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“Who?” Ellie looks confused.
“Yeah, Dr. Who.” Micki throws her a wicked grin.
“Uh…” If anything, Ellie looks more confused.
“Just some British sci-fi. Let it go,” Paul advises her.
I pull my eyes away and clear my throat. “It’s a really prestigious award, and I’m one of the five finalists for this year.”
“But the pear.”
“P-E-R-E. French for father. Now stop being silly.” Paul’s voice is impatient.
Ellie’s cheeks pink. Micki chortles. Sam is glazed over with indifference.
“I’ll be onMorning at 7Friday to talk about the book and the award.” The words come out in a whoosh. I slump and push back the damp curl that clings to my cheek.
Our server hovers at a nearby table. I finish my hurried explanation, and she moves off. When she realizes we’ve noticed her, a flush rises on the back of her neck.
Sam raps lightly on the table to get our attention and starts an interminable story about an art exhibit where he will show his “found art” installations. I’m a little ticked but not really surprised that neither he nor Ellie wants to know about the book. Micki and Paul suffered through everything while I hid in my cave to pound out words, occasionally creeping out to whine.
On and off through course after course of delectable Alsatian specialties and far too much wine, the fishbowl sensation waxes and wanes. The middle-aged businessmen glance over on and off. Maybe they expect firecrackers next. I catch glimpses of our server, who hovers around the tables near us far more than she needs to. In the end, I shake off the discomfort and celebrate with my friends.
By the time the mignardises and petit fours arrive with coffee, I can hardly move. Our server has disappeared from the room, most of the tables are empty. Paul signals to the maître d'.
“We’re ready for the check.” He flourishes his black AmEx card.
“Your meal has already been paid for.” He gestures toward me.
“What?” Paul frowns.
“My celebration, my treat.”
Paul and Ellie offer to drive me home to the far north side, way past their own house in Old Town. A bus home doesn’t seem like a great idea. Don’t want to cram into Sam’s truck either.
At home, I put the new shoes in the box.Remember, Cress, wrap them up for Micki.I pull the dress over my head and hang it in the closet. I don’t set an alarm.
* * *
Crack of dawn. My head throbs and my eyelashes glue my eyes closed. Dorothy and Thorfinn jump on my stomach. Double whammy.
“Fuck. Get off.” I push them to the floor. Four green eyes glare at me. Dorothy hisses. Bad cat mom.
I stagger into the kitchen and pull a large glass out of the cabinet. A prairie oyster and a couple of ibuprofen are just the ticket with a big glass of ice water the chaser. Dig a bag of frozen peas out of the freezer then shuffle to the chair in the living room.
The pain recedes and my stomach settles. Micki shows up and suggests we go out for a hangover reviver before she drags my unwilling body downtown to pick out a suitable dress for my TV interview.
At Strings in Chinatown, I order spicy tonkatsu ramen to clear my still-fuzzy head. This is probably the third hangover I’ve ever had, and the worst.
“I may never drink again.”
Micki rests her hand on my wrist. “You still have a pulse. This will pass, and you’ll forget all about it until the next time.”
“No next time.” I pull my hand out of her grasp and hold up it up to stop her. “This is the worst morning of my life.”
“Three hangovers in forty-five years is nothing. You’ll drink again.”
I drop my head into my hands. “No way. Never.”
She giggles. “Your birthday is soon—we’ll get you drinking again by then.”
I pick up the check. My best friend offered to take the day off from her busy law office just to help me, so it’s the least I can do.
