Blame It on Chocolate. Jennifer Greene

Russell was now leaning in the doorway to the kitchen.

      “No.”

      “But did you want to experiment? Did you think about it?”

      “No. Cripes, Russell. It never occurred to me. I don’t think it occurred to her, either. She was just a regular kind of friend.” She grabbed her fringe bag, passed by the fresh round of messes in her living room, and shot a passing, desperate look at her picture over the fireplace. The only thing still normal in the whole place seemed to be her picture of the lone eagle flying over the lake. Her life was starting to feel like it had moved ten points off center and was never going to come back in focus again. Except for the eagle. The eagle was still all hers. She grabbed her coat. “I have to go. I’ll be late for lunch with Mom as it is.”

      “But you’re not getting…impatient…about talking with me about this, are you?”

      “Of course not. We’ll talk whenever you want.”

      “I know your dad’s at the store. But I may stick around with him today. If he wants to go to a movie or something.”

      “Sure, sounds great. Only if I come home to find this place even more of a sty, I’m going to kill you both.”

      “Sure, Luce. Sure.” He stood motionless and woebegone as she smooched his cheek.

      She ran outside, only to feel a startling gush of wind. The ground was a muddy, soggy mess from all the melting snow, but even though the day was ugly, the sky polka-dotted with clouds, the breeze had a cocky scent to it. A springlike whisper of sweetness. She wanted to savor it, only damnation, guilt kept biting her conscience, so she ran back in the house. “Russell,” she said irritably, “I love you. And you’re going to be okay. All right?”