Page 3 of Rooke
“There are other kinds of love stories, Sasha. Something a little darker every now and then wouldn’t kill any of us.”
I lay out a stack of small plates along with a couple of small cheese knives, and I notice my hand shaking. It’s been shaking since I left Hathaway’s office six hours ago, and it probably won’t stop shaking for a couple of days. Some of my sessions with him are harder than others, no matter that we always go over the same thing every time we meet.
Ali sips more of her tea, grimacing when she burns herself further. “I don’t even know why you’re still running this book club.”
My hand stills on the knife I’m setting down. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because…I don’t know. I don’t mean anything by it. I just...I mean,romance,Sasha? You haven’t looked sideways at a man since Andrew. And I get it, I really do. I don’t expect you to be out bed-hopping and having the time of your life. I’m just surprised that you’re still interested in this stuff is all.”
“I’m not a nun.”
“I know you’re not a nun. Nuns get more action than you do.”
“Ha! You realize how absolutely ridiculous your last statement was, don’t you?” She just raises her eyebrows. “My vagina isn’t a dusty old relic yet. I’d date if I came across the right guy.Maybe.”
She snorts.
“What? I would.”
“No, you wouldn’t. You’d flip if a guy even asked for your number right now and you know it.”
“I work too much to go out on dates. That’s the problem.”
“The problem is that you’re afraid of your own shadow.”
“And I suppose you’d have me approaching guys in coffee shops, asking them if they want to hook up later or something?”
“It would be a step in the right direction. Or maybe setting up an account on a da—”
“Donottell me to set up an account on a dating app. I will lose my fucking mind if you tell me to set up an account on a dating app.”
“Would it really be so horrible? You’re acting like I want you to go trawling the back alleys of the ghetto for a good time. The guys on most of these sites are professionals. They’re short on time, just like you. They’re normal. They earn a paycheck.” She gives me a stern look. “A lot of them even own suits and cover their own bills.”
“I’m sure they do. I’m sure they’re all great guys. I don’t want to just fall into bed with someone, though. How is a meaningless connection going to be of any benefit to me?” I have to place the wine glass I’m holding down on the table with the utmost care; if I don’t, I’m liable to smash the thing.
“So you’re looking for something more serious? You want to find a guy to marry and have a brood of kids with? Is that it?”
I jump, an awful, bottomless agony slamming through me, deep as a ravine, wide as the ocean. The wine glass I just set down so carefully topples over. It rolls, tumbling from the edge of the table before I can catch it, hitting the floor and smashing into a thousand pieces. My heart is stumbling all over the place, stuttering like an engine almost out of fuel. “I’m never going to have another child, Al. How could you even suggest...?”
Pain flashes across my friend’s face. “But why not? You’re still young. You’re a great mom. There’s no reason you shouldn’t—”
“There’severyreason—”
The doorbell cuts us both off, the bright, cheerful sound chiming throughout the lower hallways of the house. I grip hold of the edge of the table, trying to calm myself. Ali and I stare at each other, and can see that she knows exactly how painful her suggestion was just now. I can see the remorse written into the lines of her face, but there’s defiance there, too. It’s a familiar look on her. After Christopher died, she wrapped me in cotton wool just like everyone else did, brought me meals, cleaned my house, my clothes, and my body when I couldn’t even muster the energy to do that for myself. But there came a point, months after the accident, when she decided enough was enough and she challenged me to start doing things for myself again. This feels like one of those times, but she’s pushing too far.
“Go and get the door,” she says, breaking the tension. “I’ll clear up the glass.”
There are a thousand things I’d rather do than get the door right now, but it beats standing here, continuing this conversation. I step over the mess on the floor and hurry down the hallway, nervously wiping the palms of my hands on my jeans. I can see the warped shapes of three heads through the frosted pane of glass in the front door even before I open it. Kika, Kayla, and Tiffanie: always on time, and always together, no matter what. The book club has been going for a long time, maybe seven or eight long years. There hasn’t been a single instance these three women haven’t shown up joined at the hip.
Tiffanie squeals when I open the door; she rushes forward, clapping her hands. “Oh. My.God. I am so excited. This book waslife. I can’t wait to show you the edit I posted on Goodreads. Where’s Ali?”
“She’s in the back.”
Tiffanie bustles past me, grinning from ear to ear. Kayla and Kika are hot on her heels. Kayla plants a kiss on my cheek, while Kika gives my arm a squeeze. She hangs back, allowing the other two women to go on ahead of us.
“You’re pale,” she tells me. “Have you eaten anything today? I’m not going to sugar coat it, babe. You look like shit.” This is Kika all over: very perceptive, but also very blunt. I like this about her, but others have been known to be less appreciative of her honesty.
“I’m fine. And, yes, I’ve eaten, thank you very much, Mother Theresa.”
