Free Two Weeks by Andrea Wolfe

frozen pizza and eat it in silence. I feel bitter and enervated. My life is a string of missed opportunities, one after another, and no matter what, I can't seem to change that.
    I watch the clock as the final minutes that Ally is in Red Lake tick away. I feel stupid and immature for even thinking there was a chance that she'd want to hang out again before leaving tomorrow. I need more friends , I tell myself.
    Finally, I resign myself to another night alone at the bar, slowly sipping shots of bourbon in the corner, watching everyone else having a better time than me and pretending like I don't care. I need to focus on the upcoming fight instead of this.
    Yeah, that's definitely what I need to do.
    ***
    Ally
    I really like Liz's parents. They're the bohemian type, a bit of a deviation from the norm in Red Lake. There are a number of eccentric folks around here, but Liz's parents are both creative and successful.
    Her dad, Paul, makes custom furniture, while her mom, Lynn, paints. Paul actually built the wooden bed frame in my apartment in Boston. It's very sturdy.
    Through their combined, continued efforts, they've built a solid, local reputation, and have made a very good living for themselves in the process.
    Paul has a big garage for building and storing all of his merchandise. And Lynn has her own studio, the biggest room in their house.
    It's funny because they openly admit that Liz was a mistake—but that she changed their lives for the better. Prior to her, they wanted to just travel the world in a minimalist fashion and not settle down until they were ready to die. It didn't happen that way, however, and so they traded that lifestyle for their current one.
    Once a year, they take a fancy vacation overseas. I haven't seen them in years, so they have plenty of stories to share with me over dinner. Paul perfectly grills steaks while Lynn makes a delicious salad using only ingredients from their organic garden. Liz handles the side dishes, preparing asparagus and very buttery, cheesy, and delicious mashed potatoes. There is also some nice wine.
    We eat and drink and laugh as the hours vanish into thin air. As much as I usually hate family dinners, I'm thrilled to be eating with Liz's family and thankful that I got to see her once more before she leaves tomorrow. Her environmental consulting job is based in Berkley, California, so the whole opposite coasts thing makes visits a huge ordeal.
    After dinner, Liz's parents settle into their den to watch a movie. Liz and I go out on the patio with another bottle of wine and light the Tiki torches to keep the mosquitoes away. It's a nice conclusion to the evening.
    We chat idly for a few minutes before Liz drops the M-bomb as I'll so eloquently call it.
    "Must be excited to get back to Boston, huh?" she asks after I ask her the same thing about Berkley.
    I swallow hard. I quickly recall everything about Max and Angela. I realize how rough of a spot I'm in because Angela is usually the one I go to for advice. I didn't consider that during my hours of lonely commiseration.
    While Liz and I were very close growing up, we haven't been that close in a while, especially not with our extreme distance. But I decide to take the risk anyway, emboldened by the wine.
    "I'm not actually that eager to get back," I say and fall silent.
    Liz's expression morphs into one of concern. "What's up, Ally?"
    "Can I tell you something, Liz?"
    "Anything," she says warmly. " Especially if it's controversial." She gives me a devilish smile.
    I break down and tell her about Max and Angela, about her confession. I explain my relationship with Angela and how it's going to affect things going forward. I tell her about the fact that everything in my life I've tried to plan has been undone like I never planned any of it at all.
    It was undone in that single phone call. Here one second, gone the next.
    Nothing is waiting for me in Boston, just emptiness. It's an ugly truth.
    She seems startled by my admission.