The ride on the train home helped her to downshift. She needed to think this through without Josie wisecracking in her ear and without that inner, doubting voice. Sitting on the half-empty train gave her space to think. All the other women her age were reading on their phones, texting, or deep into a Kindle device. Hmmm. She needed to get one of those for the ride. Maybe if she buried herself in a good book she could escape from the clusterfuck she'd created in her real life. Reading about other peoples' foibles and mistakes was so much easier than living through her own.
Leaning her head back against the glass, she sighed, the train's rumble sending her head bobbing forward slightly. Mike. Dylan. Mike. Dylan. Mike. Dylan. The rhythm of the car moving forward on the metal tracks turned the two words into a mantra.
Why couldn't she have both?
Both, both, both, both. Now that word looped through her mind to the beat of the train's motion. Both, both, both, both.
Beep! Her phone told her she had a text. Reaching into her purse, she pulled it out. Battery was low, too. Making a mental note to charge it when she got home, she checked.
Mike. His text confirmed their date. He was taking her up to his cabin tomorrow night. You like pasta? he asked.
Who doesn't? she replied.
LOL he texted back. Can't wait to see you tomorrow.
You too, she replied.
And then she immediately texted Josie, because right now? She needed her friend, some ice cream, and a lot of talk.
Sorry. Can't make it until morning.
Laura gawked at the screen. What? She needed Josie right now! Why couldn't the woman be free at the time Laura craved a good bitch and moan session?
Why can't you come over? I've got cherry chocolate chip ice cream, Laura texted.
Work. Extra shift. Money. Sorry. Tomorrow morning? Josie answered.
Fuck. The train skittered to a stop, then fwap! Laura was flung to the side. Too busy texting, she forgot to grab one of the stabilizer bars, and she nearly landed ass over tea kettle on the floor. A quick scramble out the wheezing doors and she was on her way home.
Fine. No ice cream for you, Laura texted as she walked home, her heels clicking on the pavement. A balmy night, one that should be enjoyed outside, drinking margaritas at an outdoor table.
Instead, it was her, Netflix, and Mssrs. Ben and Jerry. Josie could suck it. OK, Josie could come over for coffee in the morning.
By the time she got home, stripped down into her jammies, and grabbed dinner (the pint had plenty of protein, right? And cherries counted as a fruit...), she found she was too tired to make it through the monologue on The Daily Show. Throwing the other half of the ice cream in the freezer, she padded into the bedroom, plopping on top of the covers. The clock read 7 p.m. A nap?
Sore legs pulled up against her belly as she curled into a ball. A nap....
“Slow down, slow down!” Josie held up her hands, displaying her nails of the week: little tiny campaign posters, alternating on her fingers, five for each Presidential candidate. It looked like a sea of red, white and blue had been vomited up onto her nail beds. What Laura had thought would be a nap turned into more than eleven hours of sleep. She felt like Rip Van Winkle, and this time, Josie made the coffee. Laura must have looked that zombified, because Josie never made the coffee.
Yet another morning talk with Josie. If she wanted to enjoy breakfast with someone, she wished it could be Dylan or Mike.
Or Dylan and Mike.
“So you're telling me Dylan brought you flowers, it turns out the girlfriend in the pictures is dead, and you fucked him. On your desk. At work. In the Beige Room of Pain.”
“No, see it wasn't really like that – what? Beige room of what?”
Josie held up one finger. “Uh, uh, uh! I'm just establishing the facts here. Your office is where color goes to die. That's a fact. We'll get to the moral and ethical judgments next. But first: did Dylan, in fact, pose as a flower delivery man to sneak into your building at work today?”
“Yes.” Laura poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down. She was going to be late again.
“And did he then come into your office, and you told him that you knew he had a girlfriend or a wife?”
“Yes.”
“And he then informed you that the girlfriend was dead, has been dead for almost two years, and then you – fucked him on your desk?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, the facts are established.”
“Good. So I – ”
“Now: Are you out of your fucking mind?” Josie grabbed Laura's coffee mug and took a swig, arching one eyebrow and looking more like Stephen Colbert than she had any right to.
“What are you, a lawyer all of a sudden? You're a nurse. You work in an old folks home!”
“I don't work in an old folks home,” Josie sighed. “I do clinical research on geriatric patients.”
“Same difference.”
“No, it's not the same difference. Do you design Tylenol bottles for children?”
“What? No, I work in IT for a children's health insurance program!”
“See? Related – but not the same!” Josie finished Laura's coffee and slammed the mug down, but was considerate enough to get up, pour more, and slide it across the table to her.
“Oh, shut up. That's not what this is about. Why the hell are you grilling me? It's an interrogation, like I'm being cross-examined or something.”
“Because – you're – behaving – like – someone – who – has – lost – her – mind!”
“Why – are – you – talking – like – I – am – a – toddler?”
Josie snorted. “I don't know.”