She obviously doesn’t believe she’s being paid to ask customers what it is they’re celebrating, but the fact of the matter is that Josh Lyman and Donna Moss finally kissed. West Wing, season 7, episode 13. I’ve been too mad at Sam to tell him I’ve made it to season 7, but I have, and I know that Donna left the Bartlet White House to work on a campaign, and she and Josh were both so happy with some new poll numbers that they made out inside Josh’s hotel room. It was tender but also exceedingly hot, the way everyone knew it was going to be, and if that isn’t a reason to splurge for a Kit Kat, I don’t know what is.
The rain has started and the wind is picking up when I exit the store and rush toward my car. I take the roads carefully, heading along the railroad tracks and turning right onto Cherry Lane. The Pigeon’s house is lit up, and I slow down as I pass, imagining her inside, counting her bottles of wine, making sure she’s got enough to get her through the expected school closings.
I go over the bridge and pull into my driveway. Skinny Jeans’s shiny white Audi is parked next to Sam’s car, and I dash up the driveway, the wind blowing leaves across the path. Leaving my boots outside and my jacket in the foyer, I hurry to the kitchen, contemplating the idea of going to the vent for a quick update on how young Mr. Jeans has been feeling creatively. I decide against it, however, choosing instead to open the fridge and pour myself a Gilda, from the pitcher I mixed this morning—liquid courage, as my mom used to call the two glasses of red wine she drank each evening before my dad got home. I take a long sip and head upstairs to get ready.
It’s important I’m at my best.
Chapter 15
The door slams behind Christopher as Sam watches the sky darken and the storm roll in. Gilda, they’re calling it: heavy rains and winds as high as eighty miles per hour, a travel warning in effect. He checks the time: 5:03 p.m. The wind whips the windows as, from the bottom drawer of his desk, he takes the bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue that Annie gave him the day he officially opened for business. There’s a little left, and he empties what remains into a glass and takes his phone from his pocket.
He opens a new message. Hi Charlie. I’ve been thinking about your invitation, he types.
Typing bubbles appear immediately. And?
And I’ll be there, he replies.
What about this storm? It looks bad out there.
I’ll be fine. He throws back the whisky. What’s the address?
He takes his raincoat from the closet as she types, leaving the umbrella on its hook, not wanting to draw any extra attention to himself as he sneaks out. He steps into the foyer and closes the outside door slowly behind him, praying he can get out unseen. He lifts his collar and hurries along the path, toward the driveway. As soon as he gets to the porch steps, he hears the front door of the house open, the tinkle of ice against glass, the greeting that’s starting to grate on him.
“Hey there, heartbreaker.”
Damn it, he thinks. I’m trapped.
Chapter 16
Something is wrong.
My mouth is sour and my head is pounding, like it’s been cracked open with a hammer. I squint at the clock—9:03 a.m.—and reach for what’s left in the water glass on the bedside table. Near the door, I notice mud prints on the wood floors, and then the empty pitcher on its side, near the closet door. I bolt upright and pull back the covers as it comes back to me suddenly. Last night. The storm. Happy hour.
I squeeze my eyes shut, remembering it. I was waiting for Sam on the porch with the drinks and a bowl of Chex Mix (in all my excitement about the cocktail, I’d completely overlooked the snacks). The rain was coming down in sheets by then, the wind whipping the branches. I’d brought two blankets to drape over the rocking chairs, thinking it would be nice to watch the storm and hash it out.
And he ignored me. Like I wasn’t even there, standing in the cold, two cocktail glasses in my hands. I was dumbstruck as I watched him sprint toward that ridiculous car, as if he were afraid of being seen. He got in, drenched, and pulled quickly out of the driveway, his taillights fading in the fog before he reached the bridge.
My head throbs as I ease myself out of the bed, nauseous, a vague memory of downing both of the Gildas rather quickly. And then I must have gone to the kitchen for the pitcher and brought it up here, drinking the whole thing and passing out. I take Agatha Lawrence’s robe from the hook behind the door and keep a hand on the wall for balance as I hunt for Advil in the bathroom medicine cabinet and swallow four with a palmful of water. I stare at myself in the mirror—noticing the new strands of gray—wishing I could call Linda and tell her what happened last night, how badly Sam hurt my feelings. But of course I can’t. We haven’t spoken since I left the city, and I can’t pick up the phone and start complaining about a man she’s never met. She’ll tell me what I already know to be true: it was an asinine decision to uproot my life and move here, believing I could start over and actually be happy. I hardly need her to tell me what a fool I’ve been.