stretches before jogging north, toward Ines and Albie’s place.
The lake reflected steel blue back at her. It was a cloudy day, and there was mist over the water, blurring the horizon line. The run was about six and a half miles and would take her an hour if she kept up her usual pace. She passed a small fleet of spandexed people on bicycles and a woman in hot-pink leggings walking a spotted hound. A man in short shorts breezed past her.
She watched the crashing of the waves against the breakers, the dogs chasing tennis balls on the dog beach, the speed-walking women in visors with their fists pumping at their sides. No one paid any attention to her, not here, where she was just another jogger. She turned away from the lakefront path and toward Java Jam.
She ordered the coffees breathlessly, then carried them down the street to Ines and Albie’s apartment, a second-floor corner unit in a grand two-flat. The stairwell carpeting was dark green and worn down the middle where too many shoes had trodden; the walls were covered with wallpaper that had tiny flowers on it in purple and red and blue.
Ines was already at the door when Sloane reached the landing, her glasses on and her hair piled on top of her head. “Little early, aren’t you?” she said, grabbing her coffee from the tray and turning away from the door.
Sloane followed her in, sipping the coffee that was left. She got a mouthful of cinnamon. “Switch.”
They traded cups. “Don’t know how you drink that; it’s pure milk.”
Sloane’s sneakers squeaked on the floor, which was the standard Chicago yellowish oak that creaked no matter where you stepped. Albie’s door was closed, and so was Ines’s, but in different ways. Albie’s was closed like he just wanted to keep the noise of the hallway out. Ines’s was locked and bolted from the outside, as secure as a bank vault. Up until a few years ago she had been booby-trapping it—even though it was illegal—and Sloane didn’t have the heart to ask if she was still doing that. She pretended to be fine, but Sloane had seen the neat row of medications on her dresser, the twitch of her body at certain sounds and gestures.
The apartment was warm and comfortable, with a colossal beanbag chair that was always leaking pellets; the curtains on the two windows facing the alley that were just a Canadian and a Mexican flag, respectively.
Ines went back to the stove, poking at her eggs with a wooden spoon. The whole room smelled like onions.
“You know, once you hit thirty, this whole living-like-a-college-junior thing is going to be less charming and more creepy,” Sloane said.
“What do you mean, like a college junior? Are you referring to Frodo?”
“You mean the giant beanbag you decided to name Frodo Baggins? Yes, that’s exactly what I’m referring to.”
“Just because you refuse to enjoy your life doesn’t mean the rest of us can’t,” Ines said. “You have white bathroom towels and you’re invigorated by early-morning runs in the sleet. You’re like the dad from Calvin and Hobbes.”
“I always liked Calvin’s dad.”
“Of course you did.” Ines snorted. “Have you talked to Matt yet?”
Sloane shook her head. “He had the mass-incarceration thing last night and a meeting this morning. Why?”
Ines sipped her coffee.
“I’m in trouble, aren’t I,” Sloane said.
Ines shrugged.
“If he thinks I’m going to apologize to him for punching that asshole . . .”
“I’m not here to have your fight with Matt before you have it,” Ines said. “Just don’t assume he’s going to thank you for being his little white knight.”
Sloane scowled at her.
“Yeah, I said it,” Ines said. “Did you see the Essy Says update?”
“No. How bad is it?”
Ines took her phone out of the pocket of her sweatshirt and handed it to Sloane. Esther’s Insta! account was already on the screen.
Sloane recognized the familiar setting of one of Esther’s videos—her office, which was decorated like someone’s Pinterest dream, draped in stylish fabrics with muted colors, a string of pale pink fairy lights, and an expensive camera that captured all the shine in her hair and every knickknack on her shelves. And in the middle of it all, Esther, dressed in a heather-gray sweater that bunched up at her wrists as she drank from a teacup with a little bird carved into the side. The video was titled “Essy Says Is Going Places!”
As Sloane watched, Esther introduced a clip from the day before, showing her skin care and