Angela had always been a fairly meticulous housekeeper, but now the apartment was quickly becoming a mess. She didn’t bother changing the sheets or making the bed any longer, had let the laundry pile up as well as the few dishes she used, hadn’t swept the floor or dusted the furniture or even taken out the trash.
And she would probably forget to shower each day if she wasn’t always so cold. Even with the warm Indian summer weather in San Francisco as of late, Angela was cold all the time. She’d stand beneath the shower for long minutes, the water almost blisteringly hot, and still had trouble getting warm. When she was at home she kept the heater on continually, and more often than not was huddled beneath the bedcovers, shivering even with sweats on and several blankets piled on top of her.
And she cried at what felt like the drop of a hat. Almost anything, it seemed, would trigger an hours-long weeping jag – a sad song on her iPod, a romantic show on TV, looking at all the beautiful things Nick had bought her – the clothes, shoes, jewelry, even the locking display cabinet he’d bought for her early on in their relationship so that she could keep her medals and trophies secure. She’d considered boxing up all of the things he’d given her and either donating them to charity or storing them in the basement, but every time she gave the matter serious consideration she’d decide she couldn’t bear to be parted from them just yet.
On one of the weekend trips he’d taken her on, a T-shirt of his had wound up in her suitcase and she’d kept it carefully hidden away. But since the break-up she’d pulled it from its hiding place and had begun to sleep with it beneath her pillow. The scent of his body no longer clung to the soft cotton fabric, but if she closed her eyes and focused hard enough she could still smell his clean, masculine essence.
She’d forgotten to call home the past couple of weekends, too dazed and distraught to remember, but it hadn’t seem to concern Rita overmuch since there’d been no communication from her end. Under normal circumstances Angela might have felt hurt – or angry – that her mother cared so little about her that she couldn’t be bothered to check in after not hearing anything for two weeks. But right now the only thing Angela cared about was Nick, and how she continued to hope and pray that he’d come back to her any day now.
At the office she hadn’t received any new referrals since the break-up, and knew instinctively that this was one more way he was cutting off ties with her. It was fortunate that she was so far ahead of her goals and the thresholds she needed to meet, because the last thing she was capable of doing right now was networking and cultivating new clients. A few days ago, when she’d been able to focus her attention long enough to work it out, she had calculated that it would probably be several months yet before she’d have to concern herself about bringing in new business. But she simply couldn’t think ahead that far right now, couldn’t bear to imagine the empty loneliness that stretched ahead of her.
As two weeks became three, Angela became increasingly obsessed with seeing Nick again, telling herself that if he caught sight of her surely that would make him realize how much he missed her and wanted her back. She’d wait outside their office building, staying discreetly out of sight, and wait for him to exit or enter. When that failed to produce results, she started driving by the restaurants and clubs she knew were his favorites, searching the nearby streets for a glimpse of one of his cars, but again to no avail. She toyed with the idea of calling one of the few friends he’d introduced her to – in particular Dante Sabattini whom Nick considered his closest friend. She wondered if Nick had mentioned their break-up to Dante, if he’d ever discussed his feelings about her with his friend. She didn’t have Dante’s personal phone number but knew where he worked, and even went so far as to look up the contact information for the venture capital firm he co-owned. But even as her fingers hovered over the keypad of her phone, ready and willing to dial the number, she set the receiver down with a resigned sigh. Even if Nick had talked about her to his best friend, there was no guarantee Dante would consent to take her call, much less share details of a private conversation. And, of course, he’d be certain to tell Nick she’d called, which would not only anger him but also drive the point home even further that he’d made the right decision to end things.
It was on a Thursday, nearly four weeks since Nick had broken things off, when the final blow was dealt. She was sitting at a little outdoor table at the coffee shop across the street from the office when she saw him. Her heart began to beat rapidly, and she smiled for the first time in nearly a month as he exited the building. He looked as fit and strong and gorgeous as ever, wearing a navy pinstriped suit. His hair had been cut recently and his skin was darkly tanned. It didn’t matter in the least to her at this moment that the break-up hadn’t seemed to have had any sort of impact on him whatsoever, that he looked just the same as always while she was a complete mess. Self-consciously, she tucked a loose strand of hair back into the untidy braid she’d clumped it in this morning, wished that she wasn’t wearing one of the old trouser suits that Nick hated with a passion, and that she’d made some effort to slap on makeup. But none of that really mattered as she drank in the sight of him hungrily, as though she was virtually starved for it, memorizing each beloved feature of his face and body. She began to rise from her seat, fully intent on dashing across the street just so she could talk to him for a minute.
And then she sank back down again abruptly, her legs suddenly threatening to give out from under her. Because instead of glancing across the street to where she sat, Nick was greeting the beautiful blonde he had obviously arranged to meet. She was tall and shapely, wearing a black sheath dress and towering heels, her glossy hair falling to her shoulders in thick waves. And as Nick bent his dark head to give her a kiss, Angela made a little sound of distress, her hand fluttering up to her mouth. She knocked over her coffee but didn’t even notice until the hot liquid spilled onto her lap. Even then she didn’t bother to blot it up, staring instead in mingled horror and despair as Nick slid an arm around the blonde’s waist and they began to walk off in the opposite direction.
Angela remained frozen in place for long minutes, shivering despite the warmth of the day and the hot coffee that had stained her suit trousers. She was oblivious to the stares she received from other patrons or from passers-by, oblivious to anything but the heartbreaking realization that Nick had well and truly moved on, forgotten her. He was seeing someone else now, fucking someone else, and for all she knew the blonde was only one of several women he’d been with over the past month. While she’d been grieving so deeply, had longed for him constantly, he’d already replaced her.
Somehow she managed to stumble back to the office, long enough to gather her things and mumble to her assistant that she didn’t feel well and was headed home. The bus ride back to her place was a blur, and she’d marvel at a later date how she’d ever managed to get aboard the correct one. She was half a block from her apartment before she turned around and backtracked until she reached the small neighborhood liquor store she’d been frequenting more and more as of late. The clerk on duty wasn’t the one she normally saw, given that it wasn’t even two o’clock, and she ignored the quizzical look he gave her when she plunked her purchases down on the counter.
“Uh, will that be all?” he asked dubiously, eyeing the half dozen assorted bottles of vodka, tequila, and whiskey.
“For now.” She held out her credit card, silently daring the clerk to comment further.
Back at her apartment, she tossed off her suit and shoes and dug items out at random from her trash bag stash. The paint-stained, holey sweat pants and worn out monkey slippers felt like old friends, as did her high school sweatshirt. But her new best friend quickly became the bottle of vodka that she broke open and began to steadily work her way through as the afternoon faded into evening.
***
Lauren figured she was just about the only person on the nearly ten hour flight arriving in San Francisco from Tokyo who was wide awake and refreshed. And that included the other members of her crew, all three of whom still had an additional connecting flight to make before reaching their respective homes. The four of them had left Vietnam some eighteen hours ago, changing planes in Japan, having spent ten days on their most recent assignment. As usual, she’d fallen into a deep, restful sleep almost immediately upon takeoff from Tokyo, and had woken up about ninety minutes ago, just in time for breakfast and several cups of heavily creamed and sugared coffee. Her co-workers – all men – looked like they’d been through the wringer by contrast and all three were glaring at her as they stumbled off the aircraft.
“Okay, boys, don’t dawdle now or you’ll miss your next flight,” she chirped cheerily. “Meanwhile, I’m going to go bail my car out of long term parking and have myself a nice leisurely drive home.”
Chris, the crew’s videographer, glared at her. “Bitch,” was all he muttered, though in a good-natured, teasing tone. He, like the others, knew better than to ever use a derogatory term in Lauren’s presence and actually mean it.
She chuckled evilly and pressed a quick kiss to his stubbly cheek. “Maybe you can get some sleep on your flight to New York,” she offered innocently.
Chris mumbled something unintelligible beneath his breath, but Lauren knew it was something he’d never dare to repeat out loud. Grinning, she gave her other crew members – Karl and Stefan – a hug good-by. All three men looked even worse under the harsh lights of the airport terminal, like they’d been drop-kicked by an especially angry mule.
“Ah, come on, ladies,” she teased. “Just console yourselves with the fact that we have a whole ten days off until we have to reconvene for our next assignment. Take care of yourselves – Christina, Karla, and Stefanie!”
Within the first few weeks of her joining the crew, she’d chided them about how much they tended to whine at certain times and had not so teasingly referred to them as a bunch of high school girls. From there, the feminine versions of their names had quickly evolved, and she was merciless about using their nicknames when the occasion called for it.
Lauren was still chuckling to herself as she sauntered leisurely to baggage claim, pulling out her phone as she did so. There were a few texts from Julia, an email from her parents, and three new voice mails. The first she deleted immediately since it was from a guy she’d been stupid enough to give her number to last month; the second was an appointment reminder from her dentist; and the third was from Angela.
At least the number was Angela’s. She wasn’t quite so certain about the garbled, nearly incoherent voice, and had to replay the message three times before she could understand even a portion of it.
“Hi, it’s Angie. Sorry I’ve blown you off so much lately. I – been busy – it’s – ah shit, it’s all over now, he’s got someone new. Doesn’t matter. Sorry, I know you’re pissed, don’t blame you. Bye.”
Lauren frowned as she stuck the phone in the pocket of her cargo pants, grabbing her overstuffed duffel off the baggage carousel easily with one hand. Angela had sounded ill, confused, almost incoherent. She’d sounded, Lauren realized with a sigh, stinking, falling down drunk.
‘Damn you, Angie,’ she cursed beneath her breath as she walked outside of the terminal toward the parking shuttle. ‘And here I was counting on spending a few peaceful days back at the cabin. Now it sounds like I’ve got to pull your drunken head out of your ass. What the hell have you done to yourself?’
***
It was worse, much, much worse than she could have imagined, as Angela’s very irritated landlord – a grouchy old Italian guy who reeked of garlic and cheap red wine – grudgingly let her inside the apartment. When Angela hadn’t answered her phone or responded to the persistent ringing of the outside doorbell, Lauren had all but threatened the recalcitrant old fart into letting her in, telling him in no uncertain terms that if her friend was sick or hurt it would be his responsibility.
But Lauren had never envisioned this – this chaos, this total disarray, this – stink. She wrinkled her nose as she shut the apartment door behind her and more closely surveyed the scene in front of her.
Smack in the middle of the room were half a dozen large black trash bags, from which a variety of clothes and shoes were spilling out. The tiny kitchenette looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in weeks, with dirty dishes and empty wrappers littering every available surface. The smell of rotting garbage was vaguely nauseous, even for someone like Lauren who normally had a cast iron stomach. Among the debris, she noted with a grimace, was an alarming number of empty liquor bottles.
As for Angela herself, Lauren assumed that the lifeless lump sprawled out beneath a pile of bedcovers was her friend. She was snoring rather loudly, the only part of her visible a few straggly locks of black hair. As Lauren drew closer, she was repelled by the combined odors of sweat, booze, and vomit, and puzzled when she noticed one of Angela’s hands clutching what looked like a man’s black T-shirt.
“Okay, it’s bad enough you’ve got trash bags filled with old clothes in the middle of the room, and that your apartment smells like a beer hall. But, honey, no offense. You really, really need a shower,” drawled Lauren. “Time to wake up now and get your ass in gear.”
Angela groaned as Lauren gave her a firm shake, burrowing her head deeper under the pillow and pulling the bedcovers up over her head. “Go ‘way,” she mumbled. “Leave me alone.”