I'm So Happy for You Read Online Free PDF

some kind of post-traumatic stress disorder. Either way, she
     decided to deal with his email tomorrow.
    She figured she’d finish editing Leslie Fletcher’s Medicare editorial the next morning as well. She was tired and hungry.
     And Lincoln had already left the office for his weekly water-color class at the New School. After shutting down her computer
     and gathering together her belongings, Wendy called Daphne a final time.
    A recorded message announced, “Mailbox full.”
    Wendy’s mind began to race. What if this one time Daphne had actually made good on her threats? (What if she’d really lit
     herself on fire or, more realistically, swallowed the whole bottle of Klonopin?) Only, the bottle must have been almost empty,
     since she’d alluded to needing a new prescription. But even if she’d had only a week’s supply left, there could be trouble.
     As Wendy considered the nonchalance with which she’d parried Daphne’s earlier claims, she envisioned her old friend lying
     in a pool of vomit on the black-and-white-checkered floor of her bathroom.
    Just as quickly, she pushed the picture away, telling herself it was ghoulish and absurd to imagine such things. Everyone
     agreed that Daphne was, above all, a top-notch actress. At the same time, Wendy knew she’d never forgive herself if something
     had happened to Daphne and she hadn’t gone to check on her. Wendy couldn’t bear the idea of Paige getting there first, either.
    Daphne was the last of Wendy’s friends to live in Manhattan. The rest had joined the exodus to Brooklyn—Sara to Dean Street
     in Boerum Hill; Gretchen to Kane in Cobble Hill; Pamela to the North Slope; Paige to tony Columbia Heights, overlooking the
     Promenade, in Brooklyn Heights; and Maura to the more-coming-than-up area around the still-polluted Gowanus Canal.
    Since her late twenties, Daphne had lived in the pied-à-terre that her parents had purchased twenty years earlier on East
     36th Street, near Second Avenue. The bedroom was small, the living room was a little dark, the ceilings were lower than you’d
     think they’d be in a prewar building. Plus, the block was permanently congested with traffic vying for entry into the Queens
     Midtown Tunnel. But it was more or less her own. And it had always secretly irked Wendy that while she and Adam struggled
     to pay the ever-increasing rent on their attic floor-through in an undistinguished brick row house on the southern edge of
     Park Slope, Daphne had to contend each month with only a modest maintenance fee.
    Wendy had been there to visit so many times before that the doorman waved her through without making any attempt to announce
     her arrival. “Is she up there?” she asked, mostly to be polite, while skirting the rubber plant, Barcelona table, and chrome-and-black-leather
     Brno tube chairs that comprised the lobby decor.
    “Haven’t seen her since yesterday,” he replied, unintentionally fueling her fantasies.
    Wendy stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the ninth floor. As the numbers lit up one after the other, she
     found her mind returning to the image she’d conjured before she left the office—of Daphne sprawled on the floor in a pill-induced
     stupor. The elevator shuddered to a stop, then opened onto the dimly lit mauve hallway that Wendy knew so well. She walked
     ten steps to the right, pressed Daphne’s buzzer, and waited.
    There was no immediate answer. Fifteen seconds went by, then thirty. Maybe Daphne was asleep. Or maybe she’d slipped out for
     an emergency pack of cigarettes while the doorman was in the restroom. But what were the chances of that? Daphne had officially
     quit smoking two years ago. Which was to say that, like Wendy and everyone else she knew, Daphne now limited her cigarette
     intake to infrequent “borrowings” from other people’s packs. As Wendy buzzed again, she felt her heartbeat accelerating.
    After another ten seconds went by without an answer, a surge of