Free Falling Angel by Clare Tisdale

grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her to him for one last kiss. “Don’t forget me this time,” he whispered into her hair.
    As if.

Chapter Eight
    It was well past midnight when the cab stopped in front of her apartment. Cara dragged herself up the stairs. She prayed that Ann was either asleep or shacked up somewhere with Joseph, and groaned inwardly when she heard the drone of the TV from outside the apartment door. Before she could turn the key in the lock, the door opened, and Ann’s disheveled face peeked out.
    “Thank God you’re back,” she said, following Cara into the room. Ann was dressed in her nightshirt, an oversized black T emblazoned with her favorite grrrrl band’s name. On the front, a laughing cartoon girl with a neon pink Mohawk gave all and sundry the finger. Cara noticed a half empty bottle of Gordon’s gin on the Formica kitchen table.
    “I’ve had the most hideous evening,” Ann said.
    Cara unbuckled her sandals and hung her coat in the hall closet. “Ann, I’m exhausted,” she said apologetically. “Can we talk about it in the morning?”
    Ann’s face tightened. “Fine.” She spun on her heel and strode down the hallway.
    “Ann!” Cara called after her, but her voice was met with the slam of Ann’s bedroom door.
    Cara sighed. All she wanted to do was go to bed. She was truly drained. The party planning and the evening’s events had used up the last of her energy, both physical and emotional. But she couldn’t stand to have Ann upset with her. She knocked on the bedroom door. “Ann. I’m sorry. Will you come out?”
    The door opened and Ann thrust her head out, eyes blazing. “Why is it that you expect me to sit and listen to your stupid problems for hours, and then when I’m having a bad time you blow me off?” she yelled.
    Cara put up her hands defensively, but Ann was on a roll. “I’m sick of this! I’m sick of being treated like dirt!” Her face crumpled, and tears rolled down her cheeks.
    “Oh, Ann!” Filled with compassion, Cara placed a tentative hand on her shoulder. Ann collapsed against her, and gave a loud sob.
    “Joseph picked me up in his car, and said he had a special evening planned. He seemed really excited.” She gulped and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “He took me to some crappy hotel on Aurora where you rent rooms by the hour. It even had one of those beds that shake when you put a quarter in the box.”
    “How awful!”
    “He didn’t even have the decency to pretend he was interested in anything else.”
    “I hope you told him to get lost.”
    “That’s just it,” Ann said, starting to cry again. “I didn’t.”
    “You mean, you went along with it?”
    Ann cried harder.
    Cara led Ann to the couch, handed her a box of tissues, and made cups of chamomile tea for them both. By the time the tea had brewed, Ann was calm. She cradled her cup in her hands and inhaled the warm steam.
    “I’m ok now,” she said.
    “Are you sure?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Do you want to talk about it?”
    “No.”
    “That’s fine.”
    “Do you mind if I have a cigarette?”
    “Go ahead.”
    Ann pulled her pack from the coffee table. Her eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot. She sat with her knees pulled up under her T-shirt, the blanket draped over her thin shoulders, and pulled feverishly on her cigarette. “So how was your evening?”
    “It was interesting,” Cara hedged, debating whether to mention running into Ben again. Part of her wanted to hold back, but she felt guilty keeping a secret from Ann, who was, after all, her best friend in Seattle. “By weird coincidence, I ran into Ben again.”
    “That guy from the Art Walk?”
    “Yeah.”
    Ann mustered up a weak semblance of her usual smirk. “What happened?”
    “We talked. He seems very nice,” she said, feeling like a traitor. “But of course, he’s not my type.”
    “Right,” Ann said. “Are you going to see him again?”
    “I might.”
    “Did your new resolutions go out