“No, no, it’s kind of loud in here. I guess I didn’t hear the phone ring. What’s the deal?” I asked, a lump creeping up my throat.

“Look—Heidi’s flight got canceled to Miami because of some hurricane down there,” he sighed. “So, I’m in Trenton with her and her friends.”

“Chicas! We’re the CHICAS!” a loud female voice corrected Matthew.

“Sorry, Sheila, I’m in Trenton with Heidi and her chicas,” he said, irritated. “I’m so so sorry. I’d really been looking forward to the night with you guys. Will you please apologize for me to James and Kevin.”

“Sure, yeah, of course”—the lump expanded, tickling my tear ducts. “OK, I’ll see you tomorrow then.” I hung up and darted to the bathroom. What was the big deal? Why was I crying? No doubt, it’d been a long day, week, month, year—I was entitled to a good old-fashioned cry every now and then. But why now and not then?

Two thirty-something women burst into the bathroom, laughing, paper New Year’s hats holding on for dear life on the sides of their overdone heads.

“Hey there! Are you OK?” one of the women asked, giving me the onceover, as the other there-there’d me.

“Yeah, yeah, fine thanks,” I said, wiggling away. Toilet lunch could be construed as edgy, indie, alternative. Getting consoled by tipsy New Year’s revelers in public restrooms was the stuff of John Hughes movies and there was a reason he’d been on the dole for decades.

“Well, Happy New Year!” the women exclaimed simultaneously. The elastic under one of their hats snapped, sending both into interminable fits of laughter.

“Happy New Year to you, too,” I replied. James and Kevin stopped talking upon my return. They, too, were donning paper hats.

“What?” I asked self-consciously.

James handed me the grandest hat of all, paper tassels spilling over the top, and a glass of champagne. “Sheila, this next year is going to be awesome for you, I promise.” He and Kevin raised their glasses. “No more philandering men, minus the judge, plus the ACLU.”

“I’ll cheers to that.” I smiled, securing my hat. “So, what should we order?”

“Sheila”—Kevin put his arm around me—“he’s going to come around. Everyone knows that.”

“Who is he?” I squirmed away. “And who is everyone?”

“Oh come on, Sheila—Matthew, of course,” James replied, pouring himself another glass. “And everyone is me and Kevin. What other opinions matter?”

Chapter Sixteen

Blizzard (n): A gale of piercingly cold wind, usually accompanied with fine and blinding snow; a furious blast.