41
When I arrive at her front door armed with my yoga mat, a box of microwave popcorn and my bootlegged copy of Girl Interrupted, Carla’s eyes are bleary and bloodshot. I don’t have to ask what’s wrong. We’re becoming the kind of friends who can fill in each other’s blanks. It’s about her husband—Tim. For Carla, everything is about Tim, just as my pain has always been about the unavailable men in my life. I’m starting to see that drugs and alcohol weren’t so much the cause of my problems as my bass-awkward solution to them.
“He moved out today!” she wails. “Officially. He’s living with his boyfriend.”
I hand her a soda. “It’s okay to fall apart.”
We don’t get to the yoga or the movie. Instead, Carla and I spend the night demolishing the popcorn, drinking Diet Coke until we belch great,
