Page 7 of Must Love Dogs… and Hockey

I rise from the table and move into the tiny kitchen where more pancakes await me. I fork up a couple onto my plate. “Want any?”

“Wow, you’re really carb loading. Oh, what the hell, sure.”

She joins me and pulls a plate out of the cupboard. I slather butter all over the tasty circles then pour syrup and hand it to Carlin.

“I think I put on ten pounds just now,” I tell her. “But I love pancakes.”

“Who doesn’t?”

“Right?”

“You got this, Lilly. You know that, right?”

“Of course!”

I don’t know that. There were a lot of days when I was unemployed where I could barely get out of bed. Why bother? I had no purpose, no meaning to my life, and the constant rejection destroyed any self-esteem I may have had. I used to be a confident, ambitious young professional with my whole life in front of me. Now?

I swallow a sigh.

I’m not going there again. Yes, I was using some unhealthy coping mechanisms—pancakes being one of them—but I’ve learned. This time I won’t spend days in bed, drink a bottle of wine every night, and not shower for days.

I hope.

“Let’s make a plan,” Carlin suggests. “You love making plans.”

“No,youlove making plans.”

“Come on.”

“I need a day or two to wallow, okay?”

She eyes me worriedly. “I guess.” She pauses. “It’s Friday night. Let’s go out.”

“That’s not wallowing.”

“Okay, fine. I’ll get the squad to come over here. We’ll wallow with you.”

I shrug. “I’m okay with that.”

She starts sending messages.

I’m still dressed in the black skirt and white shirt I wore to work this morning, although I’ve pulled the shirttails out. I came home after being canned and started making pancakes. “I’m going to change.” I slide my plate into the dishwasher and drop the cutlery in.

“Sounds good.”

I climb the curving staircase to my tiny loft bedroom while unzipping my skirt. First I toss it onto the chair in the corner, but with a sigh I pick it up and hang it in my closet. Likewise with the shirt. Since I’m not leaving this apartment tonight, I dress in leggings and a long, loose sweatshirt that saysTime to wine down. Very appropriate.

Then I lie down on my bed.

I can’t believe this happened. I didn’t do anything wrong. I was good at my job. Even though it wasn’t what I wanted to do, I didn’t look at it as beneath me. I did my best. And my dickbag boss who screws around with his employees fired me, the onenotscrewing him.

I’m so tired of getting fucked in ways that don’t end in an orgasm.

I close my eyes against the tears that sting the corners. Nope. Not gonna cry.

Last time I lost my job, I was trying to do the right thing. I knew it could cost me my job. Ididn’tknow it would cost me my whole life. I’ve second-guessed my decisions back then about a million times. I’m still pretty sure I’d do it again. I have to live with myself for a lot of years. Hopefully.

But this? This wasn’t fair. I mean, I know life’s not fair; but this is fucking ridiculous.

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