Chapter 68
Heading into the kitchen, she uncorked the first bottle of wine and poured herself a glass. It was a merlot, a deep garnet color, and a fruity scent wafted up to her from the wide-brimmed glass that made her mouth water. With the bottle in one hand and the glass in the other, she retreated to the living room to make herself comfortable on the sofa. An honest-to-God couch this time, from a thrift store but at least it wasn’t a futon, and it still looked new. Dana kicked off her shoes, tucked her feet up under her, and sipped the wine.
Was it just her, or were she and Bethany drifting apart? Their jobs had them out at all hours—they were hardly ever home together anymore. It saddened Dana to think they’d come so far only to fall away from each other now. If that happened, what would Dana do? She only came to New York because Bethany asked her to. If Bethany suddenly moved on, who would Dana have to turn to?
No one.The thought depressed her. No one at all.
When was the last time they had sat down and talked—reallytalked, the way they used to back in college? About books and movies and random shit that interested them? About favorite quotes, and songs that spoke to them, and whether animals have souls, and which things various religions got right? Deeper things, too, like how they would choose to die, if they had a say in the matter, and where they thought they went once they were gone. What had happened to them? To those long nights they used to spend together just enjoying each other’s company? To who they used to be?
Dana sniffled as she downed her first glass and poured another. She was feeling sorry for herself, that was all. Getting drunk wouldn’t make her feel better, she knew, but she could think of nothing else to do. Nothing else she caredto do.
The evening stretched out before her like a migraine. Dana drank down the wine in the hopes of chasing it away.
* * * *
She was swirling the dregs of the first bottle into her glass when she heard Bethany’s key scrape in the lock.
The apartment was lit only by the light on over the stove in the kitchen, which threw shadows into the living room, draping it in darkness. Without turning, Dana heard the door open, heard Bethany struggle with paper grocery bags the same way she had herself when she’d come home, then heard something fall to the floor with a solid thunk!A bottle of some kind—milk, most likely. Bethany might be closing in on thirty but she still liked a bowl of cereal every morning before heading out to work.
Dana waited until she heard her roommate set down the other bags with a grunt to retrieve the fallen one before she asked, “Need some help?”
Bethany let out a startled yelp. “Jesus Christ!” she cried. “You scared the hell out of me! Where are you?”
Without turning around, Dana raised a hand and waved it the air.
Suddenly the kitchen light clicked on, flooding the apartment with brightness. Dana had to squint as she poured the last of the wine into her glass. “What are you doing sitting here in the dark?” Bethany wanted to know.
“Having a drink.” Dana held up the empty bottle and shook it, as if to prove her point. “When you get a moment, can you bring me the other one? It’s on the counter.”
The sound of groceries being put away came from the other room. “That’s probably not a good idea,” Bethany said. “What number are you on already?”
“First one.” Dana leaned her head back against the couch to grin drunkenly at her friend. “Scout’s honor. This is some good stuff. Grab a glass and I’ll pour you some.”
“I don’t need any.”
Dana cajoled, “Come on. Have a seat. Right here.” She smacked the cushion beside her, as if that would entice Bethany to join her on the couch. “Tell me about your day.”
With a sigh, Bethany started, “Dana—”
“En fran?ais,” Dana commanded, trying to be playful. Then a thought occurred to her. “What would my name be in French? Would I still be Dana?”
“I’d hope so. I’ve gotten used to calling you that.” Bethany’s smile was evident in her voice. “Though if you want to know the French equivalent of your name, it’s probably Danielle.”
Dana wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Ugh, no. That’s like here, you got a girl instead of a boy, just feminize the name you were going to give him. I’m sonot a Danielle.” She sipped her wine, careful not to down the glass—she wanted to make sure it held out until Bethany brought over the other bottle. “Your name sounds French already, isn’t it? Bey-thah-knee. Bey-thah-knee.”
Her French accent was atrocious, and she knew it. What she knew of the French language could be written on the back of an envelope with room to spare, and that was only what she’d managed to pick up from living with Bethany for so long. She still marveled whenever she heard her roommate on the phone conversing in flawless French. Hell, half the time Dana got tongue-tied in English; another language seemed out of her league.