Page 37 of Cackle

“Nervous personality,” she says. “Annie. What’s wrong?”

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t seem yourself this morning. Is everything all right? Did I do something?”

“No,” I say. “No, I’m fine.”

As the words “I’m fine” leave my mouth, I realize how untrue they are. Sophie’s right. I’m not myself. I’m hungover, and I’m ashamed to be hungover.

I sigh. “I had too much wine last night.”

“My fault,” she says. “I’m a bad influence. I’m sorry, pet.”

“Don’t be sorry. I’m the one who drank it. I guess . . . this is the second time in the past week that I’ve gotten drunk. I don’t want to be this sad, single thirtysomething getting wine drunk multiple times a week. I don’t know.”

“Do you not like wine?”

“I do.”

Sophie takes a slow sip of her coffee. “Annie, why would you say ‘sad, single thirtysomething’?”

I’ve offended her. “I’m sorry. I just meant that’s how I feel.”

“No. No, I don’t think you did,” she says. She slowly unfolds a grin. “You think being single is a sad state of being. I promise you, it’s not.”

“No, I know.”

“Do you?”

Honestly, I don’t. I don’t want to end up alone. I don’t want to be an old maid. I want to be with someone. Share my life. Have someone love me. Want me.

“But why?” she asks.

“Sorry?”

“Why do you feel you need someone to love you, to want you? Why are you seeking that outside yourself?”

I’m confused. Did I say it out loud? Did I think out loud?

She puts her elbows on the table and leans forward. “You think you need it, but you don’t. I’m proof enough of that, don’t you think?”

“We’re different.”

“We’re not.”

Our pancakes arrive. They’re the thickest, fluffiest pancakes I’ve ever seen in my life. They swim in a garishly pink strawberry compote. A fat dollop of cream sits on top of the pile.

“You want to think we’re different, Annie. I’m telling you, we’re not.”

“Sophie,” I say, “you’re beautiful. You could have anyone you want. It’s not like that for me. I’m not . . . I’m not like you. I want a relationship. I want to love someone and have them love me back.”

“You want sex?”

“What? No. Well, I mean . . . that’s part of it, I guess. But no.”

“Sex is easy,” she says. “I, personally, find I can do it better myself. But I understand wanting it from someone else.”

She takes a big bite of pancake. A drop of pink strawberry goo oozes out of the side of her mouth. She scoops it up with her tongue.