How to Look Happy Read Online Free Page B

trails me impatiently. All the notifications are from people who’ve commented on a status or posted on my wall, and the people are totally random—my old roommate, a past client, a cousin in Virginia, a planner from the city engineer’s office, a friend from my Zumba class, a guy I went to high school with, my coworker Quinn. I click my former roommate’s wall post, and it reads, OMG!! You OK????? Next I click Quinn’s post. You are so screwed.
    “Why?” I exclaim. “Why am I screwed?” I look at Carrie, panic taking over my confusion. “What’s going on?”
    She’s been poised to grab the phone from me, and finally she does, plucking it from my hands and tapping frantically at the screen. I watch as she pulls up my profile page, scrolls down to my current status, and then thrusts the phone back in front of my face. “Read it,” she says. “And then delete it before anybody else sees it!”
    Feeling a new round of nausea coming on, I follow her orders and read, the words blurring together as my life as I know it passes before my eyes. My Facebook status, updated at 1:23 a.m., reads: OMG worst day ever!!! First my boss sucks face wit my biggest client, who she’s stealing from me, btw. And now jeremy tels me he’s screwing some chick at work and wedding. Is. Off. FML… So far it has twelve comments, and as I watch a new one appears, this one from an architect I worked with on a project last year.
    Letting out a strangled yelp, I fumble to figure out how to delete the status as a new round of vomit rises up in my throat. I press one hand to my mouth and jump up from the sofa, the phone clattering to the floor. As Carrie clamors for it, I bang my shin on the coffee table and rush for the half bath in the hall between the living room and kitchen. I don’t make it.
    The remaining contents of my stomach land on the antique rug that lines the hardwood floor of my hallway. Afterward I sink down onto it, tears sliding from my eyes and mingling with the mess on the floor. I cough and sob at the same time, and then I hear Carrie get up from the sofa. Simon is circling the mess and staring at me with huge, woeful eyes.
    “Deleted it,” Carrie says in a breathless rush, her footsteps hastening toward me. “Oh. God. Oh, honey,” she says. “Here.” She extends a hand to me and pulls me up from my heap on the floor. “Let me get—”
    “No!” I yell, the realization of what she’s doing yanking me out of my slobbery stupor. She’s already done so much. I can’t let her clean up after me again. Her eyes are wide, and I stammer, “I’m sorry. You’re not… I’ll clean this up. God, thank you so much for—”
    I put my fist to my mouth and close my eyes for half a second. “Thank you,” I say again. Then I step over the pile of puke and flee to the kitchen to gather cleaning supplies.
    Life goes on, indeed.
     
    *  *  *
     
    Two hours later I’ve managed to shower, pull on a T-shirt and yoga pants, eat a slice of dry toast, and sip tentatively at a mug of coffee. Between these activities I’ve spent the rest of the time on damage control. Carrie stayed for about half an hour after I finished cleaning up, insisting on helping despite my mortified protests. As the second in command at a PR firm, Carrie’s job is damage control, and without her here I’m not sure I could have held on to what was left of my sanity, much less my dignity. Eventually, though, she had to leave for work.
    As for me, I’m not sure how much longer I’ll have a job. I doubt Candace saw my status—we’re not Facebook friends—but she’s sure to hear about it and might have already. At any rate, so far I’ve put off calling the office. It’s about 9:30, roughly an hour past my usual arrival time. I plop down heavily at my kitchen table and stare at my phone, feeling as if I’ve been trampled by a bull in Pamplona or thrown off the back of a moving vehicle. My head is still throbbing despite the Advil, and my stomach