Free Bad Boy by Olivia Goldsmith Page B

“You’re just having a larger dose of your weekly Sunday self-hate than usual. You’ll be fine tomorrow.”
    “Yeah. When I see Samantha,” he agreed glumly. “That will make me feel real fine.”
    “Oh, Jon, just get on your bicycle and go home,” Tracie told him, so he did.
     

Chapter 8
     
    Tracie’s one-bedroom apartment was sunny, long, and narrow. It wasn’t exactly small, but the kitchen consisted only of a sink, a half-size refrigerator, and an old black gas oven ‌ —which she did keep her extra shoes in. Now, for privacy, a temporary screen concealed one end of the place, a “guest room,” so that Laura could have some privacy. Other than the cot, screen, and sofa, the only other real piece of furniture Tracie had in the living room was a desk covered with notes and photos and Post-its for article ideas. In fact, the whole apartment was covered with Post-it notes stuck on various surfaces.
    Now at almost 2:00 A.M., after her day of p. 76 sex with Phil and weird late-night breakfast with Jon, she was exhausted. She entered the place as quietly as she could. But Laura was up, busy with mixing bowls and cookie sheets. And ‌ —to Tracie’s complete surprise ‌ —Phil was there, too, lying on the sofa and strumming his bass guitar. He looked over at Tracie. “What took you so long? I blew off a rehearsal to be here. Plus, Bobby would have bought me free drinks because he just got his tax refund.”
    Before she could answer, Laura responded, protective as usual. “It sucks to be you,” she told Phil cheerfully.
    Tracie tried to ignore Phil. Phil was odd, and in some ways adorable. He showed his affection like this, by turning up because he missed her but not being able to admit it. Every time it happened Tracie got a kick out of it. He looked sexy, stretched out there, but he knew it, so she’d act cool. “What are you doing?” she asked Laura, who was cracking two eggs at a time into a bowl.
    “Welding a crankshaft.”
    ‘You’re cooking something, aren’t you?” Phil said, as if he’d just discovered DNA.
    “Not cooking. I’m baking ,” Laura told him. She smiled at Tracie. “Did you get the baking soda?” Tracie nodded. Back in Encino, a weekend had never gone by without both brownies and sugar cookies. Laura baked from scratch, even back then. Tracie’s only contribution had been licking the bowl.
    “My mother used to bake,” Phil offered. “Chickens, hams.”
    p. 77 Laura rolled her eyes, then took a tray of cookies out of the oven. She lifted up one and gestured toward Phil. “Stupid want a cookie?” she asked with a cheery smile.
    Tracie couldn’t believe it. She waited for Phil’s scowl, but instead he merely held out his hand. Tracie watched, amazed. Maybe the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach.
    “Wow!” Phil said as he sucked down the sugar cookie. “These are amazing !”
    “Yeah. Fat and sugar can be a really powerful mood elevator,” Laura said. “I’m hooked.” She patted her hip.
    Tracie hated the way she put herself down. “Laura, what’s the difference between baking soda and baking powder?” Tracie asked.
    “I know that,” Phil offered. “One’s a liquid and one’s not. Easy.”
    Laura snorted. “Oddly enough, baking soda is not fizzy and you do not drink it through a straw,” Laura told him. She turned back to Tracie. “You know, baking soda is like cream of tartar. You don’t have to use them often, but when you need them nothing else will do. Boy, at Easter, I could have sold my supply of cream of tartar for more than you’d get for crack cocaine. The housewives of Sacramento were frantic.”
    Tracie smiled. She’d forgotten how odd, how unique Laura’s humor was. Who else but Laura would be able to create a sentence combining crack and cream of tartar together.
    “Cleanup time!” Laura announced, but Phil p. 78 just picked up another cookie. Tracie shrugged. Phil didn’t clean up his own place. Laura began to