As I press the call button, I know this is the act of a desperate woman. A desperate, stir-crazy woman who has been imprisoned by a one-night stand in a penthouse that stretches across nine thousand square feet of Chicago sky. My only companion is an untrained Great Dane who seems to share his temporary owner's penchant for dominance games.
I'm crazy. I have to be. There is no other reason I would put myself through the gauntlet of explaining to Hope where I've been and why I haven't answered any of her increasingly concerned texts or dozens of phone calls for the last two days.
Once, I went to a movie by myself and didn't answer her for ninety minutes of Love, Actually. By the time I called back, she'd contacted my boss, my landlord, my bagel shop guy, Grams, and even my dad, as if he'd
