When Girlfriends Break Hearts by Savannah Page Page A

irresponsibly switched lanes frequently. You think you know someone. And what did I ever do to deserve this? I’ve done nothing but be there as a friend. As a best girlfriend….
    Yet as I approached Robin’s apartment complex, my anger transformed into nervousness—even fear. How was I going to approach Robin with this news? Perhaps she’d know as soon as she laid eyes on me. Would I even have to segue out of a casual “nice to see you” conversation and into the elephant that would undoubtedly be in the room?
    It was too late to think any more about the possibilities—the inevitabilities. I was at her apartment.
    Robin had lived in this complex, in a small one-bed and one-bath apartment, since her senior year at college, not too far away from campus. She had lived with our good friend Lara Kearns for awhile on campus, but when Lara graduated a year earlier than the rest of us, Robin decided to spend her senior year in residence off campus. Robin was susceptible to moodiness, which us girls chalked up to her being artsy. It wasn’t unusual for her to turn down a night out on the town in favor of some quiet time at home curling up with a good book, or, her favorite hobby, dabbling in watercolors and getting lost in her sketchbook. Living solo to have time to herself was signature Robin.
    And four years later Robin still called this apartment community, with boisterous neighbors and young students, home. All us girls never understood why she maintained her inexpensive residency at Pacific Green Hills. It made sense when she was in college, and its proximity to campus was convenient.  
    But Robin now had a blossoming career at a small publishing company as a graphic designer. She was a hard worker, a very talented artist, had great grades in college—always keeping above an impressive 3.75 grade point average. A sweet internship during her last semester had turned into a promising career. We all knew that her salary wasn’t Ramen noodles, and though it wasn’t duck a l’orange, it was more than enough money for a young, single woman who was making a name for herself.  
    All of the girls were proud of her and even looked up to her and her success as a career woman. When I thought of opening my own bakery and café, I looked up to her.
    But now I loathed Robin. Now the words “inspiring” and “Robin” were as far from each other as either of us were from having duck a l’orange night after night.
    I pulled into a free parking space that was just a few doors shy from Robin’s first floor apartment. I could see the light yellow curtains hanging in her front window from where I was parked. Those were Claire’s apartment warming gift to Robin, and the “Martha Stewart” that Claire is, she also made matching pillow shams for the sofa.
    How on earth am I going to do this?  
    My palms were wet. My stomach turned, but I wasn’t sure if it was nerves or breakfast hunger. I decided it was both.
    Without any further thought, I got out of the car and approached the familiar door. Robin had hosted many girls’ nights at her apartment. Many nights we had all gotten together at her place for a bit of pre-partying before we hit the clubs. Many mornings we had woken up from an exhausting night of dancing, or from a twelve-hour marathon of Sex and the City , and made delectable blueberry pancakes and scrambled eggs for breakfast. Robin was one of the girls in my sisterhood of girlfriends, and her home was just as much a second home to me as was Claire’s. But now?
    I closed my eyes, took in a deep breath, and knocked on the door. I wasn’t sure what I would say or how I would say it—or even when. No girl ever prepares for this kind of thing. I don’t really think there is a way.
    Robin opened the door and she stood there, dressed and ready for the day. Even her long, blonde hair (which she claimed was natural but all us girls knew otherwise) was curled and cascading beautifully over her shoulders. It wasn’t unlike