Simmer Down

much you two have to get done, so I’ll leave you to your work. Thanks again for everything. This really did cheer me up a bit.”
    We waved good-bye, and I was ashamed of how relieved I was to have him gone. It’s awful, but there is something intolerable about being around someone else’s pain when you can’t do anything to help. Maybe next semester I could sign up for a class on coping with grief?
    I watched Josh while he worked in the kitchen. He was looking particularly sexy today, what with the sparkling white coat and all, and I was hoping for some alone time in one of the storage rooms, even though it was probably some enormous health code violation to fornicate near the dry goods. Besides, I really had to get going if I was going to make it to Moving On to meet Adrianna.
    I did manage to pin Josh against a wall for a few minutes of groping while Snacker stepped into the office to make some phone calls and confirm orders with purveyors. “Am I going to see you tonight?” I asked in between kisses.
    He sighed. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.” He slid both his hands into my back pockets and pulled me in close. “I’ve got too much to do, and I’ll probably be busy all night. I’ll call you later, though, okay?”
    What Josh meant, I knew, was that he wouldn’t have even one day off for the next two weeks. I already missed him.
    I dragged myself out of his arms. “Okay, I’ll talk to you in a bit.”
    Just one more kiss—-
    I heard the kitchen doors swing open and shut.
    “Oh, excuse me. Sorry to interrupt.”
    I pulled away from Josh to see Eliot Davis standing by the door looking embarrassed to have caught us glued to each other. “I just wanted to see how the restaurant was coming along.” His physical features, especially his peculiar eyes, were unattractive, but he wore a boxy, trendy-looking sport jacket and somehow exuded an air of sophistication appropriate to the owner of a Newbury Street gallery. I hoped that Naomi’s thank-you present hadn’t been some god-awful macramé wall hanging or the stinky handmade candles or pop psych book I’d imagined.
    “It’s okay.” I laughed. “I’m on my way out anyhow. Nice to see you. And thanks again for your hospitality the other night at the gallery.”
    “Nice to see you, too, Chloe. Bye.”
    Josh squeezed my hand, and I left for another dreaded T ride, this one to Cambridge.

TEN

    MOVING On was located in an adorable yellow house on a quiet street off Mass. Ave. outside Harvard Square. Adrianna’s car was parked out front, and I hoped she wasn’t going to kill me for being a few minutes late. The program director, Kayla, let me in and showed me into the combined kitchen and dining room. I don’t know what I was expecting, but Moving On looked like a normal house, with real furniture, hardwood floors, pale green walls, and white trim. Three windows in the kitchen gave a view of a back patio with a grill, covered for the winter to protect it from the snow. After working at the Organization, I’d assumed every nonprofit would be barren and depressing. This was a cheery, comfortable environment; it was a home. Adrianna stood in the kitchen, wrapping a nylon cape around a young woman seated in a chair.
    Adrianna greeted me by saying, Hi, Chloe. This is Isabelle, and she’s ready to chop off this mane of hair.”
    “Hi, Chloe.” Isabelle spoke in a whisper. She looked about twenty years old and probably weighed all of one hundred pounds, not including the ten pounds of frizzy black curls that overwhelmed her tiny frame. She was either frozen in her seat or ready to fly off it; either way, here was a young woman terrified of what was about to happen to her hair. And to make matters worse, Ade looked even more beautiful than ever with her artistically colored blonde hair blown out to its fullest in an homage to early nineties’ supermodels. She looked so glamorous that poor Isabelle must have felt dowdy by comparison. Anyone would have. I did.
    “Hi, Isabelle. Don’t worry about anything. Let me just talk to Adrianna for a second before we get started.” I grabbed my stylist friend by the elbow and led her off to the side for a moment.
    “Ade, what did you say to her? She looks petrified!”
    “Nothing, I swear. I just suggested that we cut off all of her damaged hair, try a more flattering cut, and get her using better products. What’s the problem?”
    “The women here do not exactly have piles of money floating