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Zander: The fall schedule just got posted.
I press the accelerator as soon as the light changes. As the car coasts down the road, I see a bright red light illuminate on the dash. An oil light? I just had that changed.
I hit yet another red light and pluck my phone from the cup holder and reply to Zander.
Angie: I think I can make it. Looking forward. Any chance you are free in 2 Saturdays for a Cancer fundraiser thing?
Zander: Tell me more
Angie: Annual gala; expect some dancing and the serving of amazing food
I smile at Zander’s confirmation.
When I arrive home, I pull into the numbered parking spot. It is eight fifteen, and lights are on. I trot up the cement stairs—feels good to be home.
“Angie!” Claire screams as I unlock the door.
She is on the phone but still makes a grand announcement of my entrance. It is a sure sign that she is looking for an excuse to hang up. I kick off my shoes and put my pea coat and purse on the hooks. I then move to the couch to curl up beside her. I pull down a fleece blanket from the top cushion and tuck it under my feet and legs.
“Listen, I told you I’m busy this weekend.” I smile at her exaggerated sigh. “And next as well. Come to think of”—she pauses from being interrupted, pulling the phone from her ear so I can hear the pitiful sound of his voice—“I’m busy every weekend for the rest of the year.”
My frown registers to Claire, earning me a wink and a hand squeeze in response.
“Busy next year too,” she mutters. “We’re done here.”
I can hear the poor guy’s desperate attempt to get her back. I feel guilty for being able to hear his pleas. If I wasn’t so tired, I would move to avoid listening to the awkwardness and the loss of his manhood.
Claire rolls her eyes in my direction and gives me the “help” face. I know this look well because I am the one who taught it to her.
“Claire!” I yell, making her wince in pain. “I need you to come back to bed and finish what you started! Or I’ll whip that—” I yell, stifling a giggle at her blank expression.
“Gotta go,” she says abruptly, cutting me off by her increased volume. “Bye.” She tosses her phone onto the end table. “Really? Out of all the things to say, you make me seem like I changed teams and am a pain slut?”
I burst out laughing. Every time she gives me the look, I laugh harder. “It worked, didn’t it?”
“Still,” she huffs. “That’s exactly how rumors get started.”
“Doubt he’ll call back,” I say with a shrug.
“No, instead he’ll probably stop over, looking for a threesome,” she groans. “And if he does, I’m sending him your way."
I laugh hard.
“So, is it official?” she asks, changing the subject.
“Yup. I signed everything tonight.”
“Yay!” she exclaims, giving me a hug. “This is going to be so fun now that we can talk about it.”
We head upstairs and shower in our own personal bathrooms. When Claire finishes, she knocks on my door in her pajamas. I am sprawled out across my bed with my sewing materials in my lap. Sometimes hand stitching some fabric is a great way to relax.
“I made you some homemade hot chocolate. Can I come in?”
“Yeah, of course.” I poke the needle into the center to secure it and place it in my bin beside the bed. I accept the mug and make room in the bed for her to climb in.
I take a sip. I assume Claire made it with organic cocoa and almond wish-it-was-from-the-cow milk. It is tolerable, but borderline too thick—and way too healthy for hot chocolate. This concoction is definitely not from the local coffee shop that has a version that will wipe out an entire day’s calorie allowance. Not like I’m counting. Avoiding math is my hobby. Until my pants stop buttoning, I will keep doing what I am doing, because why fix something that isn’t broken.
My sweet side still wants to sneak to my secret stash in the fridge and drop non-synthetic chocolate morsels into the mug, with a generous squirt of whipped cream. Cheers to empty calories—even if they are appearing only in my fantasy.
