Steamed

“and a bag of dried papaya!”
    “I’m not sure who she is, but I’m glad she’s so enthusiastic about this store,” he stage-whispered to the elderly woman ahead of him.
    “Noah, stop it!” I laughed. “Don’t pretend you don’t know me!”
    We developed a small audience, smiling at the playfulness of the young, happy couple. And so it continued for a few moments, Noah pretending I was some lunatic shopper raving about her finds, and me insisting to those around us that he did, in fact, know me and that, no, I didn’t typically shout about the joys of white-chocolate-covered pretzels to strangers. But it was fun and flirtatious and felt good, as if two weeks into our affair we were safe and secure enough to play around like this. I totally overlooked the significant feature of the episode, which was the boring barrenness of Noah’s shopping cart. One bunch of bananas and a box of cereal? I should have run.
    I hadn’t. I was now facing the consequences, which, on this Saturday morning, consisted of shame, guilt, anger, embarrassment, and feelings of such inadequacy that I felt a desperate, impulsive desire to bleach my red hair to white blonde, begin regular tanning sessions at our local QuickTan, and trade my Saturn up for a BMW I couldn’t possibly afford. But I decided I must stick to the rule of not doing anything drastic when in distress. I didn’t want to leave my apartment because Noah might see me, and I didn’t want to stay in my apartment because Noah might stop by. I will never sleep with any neighbors, I will never sleep with any neighbors, I repeated to myself. I am not going to cry, and I am not going to care!
    But I did impulsively call up my friend Daniel.
    “Chloe, it’s too early,” he mumbled in an I’m-still-asleep voice. “Call me back later.”
    “It’s an emergency!” I pleaded.
    “Nobody has emergencies at eight thirty on Saturday morning. Go away.”
    “No, listen! I need your help.”
    Daniel had had a serious girlfriend for over a year, but after explaining this morning’s events, I demanded that he come over and make out with me in front of the condo building. We’d slept together before, so I didn’t see the harm in a little kissing. Actually, we were each other’s backup person in case of a dry spell. In fact, I’d probably slept with Daniel more than with anyone else—meaning little sleep and rarely a bed. The front entry way to his apartment building, a parking garage at two a.m., and an empty football field? Yes. A bed? No. And as much as we liked having sex, we never got it together to actually get involved. But somehow we had managed to stay friends. And right now I wanted him to be a good friend and help me out of this humiliating situation with Noah.
    “I’m not getting out of bed to come make out with you. The guy sounds like a prick. And, besides, I can’t. What about Shelly? I don’t think she’d exactly be thrilled.”
    “Just explain it to her! She’ll understand!” I practically screamed at him. “It’s not real kissing. It’s helping-out-your-friend kissing. Revenge kissing, we’ll call it. And maybe a little groping, like I’ve been having another man on the side the whole time?”
    Daniel gave a simultaneous sigh and laugh. “I’m sorry, Chloe. I’d help you if I could, but I can’t.”
    “I’d do it for you!” I slammed down the phone, furious, flopped on my bed, and pictured Noah’s face as he looked out his window and saw me entwined in a passionate frenzy with a mystery man. He’d probably just nod with approval, the jerk.
    I called my sister, Heather, who didn’t hear a word I said because her three-year-old, Walker, and her two-month-old, Lucy, were both wailing. In the background, her husband, Ben, was saying something about orange-colored poop. Over the family noise, she did seem to understand who was calling and shouted that she’d call me back.
    Heather is only two years older than I am, but at twenty-seven, she already had her life totally together. Married at twenty-three to the wonderful Ben Piper, an architect, she was happily settled in wealthy Brookline in a four-bedroom house I completely envied. Hard not to hate her sometimes.
    My best girlfriend, Adrianne Zane, who has insisted on being called Adrianna since The Sopranos first aired, didn’t even pick up her phone. Thanks to voice mail, screams for help wouldn’t boom out of an answering machine and wake her up. I left a message, anyhow. I said