Thanks for the review, it motivated me into finishing this ;).
"Fuck." Miranda's brush had just made an ear-splitting crash as it fell into the sink. She retrieves it hastily and continues brushing her mattered hair in the bathroom mirror. The noise had obviously woken Brady as a second later his cries can be heard faintly in the next room. "Jesus," Miranda mutters to herself. She hadn't felt this scattered and disorganized before work since Brady was first born.
"Miranda, what are you doin'?" A sleepy, confused Steve appears at the doorway, clad in boxer shorts and a vest.
"I'm getting ready for work, what do you think?" She slams the brush, which falls back into the sink and grazes past him into the hallway.
"You're goin' to work?" He follows her into the bedroom.
"Yes, Steve, I'm going to work. You know, that place we go everyday except Sunday?" She opens a drawer, grabs a mint green blouse and throws it over her shoulders.
"Don't you think you should take a couple of days off?"
"To what? I was back in work the day after my mother died, how is this any different?"
"Because it is," Steve looks startled, "no offense Miranda, but your mother lived in Philadelphia and you said that was close enough. This is Samantha." Miranda stops what she's doing and listens to him. "Your best friend," he continues, "the one you sat in coffee shops with for hours, the one you've knew even longer than me..."
"I know who she is, Steve," Miranda snaps back. "Was... who she was," she corrects herself, looking unsettled. Steve stares at her, his tired eyes tell her he wants to hold her, but she isn't ready - she isn't ready to break down and crumble into his arms just yet. Losing control was the last thing she needed, losing Samantha was traumatic enough. "Look, Brady's crying. Can't you hear him? I think you should go check him while I get dressed."
"Alright, I'm on it," Steve gives her one last concerned look and exits the room, leaving a guilt-ridden Miranda to exhale loudly, putting her hands in her face. Her snapping at Steve came almost subconsciously, as though it was an automatic reaction when being in this terrifyingly fragile, broken state. It was state that didn't fit her well, like a bra one size too small. The truth was that she simply craved normalcy, something that made her forget that things could never be normal again. The usual morning rush to work, which ordinarily left her with a sense of purpose made her feel different today, because things were different today. So very different.
She turns and looks at the floor length mirror behind her, counting how many buttons she had put in the wrong holes of her blouse. Steve was right - she was in no state for work. She unbuttons her blouse and rips it off her shoulders, standing in front of the mirror with just a bra. A small tear trickles down her face. This was her moment of weakness, and she was only letting herself see it. She couldn't be a lawyer today because today she was Miranda Hobbs, best friend of Samantha Jones, who'd left New York and this life just nine hours earlier, and it would be impossible for her to be anybody else.