“Hey, Grace.” I tried to sound normal.
“Ellice, are you okay? Lana and I have been trying to reach you all day. I heard something on the news about a lawyer at Houghton who committed suicide in his office. Did you know him?”
“Yeah, I knew him. He was my boss.”
“Oh, my heavens. What the hell was going on over there? Why did he commit suicide?” I expected this question. Of the three of us, Grace had no filter.
“I don’t know. He didn’t leave a note.”
“I’m so sorry. I keep telling you, you guys work too hard. At least I know you do. We haven’t seen you in a couple months. How are you doing?”
“I’m fine.”
“Girl, you can’t be fine. You work for a man who just killed himself. Isn’t that the same guy you worked with at the law firm?”
“Look, Grace—”
“Weren’t you two kinda close?” Something about her question tugged at me. Had I talked about Michael too much over the years? I never confided to Grace or Lana about my romantic involvement with Michael. It makes for awkward Sunday brunch conversation since married women typically don’t encourage single women to sleep with another woman’s husband. “Do you want some company? I can swing by your place.”
“Thanks, but no. It’s been a long day. I think I’m just gonna take a shower and head to bed.”
“Okay . . . if you’re sure. Let’s get together this weekend. Just you and me. We’ll leave Lana to hang on her own. Then we won’t have to listen to her complain about her husband. Besides, he can’t be as bad as she makes him out to be or else she would have left him and all his money a long time ago. Right?” Grace giggled into the phone.
“Yeah. Listen, Grace, it’s been a hellish day.”
“Okay, you get some rest. I’ll call you this weekend. Don’t leave me hangin’。”
I gave a weak chuckle. “I won’t. Good night.”
Our little triumvirate—Lana, Grace, and Ellice—was still hanging on from college. Of the three of us, Lana was the one always trying to patch us up from the dings and bruises we suffered navigating life, dusting us off and sending us back out into the world. Grace was the one always trying to get us to do Jell-O shots and detoxifying spa wraps, like we were taking our last gasps of youth before stepping into that otherness called middle age. If I were in trouble, Lana would bring a casserole to my house and help me find a good lawyer. Grace would bring a gallon of bleach, a tarp, and a couple shovels.
Years ago, whenever the three of us got together, we were like some teen girl group, full of energy and limitless potential to do something great in the world. But things changed over the years, as they always do. Now, it was shameful how I always bailed on them. These days, when I was free, they weren’t because they were occupied with family stuff like kids’ basketball games and wedding anniversaries. Most times they wanted to get together for a couples’ date, dragging along some milquetoast friend of one of their husbands as my date for the evening. Lately, when they invited me to hang out, I begged off with the usual “gotta work” excuses, and then curled up on the sofa with the latest issue of O Magazine or actual work from the office.
For the first time in a long time, I felt completely alone in my home. Even though Michael didn’t live here, somehow I’d managed to fill this place with his presence: the kind of coffee he drank, his favorite magazines, a spot in the closet for a couple of his shirts and clean underwear. Truthfully, I was never interested in a happily-ever-after with Michael or any man for that matter. A lot of single men my age come with too much baggage—bitter ex-wives and jealous kids—or else they’re passive-aggressive about the baggage I bring along, like a higher salary than theirs. For me, Michael was someone to knock the edge off the hormonal urges and, supposedly, mentor my career. Sometimes I could be an opportunistic bitch, and other times I could be a lonely middle-aged woman seeking companionship that was not mine to have. Thus far, only half my plan worked out: I finally got the promotion. I was still alone.
I grabbed dinner from the pantry—a party-size bag of Lay’s barbecue potato chips—and ate them straight from the bag while waiting for the teakettle to boil. A few minutes later, I headed off to the bedroom with a cup of chamomile tea and dinner tucked under my arm.
The first thing I noticed in the room was Michael’s duffel bag beside my closet door. I set my dinner on the bedside table and picked up the bag. I ran my fingers along the strap and fought back tears. I didn’t love this man, so why was I crying?