Yawning, I rose to my feet, switched off the lamp, and promised myself some extra meditation time tomorrow. It was late, after 3 a.m., and I had to teach class in the morning, which would be followed by an afternoon shopping excursion with my sisters to look for bridesmaid dresses for Emme’s wedding. She’d gotten engaged a few weeks earlier to a great guy, a single dad who adored her. I was thrilled for her—this was her dream come true. As girls, when I was filling my scrapbook with pictures of ballerinas and pointe shoes, she was filling hers with brides and bouquets. It was no surprise to anyone that she grew up to be a successful wedding planner.
I got back in bed and eventually managed to fall asleep, but it felt like I had barely closed my eyes when my alarm went off three hours later.
Groaning, I dragged my ass out from beneath the sheets and went to work. I was uncharacteristically grouchy at class—at least three people asked me if I was feeling okay—but at least I stayed awake through it. When I got home afterward, the only thing I felt like doing was stuffing my face with bad-for-me food and taking a nap. But I didn’t ever buy any bad-for-me food, which made me even angrier with myself, and I stood in front of the open snack cupboard muttering curse words and willing a box of frosted strawberry Pop-Tarts or at least a bag of Fritos to appear. When the universe failed to deliver, I had to settle for Craisins.
Fucking Craisins.
After polishing off the entire bag standing at the kitchen counter, I stuffed it into the trash and stomped down the hall to my bedroom. I pulled down the shades, kicked off my flip-flops, and crawled beneath the covers, pulling them over my head.
“You okay?” Emme frowned at me in the mirror of our huge dressing room at the bridal store. “Or do you really hate the aubergine?”
I looked down at the deep purple dress I wore, which had to be the ninetieth one I’d tried on in the two and a half hours we’d been here. On my best day, shopping wasn’t my thing. Today, it was akin to torture. “No, the color’s fine. I don’t hate it. I think I’m just done trying on dresses. They’re all looking the same to me.”
“Hey, what about this one?” Stella breezed into the room holding up a long, one-shouldered dress in navy blue.
“I think Maren might have reached capacity.” Emme shook her head. “I don’t know how we have a little sister who doesn’t like to shop.”
“Sorry. Can I take this off now?” I was already slipping the heavy dress over my head.
“Go ahead.” Sighing, Emme handed me a hanger. “I guess I’ve seen enough for today. Let’s go get a drink.”
We left the dressing room, and Emme thanked the saleswoman who’d been helping us, telling her we’d probably come back another day to try on some more. I hid my grimace as well as I could.
It was a beautiful summer night, warm and clear, and I tried to let the fresh air and pretty sunset cheer me up as we walked, but my spirits dragged. Less than half a mile up Old Woodward, Emme led us into a wine bar called Vinotecca, and we found three seats at the bar. I sat in the middle.
“Ooh, I want bubbly,” Emme said, clapping her hands. “I’m going to have a glass of Prosecco.”
“I’m not supposed to have any alcohol,” I said glumly, eyeing the bottles of wine behind the bar.
“Why can’t you have alcohol?” Stella asked.
“I’m detoxing my pineal gland.”
“You have a penile gland?” Emme blinked at me.
“Pineal gland, not penile.”
“Why on earth would you need to detox your pineal gland?” Stella wondered.
“Because it’s the third eye chakra,” I explained, sorry I’d mentioned it. “Some people believe the pineal gland is the source of human intuition. Poor diet and exposure to toxins can calcify it, causing us to lose perception. I’m trying to get some insight into why I might be having that stupid snake nightmare.” I sighed and stared longingly at a bottle of zinfandel, my favorite. “But I think I’d rather have a glass of wine.”
The bartender came over and we each ordered a glass of wine—Prosecco for Emme, pinot noir for Stella, and zinfandel for me. I figured it couldn’t do any more damage than an entire bag of Craisins, which probably had a shelf life of about a thousand years.
“Tell me again what the nightmare is about,” urged Stella, a therapist whose favorite activity was probing people’s minds, even when she wasn’t in the office. She’d put on what I called her Therapist Face, which said you can trust me, and touched my arm. “Maybe I can help.”