portal to escape reality and feel the past exuding and mingling with my sad reality, and I feel at home as soon as I sit at my beloved booth. Most of the college students who frequent this place don’t appreciate the fact that William Sydney Porter—AKA O’ Henry—once wrote The Gift of the Magi in this very booth over a hundred years ago. That story of comic irony about foolish lovers and their foolish gifts to one another mirror my own idiotic existence. Thank God I have this little place to come to, a safe refuge to feel sorry for myself and get drunk at least once a week. Bruce, the owner, treats me like his own flesh and blood; truthfully, he treats me better than my own flesh and blood treat me. He would never let me walk home alone to my building around the corner on Irving Place—well, it’s no longer my building, I think dismally to myself as my dire situation becomes abundantly clear.
Here I am, crying into my Irish cream-spiked coffee, plotting the murders of Gavin—my ex-husband, and Jeffery—the person who’s ruined me and my life forever, while ultimately, trying to understand my own worthless existence. I should text Emily. I pick up my phone, which I’ve set to vibrate just in case Jeffery decides to call, which is my way of ensuring I don’t get any of his calls until I have a plan. But I’ve checked my phone three thousand times since I told him we’re over for the umpteenth time last night, and I can’t believe he hasn’t called or texted me back yet. My phone starts vibrating in my hands—it’s Emily. Emily always has the sixth sense to reach out to me just when I need her most. I really don’t have anybody but her. I’ve lied to her about so many things that sometimes it’s almost impossible for us to stay friends. When I moved to London and married Gavin, I tried to cut all ties with her and we’ve only really started talking again a month ago. Thank God for her; if I didn’t have her to talk to, surely I’d need drugs and much more booze to continue living.
“Emily!” I say with my fake everything-is-perfect-in-my-world voice.
“Sara, I’ve been calling your house for hours. I need you pronto! I’ll meet you at your place in a half hour.” She sounds like she’s already on the move. Shit, I don’t have a place anymore. Fuck, what do I tell her? I’m hands-down the shittiest divorce attorney on the planet. I can negotiate properties for my clients that they have no knowledge of, and yet I can’t even negotiate to keep the place I’ve called home for the past year.
“Emily, wait! Let’s meet somewhere else. Maybe at your house.” I feel like shit! I look like shit! But hey, what choice do I have? I don’t have a home anymore.
“We can’t meet here! I don’t want Louis or anybody else hearing our conversation.” She whispers into the phone, ensuring nobody overhears her.
“Are we throwing Louis a surprise party? You know he’s recovering from a heart attack. I don’t think he’ll appreciate a surprise party.” I try to be funny in the hopes of maybe eluding Emily and avoiding her seeing me until I get my shit together.
“Don’t be stupid, no parties. I have a problem. I need your help,” she answers back, still in a hushed tone.
We should all have Emily Bruel’s problems. Thirty years old, looks like she’s twenty-one, more money than she could ever spend in one lifetime, two stunning children, the love of a gorgeous husband who had a freaking heart attack because he thought she left him, a supportive family, and drum roll please…the best set of boobs I’ve ever seen. As much as I should hate her, I can’t, I don’t. I’ve always wanted Emily’s life but not in a catty bitchy way, more like in a looking up to your sister kind of way. I always imagined my life would somehow unravel and fall into place the way her life has. She is the kindest best friend any girl could ask for. I wish her the world, and I know she wishes me the same. I love her, plain and simple. I would do anything for that girl. People like Emily get a happily ever after. Liars like me deserve pain-in-full, and I have plenty of that.