Page 42 of Enough
“Yeah, a bar!” She laughs. “It’ll be fun.”
“I don’t know if I’m ready for that!” I shriek.
“Come on, Ev! All you’ve done since the divorce is bury your head in your books and take care of the kids!”
“It’s all I want to do!” School is a needed distraction. I applied for a grant for single mothers who want to return to school. The money has really helped with the cost. Classes are a lot harder than I remembered, but there is something about being back in that environment that lights a fire inside me. I forgot how much I love to learn.
Gwen sighs and plops down on the couch. She grabs the remote and curls her legs underneath her. I see the sadness in her expression as she leans her head on her hand and sighs loudly. If it’s meant to make me feel guilty, it’s working. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. A diaper commercial causes me to lift my gaze toward the television. For months I cried every time I passed by a baby, or saw a baby, or even a baby item. It’s taken me months to be able to watch one without tearing up, but slowly, I’ve found some peace with her loss.
I consider how long I’ve been sitting around feeling sorry for myself and burying my head in my books to avoid moving forward with my life. Gwen has been my rock. Surely, I can do this for her. “One. Just one drink,” I say, holding up my finger so she’s clear there will not be two.
“Really?” She gasps as she bolts upward. Both Roscoe and Wookie fly off the couch in fear and curl up on the floor together. They’ve formed a bond very similar to Gwen and mine. It’s pretty darn cute.
“What are we going to wear?” I ask with concern.
“Let’s go see if we have anything other than yoga pants.”
I follow her up the stairs. She leaps two at a time in excitement. I’m out of breath by the time I reach the top. “You mean I can’t wear yoga pants?” I manage to huff out.
“No. Real clothes tonight!”
“Yoga pants are my real clothes!”
Gwen and I haven’t played dress-up in years. She blasts some Fall Out Boy as we search through our closets for something that makes us look cute and disguises our flaws. An hour later she settles on a blue little number and heels, and I settle on something black that allows me to hide my rolls.
We drive around town looking for the right place to go while we play music and dance in the car. When I say we dance in the car, I’m not kidding. We have perfected car dancing. We started in high school. It’s a lot of hand motions and lip puckering. The key is exaggerating every movement, singing loudly, and acting like you’re fierce. We usually spend most of the time in hysterical laughter. It’s one of my favorite things we do together.
It’s an unusually warm March evening, and we roll down the windows. We laugh at each other’s hot car moves, and for the first time in months, I feel better. Almost hopeful.
We settle on a cute little place on the strip and pull into the parking lot to begin our ritual.
“Do I look okay?” I ask her.
“Yes.”
“Are you telling me the truth or are you telling me what you think I need to hear in order to get me to go in there?” I ask, pointing toward the door.
“I’m telling you the truth. Why do you say that? Is it because I look bad and you don’t know how to tell me so you’re making it sound like you’re worried about yourself all whileyou’re secretly thinking that I look terrible and you don’t know how to tell me?”
I try to follow her logic and surprisingly, it makes complete sense to me. “No! You look great. You always do.”
“Well, so do you!”
After I roll my eyes and call myself a fatty, I receive a slap on the arm and a growl. I know the expression on her face means I’m about to be served Gwen’s trademark talk about negative thinking. I’ve heard it so many times I could probably lip-sync it.
“How many times have I told you to stop talking like that?” she questions. “That kind of negative thinking leads nowhere. You need to build yourself up not put yourself down. You’re beautiful, Ev.”
I sigh and turn my head to glance out the window so she can’t see me roll my eyes again. “Yeah, yeah.” The sarcasm drips off my words like ice cream off a toddler’s chin.
“You are! You’re gorgeous. You always have been. I’d kill for hair like yours. It’s so long and flowy. I wish mine would grow longer.”
“So I have okay hair. I wish I had your boobs, butt, and thighs.”
“Take them. When you get a good look at them in the mirror, you’ll be begging to hand them back.”
I rotate sharply as I point my finger in her face. “Ha! “Now who’s the Negative Nancy?”
“Are we going in there or what?” she asks in irritation.
