My advice about R. J. Lawson would be this: drink the wine, but don’t drink the Kool-Aid.

Kate Corbin

Chicago Crier

• • •

On Monday morning, when I finally woke from a depressing slumber, I opened my computer to find a new e-mail from Jerry. He always gave it away in the subject line; maybe that’s why he made a better editor than writer. I appreciated it in that moment and was able to let out a huge sigh of relief when I realized that, at the very least, I still had my job.

To: Kate Corbin

From: Jerry Evens

Subject: You still have a job!

It’s brilliant, Kate. I don’t know what we’ll do with it, but it’s the most inspired work I’ve seen out of you and that’s all that matters. R.J. may have done his best to make getting the details nearly impossible, but you proved that as long as you can capture the essence of a situation, a story will be born from it.

I agree that it’s best you take a week off. Apparently you left your luggage at the airport. There was no name on the tag, just the address to the paper, so the airline delivered it here. I opened the suitcase when it arrived today and realized quickly that it was yours from all of your notes and belongings. I’ll lock it in the storage room until you get back, unless you need it right away. Just let me know.

I’m worried about you, Kate, but I know how strong you are, and I know we’ll get you back on track soon. Beth has some ideas.

Your Loyal Editor,

Jerry

There was nothing particularly heartfelt or touching about Jerry’s e-mail, but for some reason it made me cry. The truth was that I didn’t want anyone worrying about me or pitying me. I wanted to stop feeling like I was searching for something else or some answer to the meaning of it all. The expectation that life should be more than waking up alone, riding the train to work, and then going home to fall asleep alone had been weighing on me for so long, but I always found myself back at my apartment . . . alone. Everything in between was just heartache.

I shuffled down my short hallway to the kitchen, where I scanned the barren refrigerator. Staring at the same jar of jelly for ten minutes, I contemplated eating it with a spoon. There was little I was willing to do to keep myself alive at that point. I hadn’t showered in two days, and aside from a couple of stale crackers and an old skunky beer that had been in my fridge for a year, I had consumed nothing. The jelly seemed appropriate, until I finally allowed my most basic survival instinct to kick in. I threw on a pair of sweats and a jacket and headed to the market and produce stand on the corner. There was an older man at the counter making fresh homemade salsa, so after picking up a banana, some Fig Newton–like cookies, and a bag of pretzels, I figured: What would go better with all of that than salsa? Am I losing my mind?

“Excuse me?” I asked. He looked up through his dark lashes. His eyes were almost identical to mine. A hazel that looked spectacularly green in the light, but sort of a dull brown in the shadow.

“Yes, ma’am, what can I help you with?”

“Are you my father?”

He chuckled but stopped immediately when he saw how serious I was. “Oh, hmm, no, dear. I’ve been married for almost forty years and we have three children. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, well, shot in the dark, you know?” He nodded, but his eyes still held the same pitying expression he had on before. “Do you sell beer here?”

“No, but there’s a wineshop about half a block down.”

I shook my head frantically. “I’m detoxing, I can’t have wine.”

“Okay, well, there’s a liquor store about three blocks from here that sells beer.”

“Yeah, I know that one. Thank you, sir.”

“You’re welcome.”

The liquor store was more like five blocks, but I skipped along, eating my banana and fig cookies. I felt extremely pissed at the universe when I saw Stephen and some chick about half a block down, walking in my direction. Hoping they didn’t see me, I slipped quickly into an alley. As I waited for them to pass, I scanned my attire. I was wearing the oldest pair of gray sweats that exist on this planet, a yellow T-shirt with the sunshine Care Bear on it, and my powder blue skiing jacket, although that wasn’t the worst of it. I had on two different socks, one black and one light purple, and an old pair of black Chucks with black laces. I was the twenty-six-year-old Punky Brewster. I quickly felt the top of my head. Phew. No pigtails, but it was topped off with a messy bun. Please do not let them see me.

“Kate?”

Fuck!

I shoved the last cookie into my mouth and mumbled, “Hey, Stephen.”

“This is Monique. I work with her.”

“Hi, Monique.” He never hung out with female colleagues outside of work. She was a tall, blond beauty wearing an extremely narrow pencil skirt and stilettos. There was a brief moment where I thought how perfect she and Stephen looked together, the epitome of working professionals in Chicago. My disheveled ass had taken sulking and letting myself go to a new level, and I could tell that Stephen had picked up on it.

He squinted. “Are you okay, Kate?”

“Yeah, I’m fucking dandy, Stephen. You?”

“Fine. Where are you off to?” he asked. I glanced over at Monique, who was scanning my clothes. I saw sadness and pity wash over her face.

“I’m going to get a forty.”

He pinched his eyebrows together. “What’s a forty?”

“A forty of beer.” He still looked dumbfounded. “It’s forty ounces of beer in a bottle. Not everyone can afford to indulge in expensive spirits.”

“I’ve never seen you drink beer.”

“Well, I guess there’s a lot you don’t know about me. Why would you care anyway? You never loved me, remember?”

Monique’s eyes shot open. Stephen’s jaw twitched. “I said I wasn’t sure. Plus, we were fighting when I said that. This is not the time or place to pick at old wounds.”

“Old wounds? That was six fucking days ago.” He shook his head in a warning gesture. “Well, you two enjoy each other,” I said as I walked away.

Still within earshot, I heard Monique ask, “Who was that?”

“Nobody,” Stephen said. Ouch.

At the liquor store, I purchased a giant can of Budweiser, some tortilla chips, and a total of eighty lottery scratchers. My thought was that each scratcher would take me roughly thirty seconds to complete. That meant that it would occupy at least forty minutes of my time. Forty minutes I wouldn’t have to think about Jamie. It was two thousand four hundred heartbeats I wouldn’t be listening to.

I walked back to my apartment, sipping my can of Bud from the crumpled paper bag it was housed in. When I entered my apartment, I could hear my cell phone ringing incessantly from the bedroom, but I didn’t answer it. I finished my beer at 11:43 a.m. and then went back to sleep. The doorbell startled me awake. I glanced at the clock on my nightstand. It was six thirty p.m. As I slowly inched my way to the door, I breathed into my hand. My breath was horrid. Had I brushed my teeth in three days? Probably not. The doorbell rang again.

“Coming.” I opened it one inch and peeked through the sliver of space into Beth’s peering eyes.

“What up, sister? Are you gonna let me in?”

I slammed the door shut and removed the chain and then opened the door wide for Beth to enter.

“Christ, Kate, you look like death warmed over.”

“Thanks, Beth.”

“Dear god, what is that smell?”

I lifted my shoulders to my ears. “I don’t know.”

“It smells like burnt hair.”

Then it hit me. “Oh yeah, Dylan from 5B came over earlier and we smoked some pot. You know Dylan, that kid who plays the bucket on the corner? He lives in my building.”

“Isn’t he a teenager?”

“He’s twenty.”

“Since when do you smoke pot?”

“Since earlier, when Dylan from 5B came over.”