“How are you getting along with Chris traveling all the time?” she asks.
“I’m doing okay,” I say. Bridget is my closest friend next to Elisa, and I could certainly admit that so far, despite my concerns, Chris’s travel schedule has had little impact on any of us. He spent most of the previous year holed up in our home office with the door closed while he networked over the phone or searched employment sites on his laptop. Half the time the kids didn’t even realize he was home, and when they did, they didn’t care, which broke my heart. His, too.
It isn’t that I don’t trust Bridget; I do. And God knows she’s got her own problems to deal with. Sam’s prowess—or luck, depending on who you ask—at the casino and the racetrack is legendary, and Bridget knows what it’s like to be alone because Sam spends all his time at work and the rest of his waking hours betting on the horses or playing poker. She admitted to me once, somewhat sheepishly, that Sam didn’t really connect with the kids until they were old enough to do the things he liked to do.
“Like gamble?” I asked. I was only half kidding.
She grimaced. “Yes. He takes them to Chiefs games. They know all about point spreads.”
I wouldn’t have a problem telling Bridget everything, but the truth is, I’m tired of talking about it—the recession, the horrible job market, Chris’s depression, and the resulting emotional upheaval that ripped through my household. I’m just done.
After a mile we pick up the pace. I strip off my sweatshirt and tie the sleeves around my waist, glancing up at the darkening sky.
“Ready for bunco tonight?” Bridget asks.
“Almost. I still need to make a Costco run.”
We discussed starting a neighborhood book club, but Elisa and I are the only ones who like to read, so we decided bunco might be more our speed. A simple dice game, a drink or two, and an excuse to leave the kids at home suited everyone just fine. Tonight the teenage girl who lives at the end of our street and occasionally babysits for me is taking Josh and Jordan to the park and then back to her house to swim in her family’s pool and eat hot fudge sundaes. The kids consider this the ultimate trifecta of summer fun and wish I’d host bunco more often.
We’re less than a quarter mile from home when the sky opens up and pours. We sprint, laughing, not really caring that we’re getting drenched. I shout good-bye as Bridget dashes into her house, and I burst through the front door of mine, wiping the water from my cheeks. Josh and Jordan are still asleep and Sebastian is watching an episode of Family Guy that’s been on our DVR for more than a year. He rises from the couch looking so tired, I tell him to go home and go back to bed. At the front door I press a five-dollar bill into his hand. “Don’t tell your mom,” I say, ruffling his spiky hair.
He grins. “Thanks, Claire.”
Later that day the kids and I jump in the car and drive to Costco. Josh and Jordan gorge on the best samples while I load up my cart. At home I put everything away and give the house a quick once-over to make sure it’s still clean. The kids play in the backyard with Bridget’s youngest son, Griffin, stopping occasionally for Popsicles or to use the restroom. I sit at the kitchen island, sipping iced tea and working on some graphics for a local car dealership advertisement until Griffin goes home and the babysitter comes to collect Josh and Jordan. “Be good and behave,” I say, bending down to kiss each of them good-bye. I caution the babysitter to keep a close eye on the kids when they’re in the pool. “Make sure you’re in the water with them, okay?”
“I will, Mrs. Canton,” she says. “My parents will be there, too.” I shut the door and turn off my laptop, then pull the fruit and cheese I picked up at Costco out of the fridge. After arranging the wedges of Brie and cheddar on a platter, and surrounding them with grapes and chunks of melon, I set a small bowl of crackers next to the platter. I have exactly five more minutes of quiet before the girls show up.
Julia arrives first, holding a bottle of chardonnay, and—I’ll be honest—she looks rough. She’s only thirty-two, but already there are deep grooves in her face, as though her skin is never fully hydrated. Her eyes look tired and her hair isn’t as shiny as it usually is.
“Hi,” I say, and I reach out and give her a spontaneous hug. She feels tiny and brittle in my arms, like she’s not eating enough.
“Well hello to you, too, Claire,” she says, surprised by my greeting. She’s not an overly affectionate person unless it’s the end of the evening. When she’s really drunk, she tells me how much she loves me, accompanied by hugs and sloppy kisses.
I shut the door and follow her into the kitchen. I hand her a corkscrew, feeling like a giant hypocrite but knowing she will drink tonight no matter what I say or how gently I suggest that she abstain. She pours a large glass and takes a drink.
The doorbell rings and I yell for whoever it is to come in. Elisa and Bridget walk into the kitchen together. Bridget holds a giant bowl of tortilla chips and has a jar of her homemade salsa tucked under her arm. Elisa balances a cheesecake in one hand and holds a six-pack of Amstel Light in the other.
“We’ll never be able to eat all that,” I say. I clear some space on the counter and take the bowl of chips from Bridget. Standing on my tiptoes, I open the cupboard and reach for a small bowl on the shelf and then pour the salsa into it. I love Bridget’s salsa. She uses the freshest ingredients and it’s spicy enough to make my lips tingle. I dunk a chip into it and groan when I pop it in my mouth. “This batch is excellent,” I tell her. Elisa sets down the cheesecake on the island next to the wine bucket. I’m definitely going to have a bite or two of that.
When I first met the girls and they found out about my diabetes, they went overboard trying to accommodate my disease. They’d show up with sugar-free cookies and platters of carrots, celery, and broccoli until I explained that my pump does most of the work for me and there’s nothing I can’t have in moderation as long as I pay attention to my readings and adjust my insulin accordingly. I sensed their relief when I assured them they could bring whatever they wanted, especially since no one ever touched the horrible cookies, and the veggies went right into the trash.
“Where’s Chris this week?” Julia asks, topping off her glass and settling herself onto a stool next to the island.
“Santa Fe and Albuquerque.”
“It must be so hard with him on the road all the time,” she says. “Aren’t you lonely?”
I was lonely long before Chris went out on the road, but she doesn’t know that. “Yes,” I say, answering honestly. “But he really needed that job, so the kids and I will just have to make do.”
She snaps her fingers, like she’s just come up with the best idea ever. “You should go to one of those Pure Romance parties.”
“What’s Pure Romance?” Bridget asks.
“You know,” Julia says. “Like Pampered Chef but for vibrators. Instead of bunco, one of us could host a party next month.”
Bridget laughs. “Why am I not surprised that you know this?” Julia loves to talk about her sex life, and we’re used to her oversharing.
“Don’t knock it, Bridge,” Julia says. “They’ve got a fantastic product line.”
Bridget opens a bottle of beer and sits down beside Julia. “I’ve got four kids and a husband who wants to have sex every night. How, exactly, am I supposed to make time for a vibrator?”
“I’m just saying it doesn’t hurt to have a backup,” Julia says. She turns toward me. “Are you even paying attention, Claire?”
“Not really,” I say, taking a sip of my iced tea.
“But you’re the whole reason I brought it up,” she says.
“Thanks, but I’m pretty sure I can get the job done without a sex toy.”
“How very boring, Claire,” Julia says.