When Girlfriends Break Hearts (14 page)

I guess Pamela was right. Things in life progress. They build up and then
BAM
, shit hits the fan. I didn’t know what to feel or think or say at that moment. All I knew was that come tomorrow night I was going to live it up. I was going to let loose, be free, put on my best Jackie face, and forget everything.

***

After I filled Claire in on the call and she suggested that we enjoy a one-on-one girls’ night in with her fresh batch of homemade oatmeal cookies, and a few episodes of
Sex and the City
, I couldn’t have been more onboard. Especially when she suggested we incorporate facials into the night’s program. The perfect distraction. It was a familiar routine—us hanging out at home and doing ultra feminine things—but it never grew old. It was comforting and comfortable, just like our friendship. A friendship that was quickly becoming one of my few.

Chapter Fourteen

Three martinis down, and a fourth on its way, and I was feeling great. We had just gotten started—Claire, Jackie, and I—on our night out on the town. We were still hanging out at
Vogue
, and weren’t exactly sure if we’d be heading off to any other bars or clubs as the free drinks compliments of Jackie’s latest shagging partner was a sweet deal, and we were enjoying ourselves and the atmosphere.

There were only two rules we had laid out for the evening. The first was that there was to be absolutely no talk of Brandon or Robin or even Lara. The second was to have fun. For Claire, that meant enjoying the sweetest cocktails on the menu and letting herself feel a bit free, attempting her best dance moves near the bar. Her tight little number in red, one of Conner’s favorites, looked stunning and lent a hand in helping Claire feel sexy and rather unbound. That and the handful of cocktails she had been enjoying.

I thought about doing some brazen flirting, but though some guys caught my eye, something held me back. I attributed it to it being too soon after Brandon. Jackie, of course, encouraged that I “work my magic” on the athletically built, dirty blonde across the room, who was “totally checking me out.” I wasn’t the least bit interested, and when he actually came over and offered to buy me a drink I said “thanks, but no thanks.” Jackie chided me for what she called “a totally lost romp.” I swear the only thing on that girl’s mind is sex. Well, that and booze.

Halfway through the night, my buzz well on, Claire still shaking the non-existent dance floor, and Jackie ordering free round after free round of whatever we wanted from the bar, Jackie reached into her small clutch set between us on the faux leather sofa and answered her vibrating cell phone.

“Hey, baby,” she cooed. No doubt the man who was liquoring us up for free.
 

I nonchalantly glanced at Jackie’s open clutch. I noticed it was Chanel and asked myself how a girl who couldn’t hold down a ten dollar an hour job could afford such fine accoutrements. The muffled voice coming from her cell phone was my subtle reminder.

I then noticed a small, white cigarette-like piece in her clutch lying next to a pack of Parliaments. Smoking was a nasty habit that Claire and I, general health nuts, scolded her for. We also knew that she occasionally smoked a little reefer, for which we also scolded. Jackie had significantly reduced the amount of pot she smoked in recent years, but only to kick up her cigarette and drinking habits. An eye for an eye of sorts. All of us girls had been guilty for taking a little puff of the magic dragon a few times back in college, and alright, perhaps a few times since then, but we generally tried to “pass on grass,” especially as a support tactic to help Jackie cut the bad habit.

Clearly, from the looks of the small, self-rolled item, she was back on track with the bad habit.
 

Jackie ended the call and slipped the phone back into her clutch. “Girls,” she whined, standing up. Claire was dancing at a distance, oblivious to the call. “I’m sorry to do this but that was Hank. I’ve got a job to do so I need to run.”

“Hank’s the new job, eh?” I said.

“Sophie, don’t make it sound so dirty. But yeah, he’s the new job.” She laughed and reached into her clutch for the little piece of contraband. “Got to be prepared for work.” She waved the joint at me and I quickly put a hand over it, hiding it from any onlookers.

“Jackie,” I whispered. “What are you doing that for?”

“Look, Sophie, if you’re screwing some guy twice your age you need a little somethin’ somethin’ to get you through it.”

Was she out of her mind?

“I have to be honest,” she said, leaning in to me. “I’m all for dating older guys if they’re super hot, and Hank’s not
bad
or anything, but he’s not like…super hot. Hell, he lets me drink for free and he buys me nice stuff.” She showed off her new designer clutch. “And he lets me crash at his penthouse downtown so…it’s a job.”

“Jackie!” I pulled her back down next to me on the sofa. “Don’t degrade yourself like this. You’re telling me you don’t even
like
this guy? And you’re still seeing him? You’re screwing him? My God, you’re getting high just so you can handle it?”

“Sophie, you don’t understand. I
need
to do this. I don’t have many options right now. The job market’s looking kind of blah.” Her rational tone and approach baffled me. “And you should see Hank’s view! Elliot Bay…all the way. It’s freakin’ awesome.”

“Jackie, you don’t
need
to do anything. This is bullshit. You deserve better than this.”

“Look, I don’t mind it. It’s something temporary until I find myself a better relationship…or a job. He knows it’s just for fun. Just for the sex. It’s low-key and I like that. Until someone better comes along, this is what I have.”

 
“You deserve better than this, Jack. So much better. You need a guy to keep you away from this stuff. Not someone who drives you to smoke it.”

“Tonight’s supposed to be fun, Sophie. So loosen up a bit.”

She was right. I was really killing the moment and the buzz, but I couldn’t let one of my best girlfriends head off into the night to get herself caught up in trouble without so much as trying to help out.
 

“Relax. Smoke a joint yourself; I’ve got an extra.” She dug inside her clutch.

“I’ll pass,” I said, putting my hand on top of hers and terminating her search.
 

“Well, have fun anyway. I’ve got to run.” She gave me three euro kisses on the cheeks and threw her black lace shawl around her shoulders.

“You’re getting a cab, right?” I asked.

“He sent a car for me. I’ll be fine.” Jackie gave me one more peck on the cheek. “I’ll be fine. Trust me. Now go have fun. We’ll do this again some time.” Her cell phone started to vibrate again. No doubt Hank.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming, baby…” I heard Jackie trail off as she raced for the exit.

***

The following morning I remembered why I decided the drinking and partying life of my college days had been put behind me. I had the worst hangover in a long time. Much worse than the one I had when I woke up in Brandon’s bed just last week, much to my dismay.
 

Claire and I had spent the rest of last night at
Vogue
and a new club that had opened up just a couple of doors down. All in all it was a fun girls’ night, but between the drama with Robin and Brandon and now Lara, and the discovery of Jackie’s bad habits and newfound boy toy who was bad news for the girl, I couldn’t help but feel a little down in the dumps. No amount of drinking or dancing or partying was going to fix the hole that was aching in my heart, no matter what Jackie insisted. My life was still in extreme disarray and I seemed to be doing nothing successful to piece things back together.
 

Alright, I was finding some peace in my yoga routine, and I busied myself through work at
Katie’s Kitchen
to distract myself. I was saying “no” to friendships and relationships that I thought were venomous, and I knew that the small end in sight that I could barely see would eventually come into full view and all would be better. But why did it have to hurt so much? Why did it have to eat me up? Why was the healing process so long and so painful?

Out of habit, I reached for my cell phone that I faintly recalled setting on my nightstand once Claire and I had responsibly arrived home via cab. We had arrived quite late in the evening, or, rather, very early in the morning, around three o’clock. Chad was surprisingly still over, playing a round on the Xbox with Conner, so I figured that Chad would probably be crashed on the sofa when I’d head into the living room in a minute in search of Claire.

My screen showed that I had three missed calls. I clicked to see who they were from. One was from my brother, John, and two were from Lara.
What does she want?

I noticed that I had a voicemail. It was most likely from Lara as John never left voicemails.

I was right.

“Hey, Sophie,” said Lara. “I’d really like to talk to you.” A brief pause. “Give me a call or text me or something.” Another pause. “Alright, I’ll talk to you later. Bye.”

I didn’t want to talk with Lara. What more did I have to say to her? And what more did she have to say to me? She was sorry? She didn’t mean to hurt me? I’d heard all of that before and I wasn’t in the mood for another rendition of “please forgive me, let’s move on.”
 

***

“Why on
Earth
do we do this to ourselves?” Claire moaned, sprawled out on what we all deemed “Conner’s Lazy Butt Boy” recliner in the living room. She was nursing her headache with a hot mug of black coffee, but to no avail. This should come as no surprise since coffee as the cure-all for a hangover is the biggest farce in the book. Claire and I learned a long time ago that the best fight against a hangover is to never drink to begin with.
 

As for an actual cure, the closest thing we had ever found to work was a day of lounging around the house in sweatpants, complete with moaning and groaning about how we would never do something so foolish again. Fast forward a few weeks and we’d repeat the whole charade. Vicious little cycle.

“Beats me,” I said, also nursing a useless, albeit tasty, cup of black java that Conner had been a doll to put on for us. “At least we had a really good time.”

My cell phone jingled and vibrated against the hard wooden coffee table. A text.

“Booty call a little early, eh?” Chad joked as he emerged from the bathroom, looking much more presentable than he had when I first came out into the living room and spotted him, hair askew, mouth open, sleeping haphazard on the sofa—my sofa.

“Whatevs,” I dismissed, rolling my eyes. “Probably my brother John trying to get a hold of me.”
 

But it wasn’t; it was Lara.
Not again.

I ignored the message.
 

***

Of course I should know better than to assume that my day’s plans will go…according to plan. What was once a relatively well-planned and controlled life had devolved into a chaotic mess with no ending in sight. Recently I had started to think of selling the rights to my life’s story to a soap opera. It certainly seemed like everything horrible that could happen was actually happening to me. I mean, this kind of stuff only happens in dramas and soaps, right? So I really shouldn’t have been surprised when Lara showed up at my doorstep later that afternoon. It should have all been par for the course.

As I stood in the doorway, facing the unexpected Lara, I felt a surge of rage approach. Had it not been for my aching head and general icky feeling from downing too many cocktails the night before, I probably would have slammed the door in her face. But I didn’t have much gumption to do anything but be quiet and hear her out.

I let her in, feeling a bit listless about everything. I actually felt myself give in to the notion of letting go and just, as Pamela had said, let the universe do its thing.

Luckily Chad and Conner had cleared the house earlier for a round of golf, and Claire had gathered enough strength to head outside for a walk around the neighborhood with Schnickerdoodle. Now, standing alone in the living room with Lara, I suddenly wished I’d joined her.

“I tried calling and texting you,” Lara finally broke the silence. “I left you a voicemail.”

“Yeah, I know. I got it.” I spoke curtly. Having this conversation—seeing her—was unwelcome.

“I felt I owed you a sincere apology in person, and I wanted to explain.”

“There’s nothing to explain, Lara,” I said dismissively. “What’s done is done. You keeping everything a secret from me was the worst—the
worst
—thing you could have done.”

“I know it wasn’t right, but—“

“I don’t think I can ever trust you again.”

“Sophie.”

“No. I can’t trust you. Or Robin. Certainly not Brandon.” I started to cry.

“We were supposed to be friends,” I screamed.
 

Lara, crying herself, continued to ramble on about how she didn’t mean anything hurtful by her actions and explained that she wanted to remain good friends. And that to her nothing had changed between us. She still loved me and cared about me, and in fact wanted to help me through the rough times. She pleaded that I “come to my senses” and learn to forgive and accept, and that sent me over the edge.

“I can accept that some of my friends are assholes and traitors,” I shot out. “I accept that. And I’m learning to deal with it by cutting them out of my life. One. At. A. Time. There’s no room to deal with assholes. So you’re out, too. You’re out.” I waved my hands in front of me. “We’re done. I’m done with you, with Robin, with everyone.”

“Sophie!”

“No, I’ve heard what you’ve had to say, Lara. I’ve dealt with you coming here,
uninvited
, and you’ve given your spiel and I’m done. You’ve said your piece and now it’s time for you to leave.” I stood up and wiped the tears from my eyes and cheeks.

“Listen,” she said, standing and nearing me. I took a half-step backward, surprised at her strong advance and strength in tone. “Robin is torn up over this…” I opened my mouth to cut in with a remark about how
I
was the one that was torn up, but she didn’t give me the air. “She’s been absolutely sick over what she’s caused. She knows she’s caused this. She’s fully to blame, just as much as that bastard she did this with, but people make mistakes, Sophie.
People…make…mistakes.