Bursting through the street-level door, the morning greeted her with hot, sultry air and a brightness that made her squint and cringe. She balanced herself on one foot to put on one shoe, then the other, and took a moment to rebalance herself. Ouch. Her feet felt like raw ground beef right now, but that was fine. Anger would keep her going, dull the pain, make it alllll better until she could collapse at Josie’s.
Hailing a cab was easier than usual; maybe she looked as pissed off as she felt. She knew it would be a quick, cheap ride, and as the cabbie raced to deliver her she massaged her feet and ignored the increasingly-active smart phone in her purse. If she looked she knew she’d find a ton of messages.
Ring! Ring! A quick peek showed Dylan calling. Nope. She turned off the phone; five minutes from Josie’s meant she didn’t need to worry about missing a call from her. The cab was stinky but clean, carrying the residue of countless cigarettes, the stale odor of nicotine and coconut air freshener giving her something to gag on. Something other than sheer anxiety and panic. A quick nudge of the window button and she gave herself an inch of fresh air. The cabby shot her a look and turned up the air conditioner, then looked again. Sorry, Bud. Whatever he saw in her return look made him shift his eyes down and keep his mouth shut.
Within minutes he screeched to the front of Josie’s building, a triple-decker that she’d lived in for years, a dingy grey that melted into the neighborhood, a gentrifying section of Cambridge that was always on the verge of “up and coming” but, thankfully, stayed under the radar and kept reasonable rents. They’d toyed with rooming together and renting a big place, but neither could give up their neighborhoods, Laura enjoying Somerville more than she really ought to.
She threw some cash at the cabbie and ran to Josie’s first floor apartment. Her friend was already on the porch, a look of crumpled compassion on her face, and she embraced Laura without words, holding her and stroking her hair as the tears returned.
Pulling back, Josie put her arm around Laura’s waist and guided her into the sunny apartment. “Let me make coffee for you this time,” she said, sighing hard. “It’s the least I can do.”
If Laura’s apartment looked like a Scandinavian designer with a pink fetish had decorated it, Josie’s was pure ‘60s hippie Buddhist funk. It looked like Carole King and the Dalai Lama shared the place. Decorated in thrift shop finds and Tibetan boutique splurges, the perpetual scent of sandalwood and lavender was comforting, though it generally covered up other odors that were finally legal in Massachusetts, as long as one kept it under an ounce and in the privacy of home.
Laura slumped down on an overstuffed monk-red recliner covered in a funky silk throw, vibrant mustard yellow and rich steel blue competing with little reflector things. She could see Josie in the kitchen, the apartment a converted single-family home. Doorways were random and seemed to have no meaning, just plunked here and there. Aside from the bedroom and bath, it was open concept but with walls and thresholds, making the fairly-large place seem smaller.
Josie used a Keurig, and shouted, “Glazed donut or Breakfast blend?”
“Scotch!”
“I have Bailey’s.” Her voice said she didn’t have scotch, though.
“Good enough! Breakfast blend and Bailey’s!” It wasn’t even nine yet. Who cared? It’s not like she was really into following social conventions lately, anyhow. If a girl couldn’t get drunk the day both of her threesome boyfriends was outed as a secret billionaire on local television, when could she?
“How did you hear about them?” she called out to Josie. A hiss and gurgle told her the first cup was brewing.
“That stupid morning TV Show. I had it on and heard Dylan’s name and, well—I texted you right away. I’m guessing they did, too?”
Bzzz. Her phone hummed in her pocket and she pulled it out. Squinting, she read the screen. “Jesus.” Low whistle. Josie wandered into the room and handed her a steaming cup of coffee, tinted tan by the Bailey’s.
“Let me guess. Dylan’s texted you seventy-six times?”
“And Mike’s a close second.” Sip. The alcohol hit her taste buds like a tsunami of flavor. It felt weird to drink this early. Weird was becoming her default waaaay too fast for comfort, but if that was her reality, she’d embrace it. Especially if it tasted like Irish crème.
“Fuck ’em. I can’t believe they—man, Laura. Billionaires? I mean, they aren’t gorgeous enough, but they have to be secret billionaires, too? Your life is like a cross between General Hospital and Desperate Housewives with a touch of Fifty Shades.”