Lost Along the Way(50)

“It’s called growing up, Jane. Grown women don’t sit around and gossip all day on e-mail. I’m sorry that I got married and had a husband, and a life, and a job to tend to, and that I didn’t have time to listen to you debate the merits of liquid over pencil eyeliner for hours on end. Your problem was that you never wanted to grow into an adult, and you didn’t want anyone else to, either. You never loved anyone as much as you loved yourself. I’m sorry, I’m not sorry.”

“That’s absurd! I loved you enough to get you out of that f*cking house when I saw how you were being treated. I loved you enough to tell you that I knew it was a terrible idea before it happened, and you turned it around and made me out to be a jealous, petty person. This bitch was the one who convinced Meg to come look for you after you took off. You’re right. I’m the worst friend in the world.”

“You were probably just worried about how you were going to get home.”

“I would’ve found a way. Or I would’ve just stayed here.”

“No, you wouldn’t have,” Meg said. Jane realized that she had been very selective about when she spoke up during this entire argument. Cara had always been Meg’s mouthpiece, fighting her battles for her whenever things got tough and poor little Meg couldn’t muster the energy to defend herself.

“Gee, thanks,” Jane said, growing so tired of this argument.

“What do you guys want from me?” Meg asked, tears welling in her eyes. “I didn’t ask for either of you to come here. I didn’t ask for you to start fighting with each other, and I didn’t ask either of you for help. I don’t want it, and I don’t need it.”

“Steve seems to think differently,” Jane said.

The mention of her husband made Meg stand perfectly straight. “Don’t you dare say a word about Steve. You have no idea what’s going on with us.”

“Whatever,” Jane said. “I don’t care what’s going on with you guys anymore. You want to blow up your marriage, go right ahead. Hey, maybe that will be the one thing the three of us still have in common. Maybe we can all use the same divorce lawyer, and get a group rate or something.”

“Screw you, Jane,” Cara said.

“Screw me? Screw you! I should have left you to deal with your abusive husband and your f*cking guest bedroom and your f*cking grocery receipts!” Before Jane knew what she was doing, she picked up her wineglass and whipped it at the fireplace. It exploded as it hit the mantel. What was left of her wine (which thankfully was white, so at least she didn’t ruin the furniture) sprayed anything in reach with a grapey mist. Jane was stunned, not expecting her own reaction.

“I want you both to leave,” Meg said. Jane looked at Cara, who seemed equally surprised. They’d all had some wine. Forcing them to drive home drunk in the dark didn’t seem like the responsible thing to do, regardless of how much they may have hated each other at the moment.

“Now?” Cara asked. Jane could tell she was trying to count the glasses of wine she’d had since before dinner to see if she was in any way fit to drive. Cara wouldn’t get behind the wheel after a single drink, never mind three, so Jane knew she wasn’t going anywhere.

“Tomorrow morning. I don’t care where you go, I don’t care what you do, and it hurts me to say that. It hurts even more to know that I mean it. We aren’t the same people we used to be, and we never will be. The people we are now have no business hanging out with each other. This is my home and you’re not welcome here. So I will say this once, and only once. I want you both to go to bed, and in the morning, I want you to get the hell out of my house,” Meg said.

She turned and went upstairs, slamming a door behind her. Ten seconds later, Cara stomped upstairs after her, and Jane heard another door slam. Jane wasn’t finished drinking yet, but she went into the bathroom on the main floor and slammed the door behind her so hard that one of the sailboat pictures on the wall fell off and the glass shattered on the floor. Jane slinked down the wall, pulled her knees to her chest, and once again started to cry.





eighteen


Two hours later Meg still couldn’t sleep. She was angry, and hurt, and tormented by the blowup earlier, but now something else was keeping her awake: the sound of bottles rattling downstairs. She got out of bed and tied her cashmere robe around her waist, then descended the stairs, oddly hoping that she was being robbed and that the source of the clamor wasn’t what she thought it was. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she found Jane sitting under a blanket on the couch, a glass in her hand so full of wine she could have drowned in it. Meg was still angry, and was planning on yelling at Jane to go back to bed, but the look in her eyes made her stop. Slowly, pity began to creep in and replace some of the anger. She sat down on the floor at the foot of the couch and watched her friend stare blankly at the LIVE A GOOD LIFE sign hanging on her wall.

“Why aren’t you sleeping?” Meg asked. “It’s almost one o’clock in the morning.”

“There was a time when one o’clock was early.”

“That was a long time ago. Now if I see the ten o’clock news it’s a late night.”

“I guess we’re getting old. I’m sorry about your wineglass. I shouldn’t have done that,” Jane said, tipsy and groggy and so clearly lost.