I couldn’t cry in front of Bitsie. I had to make myself busy. Get my brain so full that it didn’t have room for Kathleen or Nick or all the other bad thoughts that were just dying to get in there and break my heart.
I got on the phone. The only bus to Bousfield that weekend left at 7 a.m. Saturday and cost $79, round trip. Bitsie was thrilled. He figured we could just crash in front of the TV that night, then head off bright and early for the bus station the next morning.
“How do you expect us to pay for the ticket?” I said in that “you idiot” voice he liked to use with me. “I spent all my emergency money on must-have items like glow-in-the-dark dog collars and leopard skin bras! I’m broke.”
Bitsie tried to look sheepish. I ignored him and just focused on the problem. We didn’t have many options. Use my taxi vouchers? I was mad at Kathleen but still didn’t think it was fair to charge her thousands of dollars for a cab ride to Bousfield. Yard sale? No time, and I doubted there was much of a market for secondhand bras anyway. Borrow the money? Yeah, right. From whom? Steal it? No way. I was in enough trouble already.
I wished there were someone I could ask—but who? Who would know what to do in a mess like this?
Of course.
Bess.