Finding Fraser(2)

So I began to nod—and back away, slowly. “Okay, Soph. I’ll think about it, I swear.”

Her phone rang, and she held up a hand. “Wait a sec, I’ll just put this on hold. Sophia Sheridan, here—”

But as soon as she picked up the phone, I waved back, smiled apologetically, gave her the universal finger-thumb gesture that I would call her—and bolted.

She didn’t need to know that I hadn’t exactly quit my job. Or that I was in the process of selling everything I owned.





Feeling Fine…

1:00 am, February 17

Chicago, Illinois, USA



Warm family good-byes are behind me, and preparations for the trip are well underway. Scotland, here I come!



- ES



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Feeling fine? Feeling freaked, more like. I wakened this morning after a night spent alternately panicking between “Oh my god! What have I done?” and trying to remember how to attain Shavasana. Since I attended my last yoga class when I was twenty-three, mostly the panic won.

In the end, I decided the best way to combat panic was action, so I dragged myself out of bed and headed downtown to have business cards printed up. Nothing says Take Me Seriously like a business card, right? By the time I got downtown, I’d decided on a design in my head and everything, but I spent a long time looking at the various fonts and so on to make sure it was perfect. When I placed the order, it seemed insane to have more than about twenty done, but the printers had a special deal for a hundred and fifty at half price, so I went for it.





A couple of hours later when I picked them up, I realized I had forgotten to specify any contact information on the cards. They were beautiful, all right; a creamy off-white with raised print and a serious-feeling heft to them. But no number. No email address.

This wasn’t such a bad thing. My cell phone plan was ending in a week or so, anyway, and I wanted people to reach me through the blog. But—looking at those cards—god, things suddenly seemed so real.

So serious.

I hurried home before panic had me raving in the streets.





By noon I was lying on my back on my apartment floor, breathing into a fishy-smelling paper bag rescued from an old lunch I’d somehow forgotten in the back of the fridge. Which had never happened to me before. I cannot recall missing a meal for any reason since I had my tonsils removed when I was seven. It clearly speaks to the unsettled nature of my mind. Or maybe the fact it was tuna on rye. I really hate tuna.

I would have tried elevating my feet on the couch, but the guys from Goodwill had come and taken it away. The removal of the couch made it seem like everything was happening so fast, and the paper bag just wasn’t cutting it, so I thought fuck it, and drank the last of the Chablis in the fridge. It was early, I knew, but I’d have to clean out the fridge at some point, right? Good enough reason on its own. Besides, the wine was in a box. Juice comes in a box and people drink juice at two in the afternoon all the time.

Right?





The paper bag smelled like tuna, okay? And there’s a reason I hate tuna. All fish, really.

I haven’t always hated fish. Barbecued salmon. Golden-fried halibut. Even oysters in the half-shell. Used to love ’em all.

Not any more. I lay on the floor beside the empty Chablis box and remembered …





The old clock by the front door had chimed eight that night as I set the shrimp cocktail on the table. It was our first anniversary and I was determined to do it up right. A veritable feast was lined up, ready to serve after the shrimp: creamy clam chowder to start, pan-fried trout for the main course and an enormous chocolate torte for dessert.

Egon showed up at eight fifteen with a pink posy in one hand—and his assistant Tiffany in the other. “Tiff’s fridge broke down today,” he said, setting the wilted flowers in the center of the table.

Tiffany wriggled between Egon and the table. “Oh, Emma, you are SO kind to include me,” she gushed. “I SWORE I wouldn’t disturb your special night with Egon, but he insisted you’d put on an enormous spread and I wouldn’t be in the way.”

That girl sucked those shrimp back like a Dyson. Egon had smiled indulgently and pushed the plate closer to her.

In retrospect, perhaps I should have taken the three of us eating our anniversary dinner as a sign. Because within six months, Tiffany was serving all-you-can-eat lobster dinners for two in my old apartment, and I haven’t eaten seafood since.

Strangely, though, the break-up dinner didn’t affect my feelings for chocolate tortes.





So yeah, I’d sworn to Sophia my plan wasn’t about a man. Egon had cured me of Internet dating for life, but that didn’t mean I didn’t have a few good memories. Still, by three, the crying jag brought on by the old Chablis and the pictures of Egon on the mantle that I’d drunkenly begun to pack was over.