Page 133 of Backslide
“Next time.”
“Oh, God. Please don’t let there be a next time.”
She squeezes my hand, letting me off the hook too easily. “No next time.”
I gaze at the floor, a patch of sunlight falling across the rug like a tiny sliver of hope. “CB, I really do feel awful about last night.”
“Eh,” she waves me off. “Don’t. That was some real-life soap opera drama. No one is going to forgetthatmeltdown! It just made the night all the more memorable.”
This is a very generous spin. But of course it is. Because that’s how my best friend rolls.
“Let’s both try to be better about sharing when things blow.”
“Let’s both be better at asking for help.”
We pinky swear. Because on some level, we are still eight years old.
I am absentmindedly folding and refolding the T-shirt in my hands, when she asks me, “So, are you sad? About Noah-who-must-not-be-named?”
I exhale sharply. Will my chin not to quiver. Nod because speaking is out of the question. I am definitely sad. But also, there is no good solution. Not with the lack of trust and the distance and the fact that he expects me to uproot my life. The fact that, on some level, he still thinksIhave abandonedhim.
She leans in and hugs me again. We rock a little back and forth. We’re quiet in the wake of it all. Everything has already been said.
She pulls back and we just sit there for a minute, soaking it all in. I feel wrung out. But at least the air is clear.
“So, putting you and Noah in this suite together,” she says finally, peering around my room and out the door into the common area. “That went well.”
We look at each other and chuckle. It’s the kind of laugh that starts as a titter, becomes a snicker, morphs into a hiccup and, eventually, graduates to full-on hysteria. Minutes later, Sabrina wanders in to find us both crying and rolling around on the king-sized bed, clutching our bellies.
“Is it safe?” she asks.
That just makes us crack up harder.
“What is happening?” Her eyes are wide, like we’ve both finally lost it. “And why wasn’t I invited?”
“Total disaster!” Cara squeaks, when she can manage to breathe.
“Complete mess!” I sigh-wheeze-laugh.
“Oh, good,” Sabrina says. “As long as no one is mad anymore.”
As the laughter dissipates, I lie back on the bed on the row of too many pillows, with Cara next to me. Sabrina jumps on too and scoots over to one side, so I’m in the middle.
“I’m exhausted,” Cara says. “I think we need a vacation.”
I nod. “A just-us vacation.”
“A do-nothing vacation,” Sabrina says. “Rita likes too many activities. Activities are for the birds. I challenge you to name one good activity!”
“Sleeping in,” Cara says.
“Lying by a pool and going back to sleep,” I say.
“Eating French fries and talking shit,” Cara says.
“Eating cake and talking shit,” I say.
“Right?” Sab says. “You guys get it.”
