When Girlfriends Break Hearts (11 page)

“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 mind.”

“Are you sure everything’s alright?” I studied her face, trying to read any expression.

“Just another stupid argument about our future,” she said, her face blank. Was a surge of crying on its way? It was hard to tell. Usually Claire was easy to read. When she was sad, it was obvious. When she was happy, the world knew it. And when she was depressed or on the verge of crying, all of the typical warning signs would show. But right now she didn’t seem bothered.

“Are you upset?” I asked. “You sounded kind of upset. Not that I was listening to…everything.”
 

She cracked a small smile and waved her hands again. “It’s nothing. Seriously. It’s not even anything to cry over or be angry about. It’s just Conner and me being stupid, that’s all.” She smiled again. Maybe it was only a simple couple’s spat after all.

“Well,” I said. “If you want to talk about it, I’m here.”

“Thanks, Sophie. Now…” She turned to my closet and pulled it open. “It’s time to get ready. Tonight’s about letting our hair down and having fun.”

“If you insist.” I started to rifle through my wardrobe.

“Great! I’ll go get ready real quick. An hour we’re out, okay?” Then she bounced back to her bedroom, clearly much more excited about our night out than I was.

I stared at my overpowering black and white wardrobe.
God, I need some life. Some color.
It was as dark as the past week had been.
Pathetic.
I reached for the brightest thing I could find with the least amount of effort afforded. A light grey pencil skirt.
Great. Grey. That’s the closest to chipper yellow I can find.
 

Habitually I grabbed for my favorite bright white, ruffled, sleeveless Liz Claiborne blouse. It was the perfect fit for the skirt, although a bit chilly for the night. The warm front that was atypical of April had passed and Seattle was presented once again with its usual chilly April breeze and showers. I found the chic, grey jacket that matched the skirt and headed off to the shower.

A depressing night out as a single woman. This is going to be a great night…
.
 

***

The bar of the night was Claire’s choice. She chose a mutual favorite:
Vogue
, a swanky bar over in Capitol Hill. The drinks were reasonably priced and always made perfect-to-taste. The music was a nice blend of house and indie soft rock. The crowd was the mid-twenty to mid-thirty yuppie sort. The atmosphere was laid-back, with white, faux leather sofas and chaise lounges throughout the large loft-like bar. The lighting was that kind of lighting a girl wishes she had perpetually following her. The kind where it’s not invasive fluorescent where you always look your worst, but not the kind where it’s so dark you’re not quite sure what color shoes you’re wearing.
Vogue
had sleek ambience, and it was one of the regular bars the girls and I frequented the past couple of years.

“First drink’s on me, Sophie.” Claire confidently took a seat at the bar on one of the metal swivel barstools.
 

“Uh, the
only
drink, girl.” No more. We had work to tend to the next day.

“Yeah, yeah, right.” She gave me a wink, then with a flick back of her tightly curled hair she leaned in to the bar, beckoning the bartender.
 

Claire had charm and a sweet self-assurance. Not a boasting assurance or anything that, say, our good friend Jackie exuded. Claire may have been wrapped up in a long-term and serious relationship of seven years, but she wasn’t blind. She knew an attractive man when she saw one, and she knew a not-so-attractive one, too. Regardless, she knew she possessed strong flirting capabilities and never saw a need
not
to wield them…“just if necessary,” she would say. She was cute, bubbly, and beautiful. She was physically everything my opposite and even though I had my own mark of “tall and dark” beauty, sometimes I wished I had her looks, her personality…the whole thing.

Her hair was rather long, like mine, but it curled up tightly because of her naturally springy curls that, let’s face it, every girl who doesn’t have naturally curly hair envies. She never colored her hair and she didn’t have to. Alright, so no one really
has
to. I tended to leave my color
au naturel
, but only because I was too lazy to color it and, to be quite honest, the natural mocha color of my hair just seemed to be the best fit for my complexion. I’d been down the blonde, bleach blonde, highlighted, and even black roads before. I figured sticking to what God gave me was my best bet.
 

Claire’s hair, though, was a natural sandy blonde that so many people guessed was highlighted; it was
that
perfect. She had been a genuine towhead as a baby and all the way through grade school, then her color matured a bit and became what it is today: sheer perfection. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t envious of her lovely locks.

Though she wasn’t the “classic sexy” in the height department, I think her rather short stature of five foot three worked to her advantage. Pair that with her curly hair and bubbly, positive personality and she was a spotlight-catcher. And of course her bright blue eyes were the icing on the top. Claire was the total package—stunning inside and out—and Conner knew it. He also knew she had a flirtatious streak, and was liable to play the double standard card. Conner could never flirt or even cast a friendly smile in a girl’s direction without Claire erupting into a fit of rage and jealousy.
 

Claire, however, could get a table for the two of them at a popular and packed restaurant with a wrapping of a curly lock around her finger, a sweet smile, and a polite, “Oh
please
squeeze us in.” I think there were times when Conner was beside himself with her flirtatious tendencies, but he was such an even-tempered and confident guy that most of the time he let Claire’s playfulness slide. He knew where Claire’s heart was. She wasn’t like Robin, after all—a girl who apparently knew no boundaries.
 

“An apple martini and a Cosmo, please,” I heard Claire say over the music.

I surveyed the room. It was a relatively calm night; then again, it was Thursday.

I opted for the Cosmo and sipped at the ruby-colored beverage. “Ah, that tastes good,” I moaned.
 

“See, just what the doctor ordered, huh?” Claire said, smiling as she sipped at her fruity martini.

Just as we were getting into a conversation about the upcoming episode of
The Bachelor
(I know, real in-depth, but the night was supposed to be laid-back and low-key), a familiar voice rang out.

“Girls!” It was our good friend—one of the girls of the “sisterhood”—Jackie.
 

“Girlfriends!” she cried, wedging herself between our barstools and hanging both arms over our shoulders. “What are
you girls
doing here?”
 

She sounded, and smelled, of a few too many cocktails. That was actually one of Jackie’s signature scents. That and a titillating men’s cologne that came from some eligible bachelor she snagged…and shagged.

Jackie Anderson was often the life of the party. She was our Seattle suburb sorority queen, and we loved her. She played on the dangerous side of the fence far more than any of us did, collectively, but she really did have a heart of gold.

Jackie was decked out that night in a full silver sequined mini that left little to the imagination. She, like myself, didn’t have much upstairs, and the tightness of her dress could have benefited from a little more support from the twins. But Jackie pulled the look off. It didn’t shout “classy,” but somehow it didn’t exactly shout “trashy.” It just said… “Jackie.”
 

In addition to her dress, her bleach blonde pixie hair cut, her equally bleached teeth, and her salon tan, which was teetering towards “subtle orange glow,” made her stand out in a room. Her loud personality, voice, and laugh lent hands in that, too. Men flocked to her. Jackie was a petite, thin, five foot nothin’ bundle of fun for anyone who was, well, looking for a good time.
 

Alright, so maybe I’m selling her short. She wasn’t an “easy girl,” whatever that really means. She just liked men, liked the attention, and didn’t want to do anything unless it had “fun” in the heading. Though she was more wild and flighty than the rest of us, we all just seemed to fit right together. That was the fascinating thing about us girlfriends. We were really a diverse group of women who got along incredibly well. That is, all of us but Robin….

I took a long drink of my cocktail.

“Jackie!” Claire screeched, breaking my thought pattern. Claire gave Jackie a big hug. “What are you doing here? Coincidence. Coincidence.”

“Girl, it’s a Thursday night. Where else would I be?” Jackie waved her silver bangle-clad wrist at the bartender. “Hey honey.” The bartender strutted in our direction. He was a nice piece of eye candy, that’s for sure. Except that too many of his features resembled Brandon’s, so I tried my best to keep from looking at him. No Brandon here tonight.

“Can you be super sweet and get me a glass of your finest champagne?” Jackie gave him a very playful smile, then turned to me and embraced me in a strong hug. She may have been short and thin, but her hugs were the strongest. I loved them. “
Sophieeee
. It’s so good to see you. It’s been much too long, girlfriend.”

I agreed. I hadn’t seen Jackie since that first weekend I was broken up with Brandon. When she got wind of the news that the jackass broke my heart she insisted we head to
Vogue
for a few drinks, then off to a round of night clubs. In light of what had happened the past weekend, the breakup with Brandon seemed like ages ago.

If Claire hadn’t said anything about the affair, nor Robin, then Jackie was probably in the dark. I would have to tell my sob story again. And no doubt the moment I told Jackie she’d insist we all get hammered and find ourselves some hot guys.
 

Once Jackie’s champagne arrived the three of us moved to a chaise lounge, and I told her the whole rundown in less than ten minutes. Concise but with all of the “can you believe that?” and “stupid bitch” and “asshole of a boyfriend” comments that a story like it demands.