Chapter 64

As she watched them sitting at the little bistro tables scattered about the cafe, with their paperbacks and laptops, playing at being literary, she toyed with the idea of doing something along the same lines. Not sitting on the other side of the counter, necessarily—she still didn’t particularly care for espresso—but maybe writing? She could write.

When Bethany’s internship was up, she wasn’t offered a permanent position with The Post. “Fuck them,” she muttered, consoling herself with another glass of wine over dinner. “This is really good wine.”

“Isn’t it?” Dana agreed. She’d bought the bottle on her way home from the coffeehouse in hopes of hearing good news, but when Bethany came home struggling to hold back tears, she popped the cork anyway in commiseration. Now there was only an inch or so left in the bottom, both their glasses were empty, and Dana’s head was beginning to throb with a dull ache, not unlike a rotted tooth. She would hate herself in the morning.

But at the moment, she savored the press of Bethany’s leg alongside hers where they sat curled together on the futon, and the way Bethany kept touching her knee every few minutes when talking, as if to punctuate a point. Too bad she hadn’t thought to buy two bottles of the merlot. If she had, Dana thought things between them could’ve been…persuadedto the next level. Bethany did get touchy-feely when drunk.

And she drank more than half the bottle herself. Dana was only along for the ride. Unlike someone she could mention, she still had a job to go to in the morning.

With a sigh, Bethany downed the contents of her glass and peered into the bottom, as if expecting more to magically appear. “I was positive they were going to keep me on, you know? I guess it’s time to start looking for something else. I’m sure I’ll find another job.”

Dana smiled wryly. “Yeah, because everyone’s hiring French majors these days.”

The words were out before she could stop them. When she realized what she had said, she looked up at her friend, appalled and ready to apologize, and saw Bethany’s lower lip trembling under fresh tears. “Bethy, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

“No, you’re right.” Bethany tried to set her wine glass aside, but she missed the end table and it crashed to the hardwood floor and shattered. Her tears spilled over at the sound. “Fuck!”

Instantly Dana was untangling her legs from Bethany’s as she stood. “It’s okay, I’ll get it.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” Dana assured her. “It’s only a glass. Calm down.”

Covering her face with her hands, Bethany fell onto the futon and cried into the cushions. “I should’ve never been a French major! I should’ve gone into something practical—my mother’s always telling me that. Business, or computers, or marketing, something like that.”

Dana squatted by the table and picked up the stem of the glass, then began to gingerly pluck the larger pieces up with her forefinger and thumb, careful not to cut herself on the jagged edges. “If you majored in anything else, you would’ve hated it. You did what you loved. I did, too. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Except look at us,” Bethany muttered. “School’s over, Dana. In case you didn’t notice, we graduated last year. We’re supposed to have it all figured out by now.”

“Oh, God,” Dana groaned. “If that’s the case, shoot me now. I might as well go back to school.”

Through her tears, Bethany giggled. “What, and become a professional student?”

Dana shrugged. “It’ll put off my student loans for a while.” Suddenly the idea wasn’t half-bad.

Sitting up, Bethany dried her eyes on her shirtsleeves and blinked owlishly at Dana. “What would you study?”

“I don’t know,” Dana admitted. “I’d have to think about—ow!”

A bright bead of blood bubbled up from the tip of the forefinger on her right hand where she nicked herself on a shard of broken glass. She stuck her finger in her mouth but damn, it hurt.

Bethany slid off the futon to kneel beside her. “Are you okay?”

“Careful,” Dana warned. “There’s still glass everywhere.”

Bethany took Dana’s hand in both her own and peered at the finger. Her fingers were overly warm, her breath alcoholic and heady as it fanned Dana’s cheek. When she squeezed Dana’s finger, another bead of blood dribbled out of the cut. “I think you might need to get this stitched.”

“No, it’s fine.” Dana tried to pull her hand away, but Bethany didn’t let go.