something about the stiff set of his back that warned me away. I just stood there in the doorway, watching, unable to speak, trying hard not to cry.
He went into the bathroom, swept his toiletries off the shelf into a small leather bag, then turned and faced me.
“I’m going to leave tonight, drive all night and all day tomorrow. I should be in Montana by Thursday. Have you changed your mind about coming?”
“Not if you’re going to act like this.” Anger was starting to replace guilt. Somehow Ben had twisted everything around to make me the bad guy.
“Suit yourself, then.” He reached into his pocket and brought out a new cellphone, still in its bulletproof plastic casing. “You didn’t have a phone yet, so I bought one for you. The service plan is already paid for.” He handed me a credit card. “Use this for groceries, rent, whatever you need while I’m gone.”
“I don’t need you paying my bills,” I huffed.
He shrugged, trying to seem cool, even though I knew he was angry.
We stared at each other, each of us waiting for the other one to give in, but we were both too stupid and too stubborn.
“I’ll call you,” Labeck finally said. And then he left.
He didn’t call.
I turned on my new phone and waited all evening, but he didn’t call. Maybe he was too busy. Maybe he’d lost my number. Maybe he just didn’t want to talk to me. I finally broke down and called him, worried that he’d had an accident on the road and was lying in a desolate stretch of the Badlands, swatting away vultures, unable to reach his phone, sending me telepathic cries for help. But every time I dialed, I got a message that said “Your call cannot be completed.”
Three days after Ben Labeck drove off to Big Sky country, I moved out of his apartment and out of his life.
For six weeks I’d managed to convince myself that I was over Labeck. I drowned my heartache in hot fudge sundaes, immersed myself in my new job, walked Muffin on days he didn’t want to stir from his doggie bed, and lied to myself about how much better off I was without Mr. Machismo trying to wrap me in a ruffly apron. And I’d been doing great! Well, satisfactory. Okay—clinging to sanity by the tips of my raw, bloody fingers. Then Labeck had walked into Rhonda’s party, told me he wanted to talk, and set my insides into a spin cycle.
Now, spying on Labeck and Rhonda locked in a passionate embrace, I knew I wasn’t over Labeck at all. If I were over him, would I feel this raging sense of jealousy? Would I feel this overwhelming urge to slap him to his senses, to scream at him to run before this poisonous woman sank her fangs into him?
They broke apart, Rhonda wearing a triumphant smile and Labeck looking as though he wanted to check whether he was still wearing underwear.
“Mmm … that was really nice.” Rhonda’s voice was brown sugar, gritty and sweet. She corkscrewed to her feet, turned her back to Labeck, and pulled her skirt down by sliding it back and forth across her butt. Labeck’s eyes followed, as though he was watching a game of ass ping-pong.
“So let’s go find this great bar of yours, stud,” Rhonda said.
They left the room, turned out the lights, and went out the front door, leaving me alone in the dark with a homicidal spider.
Chapter Nine
Being fired is like falling off a bicycle. You just have to get back on and pedal along until the next pothole bucks you off.
—Maguire’s Maxims
I’m not a thong-type person. I’m not even a bikini-type person. I’m the type who in high school had my period three weeks out of every month so I’d be excused from gym-class showers. Was I really thinking of taking a job that involved serving coffee while wearing undies the size of postage stamps?
I drove downtown slowly, not wanting to be doing what I was doing. It was Tuesday afternoon, I’d spent the morning trolling the Internet for job openings, and I’d come up with zero. But there was still Juju’s offer of
He went into the bathroom, swept his toiletries off the shelf into a small leather bag, then turned and faced me.
“I’m going to leave tonight, drive all night and all day tomorrow. I should be in Montana by Thursday. Have you changed your mind about coming?”
“Not if you’re going to act like this.” Anger was starting to replace guilt. Somehow Ben had twisted everything around to make me the bad guy.
“Suit yourself, then.” He reached into his pocket and brought out a new cellphone, still in its bulletproof plastic casing. “You didn’t have a phone yet, so I bought one for you. The service plan is already paid for.” He handed me a credit card. “Use this for groceries, rent, whatever you need while I’m gone.”
“I don’t need you paying my bills,” I huffed.
He shrugged, trying to seem cool, even though I knew he was angry.
We stared at each other, each of us waiting for the other one to give in, but we were both too stupid and too stubborn.
“I’ll call you,” Labeck finally said. And then he left.
He didn’t call.
I turned on my new phone and waited all evening, but he didn’t call. Maybe he was too busy. Maybe he’d lost my number. Maybe he just didn’t want to talk to me. I finally broke down and called him, worried that he’d had an accident on the road and was lying in a desolate stretch of the Badlands, swatting away vultures, unable to reach his phone, sending me telepathic cries for help. But every time I dialed, I got a message that said “Your call cannot be completed.”
Three days after Ben Labeck drove off to Big Sky country, I moved out of his apartment and out of his life.
For six weeks I’d managed to convince myself that I was over Labeck. I drowned my heartache in hot fudge sundaes, immersed myself in my new job, walked Muffin on days he didn’t want to stir from his doggie bed, and lied to myself about how much better off I was without Mr. Machismo trying to wrap me in a ruffly apron. And I’d been doing great! Well, satisfactory. Okay—clinging to sanity by the tips of my raw, bloody fingers. Then Labeck had walked into Rhonda’s party, told me he wanted to talk, and set my insides into a spin cycle.
Now, spying on Labeck and Rhonda locked in a passionate embrace, I knew I wasn’t over Labeck at all. If I were over him, would I feel this raging sense of jealousy? Would I feel this overwhelming urge to slap him to his senses, to scream at him to run before this poisonous woman sank her fangs into him?
They broke apart, Rhonda wearing a triumphant smile and Labeck looking as though he wanted to check whether he was still wearing underwear.
“Mmm … that was really nice.” Rhonda’s voice was brown sugar, gritty and sweet. She corkscrewed to her feet, turned her back to Labeck, and pulled her skirt down by sliding it back and forth across her butt. Labeck’s eyes followed, as though he was watching a game of ass ping-pong.
“So let’s go find this great bar of yours, stud,” Rhonda said.
They left the room, turned out the lights, and went out the front door, leaving me alone in the dark with a homicidal spider.
Chapter Nine
Being fired is like falling off a bicycle. You just have to get back on and pedal along until the next pothole bucks you off.
—Maguire’s Maxims
I’m not a thong-type person. I’m not even a bikini-type person. I’m the type who in high school had my period three weeks out of every month so I’d be excused from gym-class showers. Was I really thinking of taking a job that involved serving coffee while wearing undies the size of postage stamps?
I drove downtown slowly, not wanting to be doing what I was doing. It was Tuesday afternoon, I’d spent the morning trolling the Internet for job openings, and I’d come up with zero. But there was still Juju’s offer of
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