Women Who Stay, 17

Chapter 1 ... Chapter 16

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In the Somerset Diner the next morning, I nursed a hangover and tried not to throw up in my coffee as I reread my email and wished for a button to undo the last twelve hours of my life. Why the fuck had I sent it? I hadn't been drunk like that for years. At least a decade. It was no excuse.

I drank glass after glass of tap water, delivered by an indifferent Sheila. I ordered an orange juice but couldn't stomach its acidic tang. My nervous sweat whiffed of whiskey. The smell of grease and bleach cleaning solution felt like it was adhering to my skin.

10 o'clock came and went. At 10:15, I ordered an omelet for Janie and some buttered toast for myself. When the food arrived, and she still hadn't, I ate my toast and wrote her an email. A fresh one. I couldn't bear replying to the drunken ramblings I'd sent her the night before.

Janie, I am so sorry for the inexcusable language in the email I sent you last night, as well as the sentiment. With more conversation, I am confident I can resolve my doubts and give your story my proper mindset.

I am waiting for you at the diner, but I understand if you feel uncomfortable meeting today. I'll stay until noon. Please let me know how I can make this up to you.

Miranda

There was no reply. I paid the check and vomited in the diner's restroom, my bare knees pressed to its damp tile.

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I slept poorly, tossing and turning. I had nightmares, mostly featuring Janie. She chased me through Inman Park, calling me a horrible bitch. She was sitting in the diner holding a skull, but it was mine. She told my bones to forget the story; she'd changed her mind, and she didn't think I was the odd duck to talk with after all.

The one that sent me reeling from sleep at dawn was the worst. She and Clarissa Piloski writhed with one another in a twin bed, watched by a man swathed in shadows. Hurt her, he said with a voice like gravel, and I didn't know which of the women he was instructing. Which one he wanted to hurt the other. Until both of the women looked up at me and smiled, blood leaking from their mouths, and I knew it was me they were after.

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I refreshed my email, desperately hoping for anything from Janie. Nothing. I threw my phone face down on the bed beside me and beat my forehead with my fists, growling in frustration. I'd fucked it up. The best story I had ever heard fell in my lap, and I'd let my ego get in my way. And over what -- a throwaway comment about my talent? My reaction had been disproportionate. Inappropriate. And now it seemed likely that Janie would never talk to me again.

I went to the diner anyway, hoping against hope she would be waiting for me. She wasn't. I pulled out my laptop and reviewed the terms of our agreements, wondering just how badly I'd shot myself in the foot. Would I still be able to use the information she'd given me? Could she claw back the rights to her story before her death, meaning the last three weeks of my life would have been wasted?

Sheila dropped the food. Again, I'd ordered for both of us. But instead of leaving, she sat down and took a bite of Janie's omelet.

"So you finally poked the dragon too hard, huh?"

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Read on to Chapter 18