doctors. Lawyers. Mayors. Hockey moms.”
“Corpses.”
“Right.”
“Just trying to lighten things up,” said Annabel.
Lola gave a grim chuckle, then went on. “Even though I’m married, I sometimes still feel like we’re really just playing house. Dress-up. Like I’m walking around in my Mom’s smeared lipstick and too-big shoes.”
“Lo, I’m the one who can’t even commit to address labels. Not that I necessarily want things to be different. I’m just saying. I relate.”
“I know you do, Bella.”
What would I do without Annabel? Annabel who actually knew current band names, who carried a Leatherman, who ate only food that was round: Garden Burgers, Krispy Kremes, beer (which counted, she said, if you looked at the bottle from the bottom). Annabel said Lola kept her grounded. Lola said Annabel made sure she reached.
“But seriously, Lo, you’re not exactly complaining either, are you?” Annabel asked. “I mean, first of all, you are a writer. Your job is a job job. You’re the first one to tell everyone else that,” she said. “Nicely, of course.”
“No no, I know. I guess I’m just more . . . marveling. Whether or not we feel like adults—”
“—or act like—”
“—or act like adults, I guess . . . it’s just amazing that we’ve gotten to the place in life where what we do is who we are.”
Annabel said nothing.
Oof. Lola squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she could take that back. She’d remembered—too late—that, actually, Annabel did not have a defining what-she-does that made her who she was. And the last thing Annabel needed was for Lola to point that out.
“All right, listen,” Lola said quickly. “I gotta start giving the driver directions.” She could no longer see the tops of buildings from her vantage point, so she must be in Brooklyn. “Bella, thanks. You totally make me feel normal.”
“Me, too, Lo,” said Annabel. Lola hoped so. “Now get some sleep.”
“You, too!” said Lola.
“Naw, I’m good,” said Annabel. “I slept last year.”
It was alarmingly close to the time Lola usually got up. She’d seen the delivery trucks already making the rounds of soon-to-open coffee shops, leaving paper-bagged bundles of fresh baked goods leaning outside the locked doors. (This was also a sight she hadn’t seen since her single days, except for that one time she and Doug had waited in line until 4:30 AM to buy the thirteenth Harry Potter.) It had never ceased to amaze Lola that these bags of sweet treats never got stolen. War, murder, all manner of pain: your world could fall apart at any moment, and yet? Day after day, there were the muffins. The café owners could rely on two things every morning: one, that the sun would rise, and two, that those sweet-smelling sacks of croissants and scones would be waiting for them when they got to work. What, Lola wondered, could possibly be more reassuring?
“You know what, just drop me at this corner, please,” she said to the driver. The newspaper trucks were out already, too—and one was pulling up to Lola’s local bodega. Though she could barely keep her eyes open, Lola was curious at least to see if Mimi’s murder had made the cover of the Day.
Lola knew full well, by the way, that she could have checked the Day , not to mention Royalty , twenty minutes ago using the Web browser on her cell phone, but doing so would have put some holes in her argument with Doug that no one needed a freaking Web browser on their cell phone.
“Thanks,” she said, shelling out twenties for the driver. With what they’d spent on transportation that night, she and Doug could buy two more cheese knives.
The New York Day truck driver dropped a twine-wrapped stack by the blue wire racks outside the bodega door. Lola looked down at the five-inch-tall headline.
Murder-Tini
Oh, for God’s sake.
As Lola stared down, two feet stepped into her view. Two feet wearing ratty black sneakers. Two feet she’d recently
“Corpses.”
“Right.”
“Just trying to lighten things up,” said Annabel.
Lola gave a grim chuckle, then went on. “Even though I’m married, I sometimes still feel like we’re really just playing house. Dress-up. Like I’m walking around in my Mom’s smeared lipstick and too-big shoes.”
“Lo, I’m the one who can’t even commit to address labels. Not that I necessarily want things to be different. I’m just saying. I relate.”
“I know you do, Bella.”
What would I do without Annabel? Annabel who actually knew current band names, who carried a Leatherman, who ate only food that was round: Garden Burgers, Krispy Kremes, beer (which counted, she said, if you looked at the bottle from the bottom). Annabel said Lola kept her grounded. Lola said Annabel made sure she reached.
“But seriously, Lo, you’re not exactly complaining either, are you?” Annabel asked. “I mean, first of all, you are a writer. Your job is a job job. You’re the first one to tell everyone else that,” she said. “Nicely, of course.”
“No no, I know. I guess I’m just more . . . marveling. Whether or not we feel like adults—”
“—or act like—”
“—or act like adults, I guess . . . it’s just amazing that we’ve gotten to the place in life where what we do is who we are.”
Annabel said nothing.
Oof. Lola squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she could take that back. She’d remembered—too late—that, actually, Annabel did not have a defining what-she-does that made her who she was. And the last thing Annabel needed was for Lola to point that out.
“All right, listen,” Lola said quickly. “I gotta start giving the driver directions.” She could no longer see the tops of buildings from her vantage point, so she must be in Brooklyn. “Bella, thanks. You totally make me feel normal.”
“Me, too, Lo,” said Annabel. Lola hoped so. “Now get some sleep.”
“You, too!” said Lola.
“Naw, I’m good,” said Annabel. “I slept last year.”
It was alarmingly close to the time Lola usually got up. She’d seen the delivery trucks already making the rounds of soon-to-open coffee shops, leaving paper-bagged bundles of fresh baked goods leaning outside the locked doors. (This was also a sight she hadn’t seen since her single days, except for that one time she and Doug had waited in line until 4:30 AM to buy the thirteenth Harry Potter.) It had never ceased to amaze Lola that these bags of sweet treats never got stolen. War, murder, all manner of pain: your world could fall apart at any moment, and yet? Day after day, there were the muffins. The café owners could rely on two things every morning: one, that the sun would rise, and two, that those sweet-smelling sacks of croissants and scones would be waiting for them when they got to work. What, Lola wondered, could possibly be more reassuring?
“You know what, just drop me at this corner, please,” she said to the driver. The newspaper trucks were out already, too—and one was pulling up to Lola’s local bodega. Though she could barely keep her eyes open, Lola was curious at least to see if Mimi’s murder had made the cover of the Day.
Lola knew full well, by the way, that she could have checked the Day , not to mention Royalty , twenty minutes ago using the Web browser on her cell phone, but doing so would have put some holes in her argument with Doug that no one needed a freaking Web browser on their cell phone.
“Thanks,” she said, shelling out twenties for the driver. With what they’d spent on transportation that night, she and Doug could buy two more cheese knives.
The New York Day truck driver dropped a twine-wrapped stack by the blue wire racks outside the bodega door. Lola looked down at the five-inch-tall headline.
Murder-Tini
Oh, for God’s sake.
As Lola stared down, two feet stepped into her view. Two feet wearing ratty black sneakers. Two feet she’d recently
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