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“Are we talking about sex again?” She looks at Samantha accusingly. “I hope I didn’t come all the way down here for another conversation about Kegel exercises. Which I tried, by the way. They made me feel like a monkey.”
“Monkeys do Kegel exercises?” I ask, surprised.
Samantha shakes her head. “You two are hopeless.”
I sigh. I’d walked away from Bobby’s thinking I could handle his underhanded behavior, but the more I thought about it, the more incensed I became. Was it wrong to assume that when I finally got a break, it would be based on my own merits, as opposed to the random horniness of some old coot? “Bobby tried to jump me,” I inform Miranda.
“That little thing?” She’s not impressed. “I thought he was gay.”
“He’s one of those guys no one wants on their team. Gay or straight,” Samantha says.
“Is that an actual thing?” Miranda asks.
“They’re called the lost boys of sexual orientation. Come on, guys,” I say. “This is serious.”
“There was a professor at my school,” Miranda says. “Everyone knew if you slept with him he’d give you an A.”
I glare at her. “Not helping.”
“Well, come on, Carrie. This is nothing new. Every bar I’ve worked in has an unspoken rule that if you have sex with the manager, you’ll get the best shifts,” Samantha says. “And every office I’ve worked in—same thing. There’s always some guy coming on to you. And most of them are married.”
I groan. “And do you—?”
“Have sex with them? What do
you think, Sparrow?” she asks sharply. “I don’t need to have sex with some guy to get ahead. On the other hand, I’m not ashamed of anything I’ve done. Shame is a useless emotion.”
Miranda’s face contorts into an expression that signifies she’s about to say something inappropriate. “If that’s true, why won’t you tell Charlie about the endometriosis? If you’re not ashamed, why can’t you be honest?”
Samantha’s lips curl into a patronizing smile. “My relationship with Charlie is none of your business.”
“Why do you talk about it all the time, then?” Miranda asks, refusing to back down.
I put my head in my hands, wondering why we’re all so worked up. It must be the heat. It curdles the brain.
“So should I have my play reading at Bobby’s or not?” I ask.
“Of course,” Samantha says. “You can’t let Bobby’s stupid little pass make you question your talents. Then he’ll have won.”
Miranda has no choice but to agree. “Why should you let that squat little toad define who you are or what you can do?”
I know they’re right, but for a moment, I feel defeated. By life and the never-ending struggle to make something of it. Why can’t things just be easy?
“Did you read my play?” I ask Miranda.
She reddens. And in a voice that’s too high, says, “I meant to. But I was so busy. I promise I’ll read it tonight, okay?”
“Can’t,” I say sharply. “I need it back. I have to give it to Bobby first thing tomorrow.”
“Don’t get testy—”
“I’m not.”
“It’s right here,” she says, opening her knapsack and riffling through it. She looks inside in confusion, then picks up the shopping bag and dumps the contents onto the table. “It must have gotten mixed up with my flyers.”
“You took my play to Saks?” I ask, incredulous, as Miranda paws frantically through her papers.
“I was going to read it when things got slow. Here it is,” she says in relief, holding up a few pages.
