Ex and the Single Girl by Lani Diane Rich

excessive shoulder padding, old black-and-whites of Babbs gone by. I traced my fingers over a smiling anniversary picture of Morris a n d Trudy, taken probably around the time Morris was paying me five dollars a week to hawk his eggs at the farmers ’ market. I heard the clunk of a kitchen cabinet being shut and tore myself away to get my shower.
    Fifteen minutes later, feeling refreshed and calm, I hopped down the stairs, dropping my balled-up clothes by the front door. I pulled my wet hair into a ponytail and turned the corner into the kitchen, my grumbling stomach following the smell of food.
    Ian was at the sink, wearing a frilly faded apro n that read DON ’ T MAKE A MESS IN GRAMMA ’ S KITCHEN. I laughed, picturing Trudy surrounded by grandchildren bearing the Hallmark-sloganed fruits of a hundred Christmases and Mother ’ s Days. Ian smiled back at me and nodded toward the kitchen table, where he h ad two plates set out, filled with sausages and eggs and toast, accompanied by two glasses of orange juice. I sat down and pulled a napkin into my lap.
    “ This smells great,” I said, digging a fork into the eggs and stuffing in a mouthful. “ I ’ m starving.”
    “ G ood,” he said, walking over and putting the lid from the skillet over his plate to keep it warm. He pulled the apron off and balled it up, leaving it on the counter. “ I ’ m going to clean up. I ’ ll be back in a minute.”
    I nodded and watched him walk out, the kitchen door swinging absently in his wake. I took another bite and gulped down some orange juice, then sat back and took in the kitchen. The walls were covered in faded wallpaper with pictures of vegetables that looked like they came straight out of a ni n eteenth- century newspaper. Shelves at random heights held volumes of knickknacks: plastic plates with children ’ s drawings on them, old lady dolls frozen in the act of sweeping, wooden cats with paws hanging over the edge of the shelf, ready to pounce. I b et if Trudy were there, she could tell me exactly who ’ d given her each knickknack and what the occasion had been when she ’ d received it.
    The door swung and Ian came back in, his hair still dripping from the shower. He grinned at me as he rounded the table and lifted the lid from his own meal.
    “ Feeling better?” he asked.
    “ Good as new,” I said, smiling and forking a piece of sausage.
     
    ***
     
    “ Portia.”
    My eyelids flitted open. The sun was still out. I rolled my eyes up without moving my head to get a look at the clock: 4:38. Ian had driven me back home at about one o ’ clock, and I could barely remember making my way to the bed before falling asleep. I picked up my head and turned it to the right, where the voice had come from.
    Bev was standing next to my bed, her arms crossed over her chest. She didn ’ t look happy. My mind stumbled in a fog, grasping at a sense of unrest that huddled in the back of my head.
    “ Hey, Bev.” I pushed myself up on my elbows and rubbed my fingertips over my closed eyelids, trying to generat e some activity in my brain.
    “ Mags is going to be home soon. She was worried about you when you weren ’ t at the store this morning.”
    The fog in my head began to clear. I had a flash of Jack, holding his arms out to pick me up while classical music played. A spear of anger shot through me. I sat up.
    “ Where is she?”
    “ Still at the store,” Bev said. She hadn ’ t moved, was still looking down at me like I was the bad guy here. “ I came back early, hoping I ’ d find you first.”
    “ Well, you found me. Wanna tell me what the problem is?” Bev ’ s jaw tightened, a gesture I'd learned to read very carefully when I was a kid, as it usually meant you could get in maybe one more smart-mouth comment before the can of whoop ass was officially o pened. “ You ran off without telling us where you were going, for one. Mags was worried about you. We all were.”
    “ Then maybe Mags should have talked to