Going in Circles by Pamela Ribon Read Free Book Online Page A

job here. Then Petra and Pete got married and she got a promotion, and then Matthew and I separated, so these days she’s Matthew’s best friend’s wife and my boss. Petra is my supervisor and awkwardly estranged friend. It’s
great
.
    Add to that the fact that once Petra got her promotion, she worried people would accuse her of giving me special treatment, so when we’re at work she acts like she barely knows me. She’s all business, not wanting to have personal conversations. Her emails to me, if they aren’t about work, are extremely brief, almost in code:
    TONIGHT: 8 PM. THE PLACE WHERE WE SAW CREEPY GUY. I’LL BUY.
    I can’t skip out on Petra’s party, because then she’ll tell Pete I wasn’t there, and he’ll tell Matthew I wasn’t there, and then Matthew will think I’m either too sad to go to Petra’s party or too busy having fun to go to Petra’s party, and I don’t know which is worse. I turn to ask Jonathan, but he’s busy looking up lamps on the Internet. I’ve bothered him long enough.
    I write back to both Matthew and Petra, telling each I’ll be by tomorrow night. I’ll stop by Matthew’s for my sewing machine, and then I’ll swing by the liquor store, and then I’ll go to Petra’s and get superdrunk.
    And
that’s
how this girl spends her Friday nights.
    On my way to the break room to throw away my Happy Meal bag and get a cup of coffee, I run into Goth-Girl Francesca. I mean I actually bump right into her, turning a corner. Our heads come so close together, I almost accidentally kiss her. Her dark eyes widen as she laughs.
    â€œOh, sorry,” I say.
    â€œIt’s fine,” she says. “Don’t worry about it.” She wipes her bangs back with the palm of her hand. I see black scribbles across her skin, snaking up her forearms. Phone numbers written in pen. She points at my empty McDonald’s bag. “Did you like your lunch?”
    Is this small talk? “Um, I did. Yeah.”
    â€œCool,” she says, and walks away.
    I take some comfort in knowing I’m not the weirdest one in this building.

6.
    I blame Matthew,” Andy says, pushing my hair behind my ear to inspect my temple.
    We are standing in the kitchen, getting ready to make the mouth guard I bought on my way home from work. I’m grateful Andy is here to keep me from wallowing in what could be a rather pathetic evening.
    He briefly kisses the soft spot where my jaw meets my ear. “I blame Matthew for lots of things,” he continues. “Things that have nothing to do with you and your sadness. The other day someone knocked over the recycling trash can outside my place—broken glass everywhere—and I raised my fist to Heaven and shouted, ‘Dammit, Matthew!’ ”
    â€œI get it,” I say as I turn toward the stove, hiding my smile. I’d thank him again for being here, but I know he’s having a fantastic time at the event he has crowned my “Dorkination.”
    Andy and I became fast friends our freshman year of college, when we were stuck waiting in line for our IDs. It was aggressively hot that day, and we were on our second hour outside in the unwavering, unforgiving Los Angeles sunlight. Before we ever spoke a word to each other, a silent bond had already formed between us as our mood dipped from grumpyto spiteful. I think he was the first to make fun of the girl a few feet ahead of us, the one who was losing a desperate battle to save her hair and makeup. I joined in, pointing out the ones who were obviously hungover. By the time we reached the end of that line, we were the proud owners of two horrible IDs and a friendship that would last forever. We never dated, but we kissed once. It was a New Year’s kiss, it felt inexplicably incestuous, and we agreed never to do it again.
    We did get really drunk and go skinny-dipping once, the one time he’d gotten