Between Sisters - Kristin Hannah [36]
Meghann stood outside the Athenian's open door. The bar was hazy with cigarette smoke; the expansive Puget Sound view sparkled in the few open spaces between patrons. There were at least two dozen people at the bar, no doubt shooting oysters—drinking them raw from a glass jigger. It was a house tradition.
She glanced from table to table. There were plenty of possibilities. Single men in expensive suits and college boys in cutoff shorts that showed their lean torsos and checkered boxers.
She could go in there, put on her kiss me smile and find someone to spend time with her. For a few blessed hours, she could be part of a couple, no matter how false and fragile that pairing might be. At least she wouldn't have to think. Or feel.
She started to take a step forward. Her toe caught on the threshold and she stumbled sideways, skimming the door's side.
And suddenly, all she could think about was what would really happen. She'd meet some guy whose name wouldn't matter, let him touch her body and crawl inside of her . . . and then be left more alone than when she'd started.
The tic in her left eye started again.
She reached into her handbag and pulled out her cell phone. She'd already left a desperate-sounding call me message on Elizabeth's answering machine, when she remembered that her friend was in Paris.
There was no one else to call. Unless . . .
Don't do it.
But she couldn't think of anywhere else to turn.
She punched in the number, biting down on her lip as it rang. She was just about to hang up when a voice answered.
“Hello? Hello?” Then: “Meghann. I recognize your cell phone number.”
“I'm going to sue whoever invented Caller ID. It's ruined the time-honored tradition of hanging up on someone.”
“It's eight thirty at night. Why are you calling me?” Harriet asked.
“My left eyelid is flapping like a flag on the Fourth of July. I need a prescription for a muscle relaxer.”
“We talked about a delayed reaction, remember?”
“Yeah. Post-traumatic stress. I thought you meant I'd get depressed; not that my eyelid would try to fly off my face. And . . . my hands are shaking. It would not be a good week to start quilting.”
“Where are you?”
Meghann considered lying, but Harriet had ears like a bloodhound; she could probably hear the bar noises. “Outside of the Athenian.”
“Of course. I'll be in my office in thirty minutes.”
“You don't have to do that. If you could just call in a prescription—”
“My office. Thirty minutes. If you aren't there, I'll come looking for you. And nothing scares off drunk college boys like an angry shrink named Harriet. Understood?”
Honestly, Meghann was relieved. Harriet might be a pain in the ass, but at least she was someone to talk to. “I'll be there.”
Meghann hung up the phone and put it back in her purse. It took her less than fifteen minutes to get to Harriet's office. The doorman let her in and, after a short question-and-answer routine, pointed to the elevator. She rode up to the fourth floor and stood outside the glass-doored office.
At precisely 9:00, Harriet showed up, looking rushed and poorly put together. Her normally smoothed black hair had been drawn back in a thin headband and her face shone pink without makeup. “If you make a crack about the headband, I'll charge you double.”
“Me? Be judgmental? You must be joking.”
Harriet smiled at that. They'd often discussed avid judgmentalism as one of Meghann's many flaws. “I had to choose between being on time and looking decent.”
“Clearly, you're on time.”
“Get inside.” Harriet unlocked the door and pushed it open.
Even now, late at night, the office smelled of fresh flowers and worn leather. The familiarity of it immediately put Meghann at ease. She walked through the reception area and went into Harriet's large corner office, going over to stand in front of the window. Below her, the city was a grid of moving cars and stoplights.
Harriet took her usual seat. “So,