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“I see.”
“I don’t think you do.”
“Just what is it that I’m supposed to take seriously?” I demanded. “You’re all over the place, Tracy. Last month you wanted to be a writer. The month before that, it was a model,and the month before that, a dance instructor. Now you’re talking about moving to Hollywood…”
“Yeah, and you’re jealous because you’re stuck here with two kids and a husband who…” She stopped.
“Who what?”
Tracy pushed herself off the sofa. “Nothing. I should go.”
“Yes, you should.”
She carried her empty wineglass to the kitchen sink, then marched to the front door. “Don’t bother getting up,” she said without looking back. “I’ll show myself out.”
“Goddamn it!” I shouted, jumping to my feet as the door closed behind her.
“What’s going on down there?” Harrison called from the top of the stairs.
I glanced at my feet, realizing that, in the commotion, I’d knocked over my wineglass. “I spilled my wine,” I told him, watching the dark red liquid as it spread across the sisal rug like blood.
