Jenni smiled. The old her, the pre-cocktail-hour her, would have panic-texted back immediately: Of course! Are you okay? Do you need me to drive up? What happened? She would have absorbed Chloe’s anxiety, made it her own, and spent the rest of the evening pacing the house in a state of low-grade hysteria.
It was a revelation.
She carried the glass to the low-slung leather armchair facing the window, the one Mark had always hated because it faced away from the television. She sat, crossed her ankles, and took the first sip.
And she listened. Not as a fixer, not as a rescuer, but as a witness. She listened to Chloe’s panic about medical school, her fear of disappointing her father, her late-night cramming sessions fueled by energy drinks and despair. Jenni offered no solutions. She only said, “That sounds so hard. I’m right here.”
Tomorrow, she thought, she might try a Sazerac. But that was tomorrow. For now, the afternoon was over, and the evening was a clean, dark slate. She smiled, and the silence smiled back.
