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I take a breath. “Hello?”
“Where the hell have you been?” Samantha shrieks.
This is very unlike her. I hold the phone away from my ear. “Were you worried? You’re going to be so proud of me. I lost my virginity.”
“Well, good for you,” she says briskly, which is not the reaction I was expecting. “I’d love to celebrate, but unfortunately, I’ve got a crisis of my own on my hands. I need you to get over to Charlie’s place immediately.”
“But—”
“Just come, okay? Don’t ask questions. And bring Miranda. I need all the help I can get. And could you pick up a box of garbage bags on the way? Make sure they’re the big ones. The kind those pathetic people in the suburbs use for leaves.”
“Enjoy it,” Samantha says, gesturing to her face as she opens the door to Charlie’s apartment. “This is the only time you’re ever going to see me cry.”
“Is that a promise?” Miranda says tartly. We’re still a bit edgy from our almost-fight. If it weren’t for Samantha’s crisis call, we’d probably be at each other’s throats.
“Look,” Samantha says, dabbing her eye and holding out her finger for inspection. “That is an actual tear.”
“Could have fooled me,” I say.
Miranda looks around in awe. “Wow. This place is nice.”
“Check out the view,” Samantha says. “It’s the last time you’ll see it, too. I’m leaving.”
“What?”
“That’s right,” she says, strolling to the sunken livi
ng room. There’s a stunning vista of Central Park. You can practically see right into the duck pond. “The wedding’s off,” she declares. “Charlie and I are over.”
I look at Miranda and roll my eyes. “Surely, this too shall pass,” I murmur, heading to the window for a better view.
“Carrie, I’m serious,” Samantha says. She goes to a glass tray on wheels, picks up a crystal decanter, and pours herself a healthy dose of whiskey. “And I have you to thank for it.” She slugs back her drink and turns on us. “Actually, I have both of you to thank.”
“Me?” Miranda asks. “I’ve hardly even met the guy.”
“But you’re the one who told me to tell him.”
“Tell him what?” Miranda says, mystified.
“About my condition.”
“Which is?”
“You know. The thing,” Samantha hisses. “The lining . . .”
“Endometriosis?” I ask.
Samantha holds up her hands. “I don’t want to hear that word. Ever again.”
“Endometriosis is hardly a ‘condition,’” Miranda remarks.
“Try telling that to Charlie’s mother.”
“Oh boy.” I realize I could use a drink too. And a cigarette.
“I don’t get it.” Miranda goes to the Plexiglas case that contains Charlie’s collection of sports memorabilia. She leans closer. “Is that a real baseball?”
“What do you think? And yes, that really is Joe DiMaggio’s signature,” Samantha snaps.
