Free Slightly Irregular by Rhonda Pollero

scrolled through my e-mail until I found Jane’s, then clicked to open it. It was addressed to me with a subject line reading “SOOOOO SORRY!”
    I read it, then read it again, my mind spinning as I absorbed the contents. Turns out Jane went to Sunday ladies’ night at the Blue Martini and was enjoying several mango martinis before the rest of the evening got a little fuzzy. The last thing she remembered was Liam stripping off most of her clothing and placing her in bed.
    I felt angry and hurt. Could one of my best friends have had sex with Liam? My rational side asked, And why not? You did announce he was free for the taking at brunch. Which was true.My irrational side reasoned that that didn’t mean I wanted Jane jumping his bones a mere ten hours later. I had no valid reason for being angry or hurt. But I was.
    In fact, I was frosted and needed to get out of the office. Stuffing the Egghardt folder in my briefcase and grabbing my purse and all of Ellen’s crap, I headed downstairs.
    As I breezed past Margaret, she called my name.
    “What?” I snapped.
    “Mr. McGarrity is on line two for you.”
    “Tell him I died,” I said, then took two steps and added, “I’m going out to Indiantown. My cell is on.”
    I was so tangled with four bags, my heavy briefcase, and my purse that I had to shake and wriggle to free the fingers holding my key ring. I found my car key, hit the Unlock button, and hoisted the bags of clothing into the trunk. At least two of the bags tore, and the other two dumped their contents. Oh, and my purse tilted and my very favorite Red Envelope gift-with-purchase mirrored compact hit the ground and shattered. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!
    This was turning into a seriously bad Monday, and it was only nine forty. Once I was behind the wheel, I keyed my destination into the GPS. I’d driven out to Indiantown a few times over the years, but certainly not enough to know the way by rote. I took my iPhone out of my purse and inserted it into the little auxiliary plug next to the stereo, then rested the actual phone in one of the two cup holders in the front console. Now I could talk on the phone and use a whole bunch of other nifty apps without ever taking my hands off the wheel. As I waited for the light to change on Australian, I just happened to glanceout my window and saw a semi-familiar blonde. She was seated behind the wheel of a nondescript, white, two-door car. She turned her head, saw me, then quickly whipped back around into profile and was pulling her baseball cap lower when the car behind me honked its horn, startling me.
    I had no choice but to drive on, but I did try looking into my mirror, hoping to get a clearer view of her face. No luck. Then again, I wasn’t exactly having a rock-star kinda day. As I drove, I used only my thumbs to select a playlist on my iPhone, then hit the Play button. Indiantown was at least a thirty-minute drive. In my case, I’d have to add a few minutes so I could swing off I-95 at Palm City to grab a coffee to go from Cracker Barrel.
    In no time I was walking past the trademark, for-sale Adirondack chairs, then into the kitschy restaurant-retail store, where I immediately smelled coffee, buttery biscuits, and bacon. My stomach rumbled a reminder that I had yet to eat. Unable to resist, I added an order of bacon to my large coffee, then browsed around waiting for my name to be called.
    As always, the cramped space was filled with people from infant to ancient. I wasn’t a collector—well, I was when it came to certain things, but hearth-and-homey things didn’t do it for me. I did love the retro candies and made a point of buying Becky a box of Moon Pies. She’d be in heaven. She was a Moon Pie aficionado. I failed to see the culinary allure, but who was I to judge? I’m addicted to Lucky Charms. And I’m a purist—I think the original marshmallow shapes—pink hearts, yellow moons, orange stars, and green clovers—taste better than the ever-expanding