Page 6 of Cackle

“I’m thirty. Thirty years old. Single . . .”

Nadia clutches her chest. “The scandal.”

“There’s a stigma. The spinster. I didn’t picture . . . I don’t know. Never mind.”

“It’s not like that anymore. Everyone talks about how your thirties are so great. Like, you spend your twenties figuring out who you are, and then you can enjoy your thirties.”

“I know,” I tell her. “That’s what makes it worse. I don’t have anything figured out.”

“Don’t assume everything is going to be bad, Annie. Have some faith.”

She spins around and puts her arms up.

She’s found it. The pizzeria. We’re here.

She leads me inside and we each get greasy slices of pepperoni. We eat them off of flaccid paper plates while sitting on the curb, sipping from the same can of Diet Coke.

When we’re done, Nadia calls a car for me. She tells me, “Everything is gonna be great, Annie. You’re gonna be great. If life gives you any trouble, punch it in the face. You got this.”

She blows me kisses and closes the door.

I cry because I miss her already, because of the friendship we could have had.

The driver turns the music up to drown me out.

—

When I get home, the futon is pulled out for me, made up with sheets and blankets and two pillows, one with a silk case. Sam is asleep in the bed we used to share. We’ve been alternating bed and futon, futon and bed. It was hard at first, but I’m used to it now.

That’s a lie. It’s still hard. I hate it.

I take my shoes off but don’t bother to change into the pajamas he laid out for me on the coffee table, along with a glass of water and a lone birthday cupcake. There’s a card, too. I open the envelope, swatting aside the false hope that inside it will be a change of heart.

The card has a T. rex wearing a party hat on the front and inside it reads Hope your birthday is Dino-mite!

I laugh because it’s funny, and because it’s 100 percent Sam. I set the card back down on the coffee table, eat the frosting off of the cupcake, close my eyes and fall right asleep.

—

I wake up to discover a small spray of vomit across my pillow. I remove the case and wash it in the bathroom sink, then hang it over the shower rod to dry. I brush my teeth and take three Advils instead of the recommended dose of two, because I’m hard like that.

I’ve stumbled into the living room, ready to go back to sleep, when I hear rustling in the kitchen. Sam is in there, standing at the counter making coffee. His hair is crazy, as usual. I always tell him he looks like a mad scientist emerging from the lab after an experiment has gone awry.

He takes it as a compliment.

“Morning,” he says. “You were talking in your sleep again.”

“What’d I say? Anything interesting?”

“Something about who killed JFK, the identity of the second shooter. Don’t know. Wasn’t really paying attention. You want coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

“How was last night?”

“Pretty fun,” I say. “Except she dragged me to a psychic who said I have dark energy.”

“Ah,” he says. “Well, I guess you’re fucked, then.”