Hooked 2 (Hooked #2)(2)

Drew texted me later that day, around lunchtime. “Wish you were here. Couldn’t decide between a burrito and a sandwich, so I went with a pretzel. This was a big mistake, only avoided with your assistance.”

I imagined him typing this with great care in line at some dumb deli, and I shivered as I ate day-old macaroni and cheese from a yellow bowl. Melanie had called me a few times to try to pound me with hope. “We can fight this! We can!”

But I had already moved on. Between Netflix movies, each with a sappy ending, I had looked up receptionist jobs throughout Chicago. I had looked up waitressing jobs in my hometown, dismal Indianapolis. I had read eight blogs about the Peace Corps, because options for my life were unending—and also seriously unappealing. I wanted to dance. That was all I had ever wanted. But, because it was no longer in the cards for my life, picturing myself in a tiny hut on the coast of Africa, trying to restore a sense of world peace was my next option.

Life was bleak. The sun had never really escalated in the sky beside my apartment, and thus the day was grey, crowded with a sort of angry fear. Every person I saw on the train, every person I saw on the street seemed to frown eternally.

The days sort of filtered on like this, as well. I sent out a message to all of my students, from the over-fifties to the youngsters, to tell them what had happened; that I would ultimately need to close. Some of them hadn’t yet paid for their sessions. (I had never quite gotten around to nagging them hard enough, so grateful I was that they had even signed up for MY class over everyone else’s.) They wouldn’t be paying; I was out several hundred. But I didn’t care.

My diet of macaroni and cheese and wine at noon continued on into the week. Drew continued to text me, but I felt like I read all of his words in a clouded haze of depression. I had already begun to think about moving back to Indiana. What would my life be like? Would I have to admit to everyone that I had failed, that I had done nothing with my life? Would I have to admit that Molly—prima ballerina—was really just a dumpy woman who ate too much macaroni?

I called Melanie a few days later on Thursday. She seemed forlorn, nearly afraid of me on the phone. “Have you gone in to get your stuff?” I asked her. My eyes blinked heavily as I spoke. I wondered if I would ever feel normal again.

Melanie sighed. “So. There’s really no convincing you to fight this, is there?”

“I don’t really see the point,” I told her.

“Come on. Meet me out. You need a drink more than anyone I’ve ever known.”

I looked down at my nearly empty wine bottle and noted I had several others lined up on the counter. I was perfectly fine on my own. “I can’t, Mel. There’s too much to do here.” My voice was lined with sincerity. I hummed my apologies. She knew I was lying; of course she did. But there was nothing she could do.

“At least call that Drew fellow. At least go sleep with someone. I know it was doing you wonders before this all—happened,” Melanie said impatiently.

But I shook my head. “No, no. I just lied to him the entire time. He thinks I’m looking for PR work. I can’t imagine dating anyone right now with all this in my head. You know?”

Melanie couldn’t understand. Why would she, anyway? She was happily married, a baby eternally on her hip. I longed to be with her, to hold her baby, to laugh with her in her brightly-lit kitchen. But I couldn’t. All the happiness I had once had seemed far away from me, unreachable.



CHAPTER TWO

On Friday night, the Chicago air ripped up a few degrees in temperature—enough to allow me to take my drinking outside. At around five in the afternoon, I dragged myself out to my balcony, looking up at the still sunlit day. I sighed, feeling the sun as it rippled across my face. I had showered that day, feeling a sense of hope as I did so, as I smeared away the grease and the grime. I took a long sip from my wine and allowed my head to lean back between the posts.

My phone began to buzz on my lap. I picked it up languidly and looked at the number. I saw it was Drew once more. I wasn’t surprised, of course. He had been ringing me almost every day since I hadn’t responded to him nearly four days ago. I wasn’t sure why such an attractive, confident man like that had continued to pursue me. At this rate, it all seemed a little cartoony—like he wasn’t actually real, just an enigma I had created in my head to get me through the “tough times.”






The phone began to ring again. I looked at it, noting how strange the buzz felt against my leg—almost like the buzz created in my head from the wine. Suddenly, I heard a squeal, a squeak. Somebody from the nearby balcony around the corner was coming outside. I hadn’t had any human interaction in days, and I heard the tremors of their male voices. I relished them, even though I knew they would create their ravenous dick-measuring conversation about f*cking women. Whatever.

But then the voice began. It was the same voice as before; the same voice that had mentioned he had f*cked several different women in the past few weeks. But the voice seemed frustrated, this time. Constrained. “God!” the voice called into the wind.

His buddy was right there. “Hey. Calm down, man. You seem stressed. Have a beer.”

I heard him pop the top from his bottle. “I can’t believe she hasn’t been answering my calls, my messages. Nothing.”

“Man. Bitches are crazy. You know that.”