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“Yeah, maybe,” she snarls, tying the sash on her robe defiantly. “But you’re going to figure out just how great you have had it all these months when you try to figure out how to do this on your own.”
She stalks out of the room, and I pause before following behind her.
“Wait, Maddie? What are you saying?”
Chance appears in the hallway, aghast. All I can do is shrug at him.
Maddie stops suddenly, swiveling her head to look at each of us in turn. “I’m saying goodbye, boys. Is that clear enough? Is that balanced enough for you, Chance?”
She disappears into her suite, slamming the door behind her. Chance shakes his head in disbelief.
“I don’t know, man,” I wince. “She is super mad. You probably should have talked to her.”
Chapter 5
Chelsea
I guess Evanston has always been sort of hipster, probably even before anybody knew that word meant anything. Just north of Chicago, it’s one of those old, moneyed suburbs. The sort of place where the professors from Northwestern University can comfortably live alongside optometrists and lawyers.
We are far enough north of downtown Chicago that it feels like a suburb, but with main arteries that get us right back into the heart of the city whenever we want. The best of both worlds, is what we all tell each other.
But it’s also one of the first cities people go to when they say they want to “leave the city” even though they really don’t want to leave the city. They can’t give up their favorite wine bar or yoga studio or access to the office on weekends. So it’s basically filled with city people pretending to be suburbanites who will take offense if you call them suburbanites.
But lately, I feel like it’s gotten worse. I grew up in Evanston with my mother, in a nice house with a pool. I went to high school here. I actually run into some of those people from time to time. We used to walk around downtown and check out the shops. Pick up our parents’ dry-cleaning. Shop for new school shoes.
Never in a million years would I have thought that the Swedish bakeries were going to get replaced by vegan bakeries. When I was a kid, I didn’t even know what a vegan was. And do we really need a dog spa on every block? Just how much stress are these dogs under?
The official coffee shop policy is that if your dog is small enough to carry, we will politely look the other way if you bring it inside when you get your latte. Of course, people like to test the limits of this policy. Every once in a while somebody will bring in two or more dogs tucked under their arms. Once, somebody tried shouldering their malamute.
Not funny, guys.
But
really, Anita takes the cake. She’s a professional dog walker. That means she has six to ten dogs on leashes that she parades up and down the block several times a day. She knows she’s not supposed to be in here. She knows it. But here she comes.
First, she tips her head toward the window to see who’s already inside. I have to give her credit: she will pass us by if there are a bunch of people waiting in line.
But unfortunately, it is just me and Janet.
Shit.
The door swings open and a whole battalion of corgis, French bulldogs, and miscellaneous poodle hybrids tumble in, falling all over each other as they race to sniff out the far corners of the coffee shop as quickly as they can.
Anita pretends she can barely control them, throwing her arm over her head like she is riding a mechanical bull.
“Hey, you guys!” she cackles in greeting. “Large triple Americano, please and thank you!”
Janet turns to me, freezing an icy smile between her pink cheeks. “You want to take this?” she growls between gritted teeth.
Supposedly, she has allergies.
“Sure, you bet,” I sigh, because there is really no point in fighting it. Janet is great at not doing the work in front of her. I know I would get stuck with it either way.
“Coming right up,” I announce, quickly moving to the espresso bar and pumping out three shots in a hurry.
“Thank you!” Anita calls back.
Still with that same smile, Janet edges toward me, turning her shoulders so that Anita can’t see what she is saying.
