed,” Claire said.  
    “Oh please, and you’re not with walking and jogging?”
    “Schnickerdoodle needs his walks,” she said matter-of-factly.
    I rolled my eyes. “Anyhow, what’s up? You were all excited about me coming home. What’s the deal?”
    “We’re going out tonight, Missy.”
    “What?” It was a Thursday, and though back in college Thursday night was just as big a going-out-night as Friday or Saturday, we were well past our college days. I hadn’t done something out-ish on a working weekday in a long time.
    “You heard me.” She reached her hand toward me, making a motion with her fingers for me to grab it. I consented and she helped pull me up out of my comfy, sprawled position on the sofa. “We’re getting dolled up and we’re going out. We need it. You need it. God knows I need it.” This last part was mumbled. “Anyhow, it’s time for you to get out and let your hair down a bit.” She childishly grabbed at my messy half-bun-half-ponytail. “Get gussied up and have some fun. Come on.”  
    “Claire,” I protested as I was dragged to my bedroom. “It’s a work night. We both have to work tomorrow. We are not going out.”
    “I’m not talking about getting sloshed and dancing on tables or anything, silly. Just a drink. Some appetizers. Maybe— maybe —a little dancing.” She nudged her hip a couple of times against mine, making a mock seductive look. “Just hanging out. You and me. Come on.”
    “Fine,” I groaned, really not feeling up for anything social. I had anticipated closing the evening with a bottle of chilled Perrier with a wedge of lemon, my leftover tuna sandwich for dinner, and maybe a few chapters of my latest read, Team of Rivals: The Political Genius of Abraham Lincoln . Exciting, right?  
    However, I couldn’t let Claire down. She was right; going out for an easygoing girls’ night, just the two of us, wasn’t a horrible idea. It was probably one of those ingredients that Pamela was referring to. One of those necessary ingredients for the path towards recovery—the journey of healing.
    “One drink,” I said. “And by the way, is everything okay? With you and Conner,” I clarified.
    “Oh, that. Whatever,” she said, waving her hand dismissively. “That’s just Conner being a dick. Never