Chapter 16
16
Sasha and I sit beside each other at the wide mahogany bar of the Heron Hotel. The hotel is right across from our office, and its warm, friendly bar is the default rendezvous point for Bryan, Sasha, and me whenever we have a bad day. Sasha and I had hoped to find Bryan here, since neither of us has seen or heard from him since he was laid off a few hours ago. But he’s not here.
It turned out Sasha was off-site at a client pitch this morning, and by the time she got into the office after lunch, Bryan was already gone. I didn’t see him after Julie escorted him down the hall. It was Nancy, unsurprisingly, who found Sasha and me to confirm the bad news. She barely held back tears when she told us, voice shaking, They let him go .
“Bry text you back yet?” Sasha asks for the thousandth time.
“No,” I say, sighing, and wishing the bar had a food menu. “I’m going to try Carlos.”
“Good idea.”
Sasha slowly twirls the bottom of her elegant red wineglass as I text Carlos. This all feels so wrong. The Java-Lo pitch hasn’t even happened yet. If Bryan has already been let go, what does that mean? Are we all on the chopping block?
My phone lights up. Several messages come in, one after the other.
Carlos: Hey hon.
Carlos: B is in for the night.
Carlos: Reeling a bit. But he’ll be ok.
Carlos: Talk soon. Xx
I show the text to Sasha, who bites her lip.
“Damn,” she says.
I send Carlos a quick reply, thanking him for the update and telling him to reach out if they need anything. Then I turn my phone over face down on the bar and take a long sip of my pinot noir.
“This doesn’t feel real,” I say.
“And right before the holidays,” Sasha says gloomily.
“You think we’re next?”
“Probably.”
“God,” I say, wondering if this week can get any worse.
My litany of woe is overwhelming at this point. Still mourning my dead dad. Unsettling visions of my dead grandmother. Scary train encounters. Shitty workweek. Childhood home about to be sold off. Terminal singlehood and a full year of celibacy. Little sister’s hokey Camp Hanukkah wedding to look forward to over the weekend. Bomb threat, evidently not for the first time, at my mother’s synagogue. Whole world remains a dumpster fire.
And the cherry on top: happy birthday to me; this weekend I turn forty.
This is the first milestone birthday to bother me. Thirty was no big deal. I was pretty proud of where I was at that point. But I seem to have been treading water in the decade since then, and more recently, slowly drowning. I was already insecure enough about being forty, childless, and single. With everything else pressing in on me, how am I supposed to feel anything but bereft?
I should try to share some of this with Sasha.
Instead, I order us another round.
And then another.
Two hours later, Sasha and I are both drunker than we’ve been in years. Way, way drunker than at the Christmas concert after-party last night. I can’t remember the last time I went out for drinks two days in a row. It feels awful, and it feels wonderful.
“I’ve missed you,” I tell Sasha.
“Yeah, yeah,” she says, waving away my words.
“No, I mean it,” I say. “We should do this more often.”
“Get hammered?”
“Spend time together.”
“Yeah,” she says. “You’re right.”
“We should reinstitute Bestie Brunch!”
“Bestie Brunch,” Sasha says, closing her eyes dreamily. “It’s been, what, a year?”
“More than that,” I say.
Sasha, Bryan, and I used to get together almost every Saturday for Bestie Brunch. Even when one of us was seeing someone, the time was sacred. No dates allowed. Just the three of us, drinking bottomless mimosas, eating eggs Benedict, and telling each other everything. But after a solid two-year run, the dedicated time started slipping down our priority lists. Life kept causing each of us to have to cancel, and eventually we just stopped trying to even schedule our once-sacred gathering.
“Maybe we can see if Bryan’s up for brunch on Saturday,” Sasha suggests.
“Not this Saturday,” I say glumly.
“Oh, right,” Sasha says. “Fuck. Right. Wedding. Birthday. All of it.”
“Yep.”
“Eve, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you...” Sasha says, and I know she’s gonna tell me for the thousandth time that I should never have RSVP’d with a plus-one. The alcohol swimming through my veins has washed away every last drop of my patience. I can’t hear the same old rebuke from her again, so I cut her off.
“I’m gonna ask him,” I declare, pronouncing each word extremely carefully so I won’t sound drunk. Which is an absolute dead giveaway that you’re drunk. The more I try to articulate, the less my tongue seems to obey.
“Ask who?” Sasha says, eyelids struggling to stay at half-mast.
“Hajjash,” I say.
“Who?”
“Hajjash!”
“Who—”
“Hot,” I say, loudly and slowly, enunciating so hard I stretch the next word into two syllables: “Josh.”
“Oh, right, right,” says Sasha. “You were gonna ask the neighbor guy to the wedding. Yeah yeah, do that. Okay? Ask him. Ask him today. Might be awkward but it’s definitely not the worst option.”
“Right,” I agree. “The worst option would be going alone.”
“No,” Sasha says softly. She sips from her empty glass, not seeming to notice the nothingness in her mouth, automatically swallowing before adding, barely audibly, “That’s not the worst option.”
If I were sober, I’d push her about this cryptic statement. Ask her what she means.
But I’m not.
So I don’t.
“Well,” I say. “Point is, I’m gonna ask him.”
“May the odds be ever in your favor,” Sasha says, pushing away her empty glass and seeming to step back into herself.
“They probably aren’t,” I say, swallowing a belch. “But I mean, what the hell, right? What do I have to lose?”
“Your dignity?” Sasha suggests.
I rise. Stumble slightly. As I right myself, I can no longer contain my massive alcohol-soaked burp; I let it loose in a mighty yawp, then make a big flourishing voilà! gesture with my hands.
“What dignity?” I ask.
“Fair point,” says Sasha.
We close out our tab, embrace, promise to text each other when we get home safely. It’s not even eight o’clock, but it’s dark and cold. I’m on such liquid autopilot that I get on the train before I remember that I had a nasty encounter last night and also that I’m shit-faced and should probably have called a car.
Too late now, though.
Luckily, I make it to my stop without incident, although I do feel a little queasy. Jerky, motion-sickness-inducing train rides and too much alcohol are not a great combination. As I’m exiting the train, a dude in a Santa suit is waiting to board.
I stare at him, thoughts sloshing through my mind like a spilled drink.
Jesus Christ, what’s with all the Santas and carolers and shit lately? Yeah yeah yeah, ’tis the season, blah blah blah. The decorations are nice but I mean, come on, is Chicago rebranding itself as Christmas Town USA?
The man in the Santa suit gives me a friendly wave.
I flip him the bird.
“Not today, Santa,” I mutter, lurching down the platform.