The Buenos Aires Broken Hearts Club Read Online Free PDF Page A

without any real job security, you had to be either incredibly brave or incredibly crazy, maybe a bit of both. Yet at that moment, sucking back bar coffee and free wireless Internet access, they seemed full of direction. They had project, deadlines, purpose. What did I have? Termination papers, an eviction notice, and a two-carat diamond ring worth as much to me as the beer-stained cocktail napkin stuck to the bottom of my shoe. I threw back my drink and, choosing to ignore the bartender’s mixed expression of disapproval and curiosity, ordered a second. The girls would have to catch up.
    Halfway through my third drink, Sam and Trish plopped themselves down on the bar stools on either side of me. I hadn’t told them anything on the phone, but Sam took one look at my face and threw her arms around me while Trish signaled the bartender for a round. “What did you tell them at the office?” I asked, always amazed by how much freedom they had at the market research firm they worked at.
    “What we always tell them,” said Trish. “Field research.” She passed a martini to Sam and took a big swallow from her own. “Now start from the very beginning.”
    I took a deep breath and started from the beginning, not sparing even the smallest detail. Sam and Trish listened. The bartender listened. I think a couple of the cyber cowboys might have been listening, too. Most importantly, I was listening. By the time I got to the nineteen-year-old barista, I was more depressed than ever. I’m too perfect. I’ve got it all figured out. I don’t take risks. Could it be that the qualities I prided myself on were actually faults? Jeff’s words, my boss’s words—it all flashed in my brain like giant road signs telling me I was going the wrong way. Instead of speeding down the fast lane to Success City, I was rolling into Loserville on bald tires and an empty tank of gas.
    Sam and Trish stared, looking dumbfounded. I’d never seen them speechless before. Of course, it was only natural that they’d be surprised. If not about the job, then certainly about the guy. They’d liked Jeff. Everyone had liked Jeff. Jeff was very, very likable. Just ask Lauren.
    “Unbelievable,” said Trish.
    “Un-fucking-believable,” agreed Sam.
    “He’s an idiot,” said Trish.
    “They’re all idiots,” added Sam.
    Trish slammed a hand down on the bar. “Screw ’em all. This could be the best thing that ever happened to you.”
    I winced. That’s what people tell you when something truly, horrifically awful happens. I’ve said it to pining ex-boyfriends to alleviate my own guilt. I’ve said it to friends who fell victim to downsizing. Now I was the ex. I was the jobless. I smirked at myself, which seemed to make Sam and Trish feel better.
    “That’s the spirit,” said Sam, giving me a squeeze. Trish took my hand and smiled enthusiastically. I nodded and forced a small smile. They were trying so hard to be helpful, needing me to be okay, that I couldn’t possibly tell them I knew it was all bullshit.
    In fact, the only thing that made me feel even the slightest bit better came in a ridiculously shaped glass seemingly designed to maximize spilling. Cocktails thinly disguised as martinis for the I’m-not-really-sophisticated-but-I-do-drive-a-Jetta crowd are the best invention ever. I downed the drink in front of me, which may have been Trish’s, judging from the look she gave me, and ordered another.
    “Maybe you could use a break,” said the bartender.
    “Look, friend,” I began, though it sounded more like “Lick, fren” (those martinis were really strong). I was about to give him a piece of my mind. Who did he think he was telling me when I needed a break? Did he just lose his job, his home, and his Jeff all in the same day? I don’t think so. I leaned back, almost fell off my stool, and then tipped forward again, ready to let him have it, but as I opened my mouth, it hit me. The bartender was a genius!
    A break. That was exactly