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“I still don’t know why you’re so angry. Whatever I’ve done, I’m sorry.”
“You’re a different person. I don’t know who you are anymore.” She punctuates this with a shake of her head.
I sigh. This confrontation has likely been brewing since the moment Maggie turned up at the apartment and declared it a slum. “The only thing that’s different about me is that I’m in New York.”
“I know. You haven’t stopped reminding me of the fact for two days.”
“I do live here—”
“You know what?” She picks up her bag. “Everyone here is crazy. Your roommate Samantha is crazy. Bernard is a creep, and your friend Miranda is a freak. And Ryan is an asshole.” She pauses while I cringe, imagining what’s coming next. “And now you’re just like them. You’re crazy too.”
I’m stunned. “Thanks a lot.”
“You’re welcome.” She starts for the door. “And don’t worry about taking me to the bus station. I can get there myself.”
“Fine.” I shrug.
She exits the apartment, banging the door behind her. For a moment, I’m too shaken to move. How dare she attack me? And why is it always about her? The whole time she was here, she barely had the decency to ask me how I was doing. She could have tried to understand my situation instead of criticizing everything about it.
I take a deep breath. I yank open the door and run after her. “Maggie!”
She’s already outside, standing on the curb, her arm raised to hail a taxi. I hurry toward her as a taxi pulls up and she opens the door.
“Maggie!”
She spins around, her hand on the handle. “What?”
“Come on. Don’t leave this way. I’m sorry.”
Her face has turned to stone. “Good.” She crawls into the backseat and shuts the door.
My body sags as I watch the taxi weave into traffic. I tilt my head back, letting the rain’s drizzle soothe my hurt feelings. “Why?” I ask aloud.
I stomp back into the building. Damn Ryan. He is an asshole. If he hadn’t stood Maggie up, we wouldn’t have had this fight. We’d still be friends. Sure, I’d be a little pissed off with her for sleeping with Ryan, but I would have ignored it. For the sake of our friendship.
Why can’t she extend the same courtesy to me?
I bang around in the apartment a while, all churned up about Maggie’s disastrous visit. I hesitate, then pick up the phone and call Walt.
While it rings, I remember how I’ve neglected Walt all summer and how he’s probably pissed at me too. I shudder, thinking about what a bad friend I’ve been. I’
m not even sure Walt is still living at home. When his mother picks up, I say, “It’s Carrie,” in the sweetest voice possible. “Is Walt there?”
“Hello, Carrie,” Walt’s mother says. “Are you still in New York?”
“Yes, I am.”
“I’m sure Walt will be very happy to hear from you,” she adds, sticking another knife into the wound. “Walt!” she calls out. “It’s Carrie.”
I hear Walt coming into the kitchen. I picture the red Formica table crowded with chairs. The dog’s bowl slopped over with water. The toaster oven where Walt’s mother keeps the sugar so ants won’t get it. And, no doubt, the look of confusion on Walt’s face. Wondering why I’ve decided to call him now, when I’ve forgotten him for weeks.
“Hello?” he asks.
“Walt!” I exclaim.
“Is this the Carrie Bradshaw?”
“I guess so.”
