Vanity Fare by Megan Caldwell

picky, but I don’t want to rush into anything. I’m still married, after all.”
    “Of course, but it is a good thing to dive back into the dating pool. You don’t know how long the divorce process is going to take.”
    Did everyone have to associate dating with water? Because I felt like I was going to drown.
    “And the fantasizing?”
    Was now the time to mention Simon, the Beauteous Brit? “Um . . . a little bit.”
    She gave me an approving smile. “Excellent. Did you speak to your mother?”
    “Yes. She said she couldn’t lend me anything,” I bit out.
    Dr. Lowell frowned. “Couldn’t or wouldn’t?”
    I rolled my eyes. “I didn’t ask her to clarify when she turned me down. Although I would’ve liked to ask her why she said no.”
    “You didn’t.” It was a statement. Dr. Lowell knew me—and my issues with my mother—well.
    “Nope.”
    “So what are your other options?”
    Suddenly I was mad. “Why do there always have to be other options? What if there aren’t any? What if Aidan and I have to move to Idaho or somewhere and grow potatoes? What if I can’t do it?”
    “Why are you so angry, Molly? Not that it’s bad to be angry,” she continued in her mellifluous therapist tone.
    I flung my arms up in frustration. “I’m angry because Hugh’s a fuck who left me, and now he’s taking away my means of support, and I have no money, and Aidan wants a freaking cat, and the only cat we can get is that hairless hypoallergenic kind, which are expensive. And I can’t let Aidan down. Not that I can afford to do anything.” My words came out in a rush, running together toward the end. I gave a little hiccupy cry.
    “So what are your other options?” she repeated, handing me a tissue. I blew my nose and glared at her. She smiled back.
    “I found out a little more about the teaching thing. I’ve got to get my paperwork together.”
    “That shouldn’t be too hard.”
    “Easy for you to say,” I replied with a sniff.
    “Yes, it is,” she returned in a complacent tone. Sometimes I wanted her to explode in a mystical spontaneous combustion thing. Sometimes I wanted to pull her up off her leather-padded chair and do the samba with her. Guess which time this was.
    “Your assignment for next week is to find out exactly what you need to apply to this program. And, just for fun, how about doing something . . . inappropriate ?”
    Who knew my therapist could be so naughty?
    “I’ve had worse homework,” I replied grudgingly, getting up off the couch.
     
    “This is like homework,” I wailed into the phone later that night.
    “That’s because it is,” Keisha replied. She was clearly not putting up with any of my crap.
    “You’re right,” I admitted. “And I should just do what I used to do when I had a big assignment in college—”
    “Eat a bag of cookies and whine?”
    Ouch. “No,” I replied in an exaggeratedly patient tone, “break it down, piece by piece. Which is, actually, what Dr. Lowell is always pushing me to do.”
    “And me, too! I tell you, honey, you should just send me the money you pay her.”
    “What money? If I don’t figure out something soon, I’m going to have to stop seeing her. And paying for electricity, cable, eyebrow pencil, books—” I heard my voice escalate in a rising panic.
    “Calm down. You’ll figure it out. You’re smart.”
    “Yeah, that and three dollars and seventy-nine cents gets me a small cup of coffee at Starbucks.”
    “And it’s that kind of attitude that will defeat you.”
    I plucked at the throw on top of me, pulling out a piece of yarn. “I know that, I do, it’s just that it’s so hard for me to get over it. To get over myself.”
    The truth of it hit me like a slammed door. My hand stilled.
    She knew it, too. Her voice was softer when she spoke. “You can do it. I have confidence in you.”
    I paused a second, then continued. “I am sorry to be so lame.”
    “Don’t forget whiny.”
    “Yeah, thanks for reminding