by Minka Kent
“You worry too much,” she tells him, tapping her pointer finger against his broad chest. “It’s cute, but let’s dial it back, okay? Like we talked about before?”
He says nothing.
I’ve wasted my time.
It’s going to take a lot more than this for him to see the light. He needs concrete evidence. Emails. Pictures.
Damn it. Why didn’t I take a picture earlier?
“How was work?” Lauren asks, taking the spot next to me on the couch. I breathe her in, searching for a hint of Bristowe, but all she smells like is cold air.
“Fine,” I lie. “How was class?”
She sinks back, drawing her knees to her chest. “Mid-terms. That’s all I’m going to say.”
Thayer is still quiet, though he’s watching her. I can only hope the wheels in his head are still spinning, that he’s smart enough to see through her sweet little shtick.
“I feel like I haven’t seen you at all lately,” she says. “I miss you.”
She misses me?
“We should do lunch tomorrow. There’s this new café downtown I’ve been wanting to try,” Lauren says.
She’s up to something.
“Sure,” I say. If I say ‘no’ in front of Thayer, after playing the part of the dutiful, concerned friend, it’ll be a huge red flag.
“You sticking around?” she asks Thayer as she rises from her seat. “I’m just doing more studying tonight. Pretty boring.”
He stands. “Yeah. For a little bit.”
She slips her hand in his, leading him to her room. I bet it’s the very same hand she used to grip Bristowe’s cock just hours ago. No shame. No shame at all.
I wait for them to disappear before returning to my room, locking the door—on principle, not because I have to—and lying on my bed, hands clasped on my stomach and gaze stuck on the motionless ceiling fan.
Tonight was a massive failure, but I’m not deterred.
I’m just getting started.
Twenty-Two
There are a lot of things that have no business being together.
Lauren and Thayer and Lauren and Bristowe, for example.
And then there’s the bizarre excuse for an entrée sitting before me. Fennel roasted chicken. Jicama. Farro. Dried cranberry. What the fuck is this shit?
I pick out the weird bits and slice into my organic, grass fed chicken breast. It’s okay.
Lauren inhales her roasted kale and Portobello salad like it’s her last meal on earth, and she’s already talking dessert. Squash pie with a graham cracker crust.
Hard pass.
I swear this place has a bunch of monkeys in the kitchen, throwing shit together and charging an arm and a leg for it. And idiots like Lauren eat it up because they’re certain eating something besides steak or a burger or a plain old chicken sandwich makes them special.
“You’re extra quiet today.” Lauren laughs, stabbing her kale. “What’re you thinking about?”
I shrug. “The future.”
Her eyes widen and she nods. “It’s scary, isn’t it? Not knowing what comes after this … if everything’s going to work out exactly the way we planned …”
“What do you see for yourself?” I ask, locking gazes with her. “You want to get married and have babies or do you want to do the millennial career-woman thing?”
“Can’t a girl have it all?” She winks, taking another bite of salad.
I don’t appreciate her dodging my questions, making light of them. “Do you want to get married though? You and Thayer seem pretty serious.”
Lauren almost chokes, knocking her fist against her chest. “I don’t see myself marrying him, no. I kind of don’t really believe in marriage. I think it’s an antiquated concept, just like monogamy.”
Now it’s my turn to choke. I reach for my water to wash it down.
“I’ve yet to meet a single married person who hasn’t grown bored after the newness wears off,” she continues, obviously speaking about Bristowe.
I hate her even more than I did before, and I didn’t know that was possible.
“Then why waste your time with Thayer if you have no intention of taking it to the next level?” I ask.
Her glossy red lips twist into a smirk. “Good in bed. Fun to go out with. Hot as hell. He’s the trifecta of boyfriends.”
Cat’s got my tongue and I’m stuck inside my mind, hurling insults at her at warp speed. My fist clenches under the table, my nails digging into my palm.
“I’m just being honest,” she says, perhaps sensing my disapproval. “We’re friends. I’m supposed to be able to tell you these things. Woman to woman.” I remain silent. “What, it’s okay for guys to brag about using girls for sex, but we can’t?”
Oh, Lauren.
It’s not that. It’s not that at all.
“At this point in our lives, we should look at men as disposable and temporary. We should be having fun,” Lauren continues to try and justify her behavior.
“I guess it’s all fun and games as long as you’re not hurting anyone, right?” I ask, thinking solely of Elisabeth and her unborn child.
“Exactly!”
Twenty-Three
“Lauren here?” Thayer stands at our front door Thursday night, half past six.
Lifting a brow, I tell him, “No. She’s at barre.”
He pushes past me. “Drove by. She wasn’t there.”
Nice. I don’t even have to play dumb this time. I had no idea she wasn’t at barre.
“Have you tried to call her?” I ask the obvious.
“Several times. It goes straight to voicemail.” He’s pacing the living room now, releasing hard little breaths as he grips his knit cap in his hands.
“You want a beer?” I ask. I need him primed and ready for when she finally arrives. Maybe Monday’s situation wasn’t enough. He needed to see for himself that she was up to no good.
Thayer doesn’t answer, he tromps to the kitchen and helps himself. The crack and hiss of his can is all I hear a moment later. Ooh, he’s all kinds of worked up!
“Where do you think she could be?” I call to him.
“Who the fuck knows,” he calls back. When he finally returns, he plops down in the center of Lauren’s pristine sofa and kicks his snowy shoes up on her beautiful glass coffee table. So he does have a little spite in him. “I’ve been thinking, Meadow. About what you said the other day.”
Yessssss.
“And you’re right. I shouldn’t be with someone I can’t trust,” he says, stretching his hands behind his head. His body is relaxed, surrendered, but his words are terse. He’s all kinds of confused right now, one giant contradiction.
This is a man in the midst of making a major decision.
“What am I even doing, Meadow?” he asks.
I don’t know how to answer him without showing my true colors. “What do you mean?”
“She’s hot one minute, cold the next. It’s been this constant up and down from day one,” he says. “And it drives me insane. The colder she is, the more I want her. That’s fucked up, isn’t it?”
“No. That’s reverse psychology.” It never once struck me that maybe Lauren knew exactly what she was doing. Maybe everything is a game to her. Some people get a kick out of fucking with other people’s emotions, having power over their psyches. “We always want what we can’t have.”
I’m leaning against the back of Lauren’s favorite chair when our gazes catch. In a perfect world, I’d be good for him, I think. I wouldn’t string him along or leave him hanging. I wouldn’t tease him for worrying about me. I wouldn’t hurt him the way Lauren does.
I’d be gentle with his heart. And I imagine he’d be gentle with mine.
We’d have it all, Thayer and me.
Life could be so perfect if only Lauren would disappear.
Twenty-Four
My gel-manicured fingers are wrapped around a martini glass at Wellman’s Friday night. What appears to be a Cosmopolitan is actually cra
nberry and water. No alcohol for me tonight. I’ve got work to do.
Across the table, Lauren and Thayer are making out. Hardcore.
Last night was another big fat failure. I don’t know what it is with these two. Some people just like dysfunctional, fucked-up relationships. It’s like they’re drawn to them like moths to flames. They can’t resist.
My mother is the same way. I hate that Thayer is cut from the same cloth as her. Kind of ruins him for me.
Tessa’s been unusually quiet all evening, though she’s wasting no time tossing them back. Probably because Eli’s here with someone else.
“Ignore him,” I say, nudging her arm. “You’re so much prettier than that girl anyway.”
She reaches for her hair, but her eyes are trained on them. “You think?”
“Absolutely,” I lie, taking a sip. The girl is gorgeous. In the unfair kind of way. Almost reminds me of a young Elizabeth Taylor, all black hair and curves and turning heads everywhere she goes.
“I’m going to run to the ladies’ room. Come with.” Tessa slips her Louis clutch beneath her arm and slides out of our booth. I follow because I’ve been waiting for this all night—a chance to get Tessa alone.
My attempts to destroy the fucked-up-ed-ness that is Thayer and Lauren have failed. I’m moving in on Tessa.
The bathroom smells like bleach, vomit, and sewer water, but it’s miraculously clean. Tessa slicks her third coat of lipstick on her full lips before fussing with her hair. She hasn’t said a word to me yet, and I’m not quite sure why she wanted me to accompany her. Guess Lauren was a little … preoccupied.
“What is it about Eli?” I ask, climbing onto the Formica counter, hands gripping the edge.
Her dark brows rise. “He’s everything.”
I try not to roll my eyes. When someone describes something as “everything” they’re just being lazy. These laptops and iPhones are melting our brains, I swear. We can’t even form coherent sentences half the time.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“He’s pre-law,” she says, like that’s supposed to impress me. “And he’s going to Harvard for law school in the fall.”
I find it hard to believe that some previously poor girl from No Where, South Dakota wants to chase after some prick who’s going to school to become an even bigger prick.
“Lawyers are assholes,” I say. “You don’t want that. You’re way too nice.”
She laughs through her nose. “He’s nice though.”
“Really? He shows up here and hits on other girls right in front of you every Friday night. He brings girls around knowing you like him. That’s not nice. That’s called being a douche canoe,” I say. “The first night he met me? Bought me a drink.”
Her head cocks toward me. “You said you asked him to grab you one at the bar.”
Rolling my eyes, I say, “I know what I said. But I didn’t want to upset you. Lauren told me you liked him.”
Her eyes soften, like she’s realizing I might not be so bad after all.
Ha.
“Anyway, I didn’t want to tell you this,” I begin. “But since we’re talking about that night … Thayer and Lauren were kind of … I don’t know how to put this … they kept telling me Eli was into me and they were kind of making a thing out of it.”
Tessa drops her lipstick into her clutch. “What do you mean? Making a thing out of it?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Pointing it out? I just thought it was odd since they both knew how much you like Eli. Thought it was shitty of them, actually.”
Her chin lowers and she huffs. “Yeah. That is shitty.”
Mission accomplished. Seeds of friendship doubt are officially planted.
Hopping off the counter and washing my hands because I feel gross being in here for this long, I turn toward Tessa and offer my most sympathetic, “I hope I didn’t make you feel bad.”
She’s quiet, and I’d give anything to read her thoughts.
“Just … please don’t repeat it,” I say, because that’s what girls say when they tell secrets and betray one another. “I don’t want to start a thing with you and Lauren. I just thought you should know. I’d want to know.”
“I won’t say anything.” She messes with her hair for the tenth time, making it worse with each brush of her hand. Her posture deflates and she looks like she wants to be anywhere but here.
“Let’s do a shot,” I say. “On me. And then we’ll dance. If I have to show the DJ a little nip so he’ll play your favorite song, I will.”
She cracks a half-smile before linking her arm in mine. And I smile too. Because I’ve got her exactly where I want her.
Tonight she’s going to see that I’m the fun friend. I’m the good, true friend.
And she’s never going to look at Lauren the same again.
I may not have been able to steal her boyfriend, but her closest friend is kind of the next best thing.
For now, I’ll take it.
Twenty-Five
“Feeling better this week, Meadow?” Elisabeth Bristowe answers the door with a pale pink mug of steamy brown liquid and a twinkle in her eye. “Made you a tea.”
I lug my caddy and vacuum into her foyer. “Thank you.”
“I missed you last week. Was worried when they sent someone else,” she says as we head to the kitchen. She places my drink on the island. “I swear, no one cleans this place the way you do. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“I graduate in May …” I say.
“Don’t remind me.” She takes a seat at the table, next to her closed laptop. A notebook lies beside it, open to a page scribbled with notes. She must be planning her next book. Rubbing her hand on her belly, I swear she’s gotten bigger since two weeks ago. “Did I tell you Reed’s aunt is throwing me a baby shower this weekend?”
I’d heard all about Reed’s aunt before. In fact, I met her once. Sweet as sugar and cute as a button. She raised Reed from the time he was seven, Elisabeth told me. She couldn’t have kids of her own or she never married—I don’t quite remember—but she’s basically his mother. I never did ask what happened to his parents. It doesn’t seem like my place to pry.
“Sounds like fun,” I say, squirting some marble polish on her countertop. “Excited?”
“You should come.”
I freeze, wondering if I misheard her.
“I want you there,” she says. “It would be nice if there were more people there than just family.”
In other words, she doesn’t have many friends. Which I always assumed, but this confirms it. And it’s a shame. She’s the sweetest. The kind of thoughtful soul anyone would be lucky to have in their life.
“It’s at the community center,” she says. “Saturday at noon. And you don’t have to bring anything.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” I already know what I want to get her. I saw it at the mall a couple of weeks ago: a cashmere teddy bear and a silver rattle. Keepsakes. Things Baby Girl Bristowe can have forever. None of this disposable, destructible, grow-out-of-it-after-a-year shit.
Her Calcutta Gold marble gleams under the sunlight that pours through the window above the sink. Spring is just around the bend and the warmer temps melting the snow is helping to turn the grass green. I even spot a few little buds on some of the maples in Elisabeth’s back yard.
Sometimes we die a little so we can be reborn, stronger than we were before.
“We’re naming her Mabry,” Elisabeth says. “I got my way.”
“As you should.” It’s the least he can do for her.
“I think I might look into getting a doula,” she says. “You know, one of those support people that stay by your side during delivery. I mean, Reed will be there, but he’s been so preoccupied with work lately, I’m worried he’s not going to know what to do.” Elisabeth chuckles. “He’s missed three birthing classes now. And the tour of the maternity ward at Lutheran General.”
My jaw tightens. I could punch him in the stomach r
ight now.
“He’s probably anxious about being a dad,” I say. “Maybe he’s kind of checked out? People do that when they’re stressed.”
My words are solely to comfort Elisabeth. Defending Bristowe’s behavior sends the tang of vomit to the back of my throat. I rinse it down with some warm Earl Grey.
“He was so excited at first,” she says. “He actually cried when I showed him the positive pregnancy test. We’d been trying for years. None of the fertility treatments were working. And then she happened.” She pats her swollen belly. “Crazy how things work out, isn’t it, Meadow?”
“So crazy.” I polish the stainless-steel oven doors before moving to the microwave that’s built into the island. A plate of cookies and brownies are covered beneath a glass cloche a few feet away.
“Do you want some?” Elisabeth rises, grabbing a napkin before I can protest. “You can always tell how stressed I am by how many baked goods are in the house at any given time. Reed tells me to quit or he’s going to gain weight. Guess he needs to watch his girlish figure. Here.”
She hands me a cookie. Oatmeal raisin. The faint scent of cinnamon and brown sugar mix with lemon kitchen cleaner, but I take a bite and the thing practically melts in my mouth. Soft and chewy.
Baked with love.
Baby Mabry is so lucky to have Elisabeth as her mom. They haven’t even formally met yet and already there’s so much love in her eyes when she talks about her daughter.
“We should get coffee sometime,” Elisabeth says. “Er, tea, I mean.”
We chuckle. I’ve cleaned her house week after week, month after month, and she’s never asked me to do anything outside these walls.
“I’d love some help decorating the nursery. If you’re into that kind of thing,” she adds. “Reed’s been so busy …”
I read once that a person’s home is a subconscious reflection of their true self, and I get it now. The signs were here all along—I just didn’t want to see them. This house is all Elisabeth, curated and comforting and interesting. And the Reed parts? Those are found in the unfinished nursery. The leather-scented study he never uses because he prefers to work from his campus office. The barrage of leftovers filling their refrigerator because he’s never home for dinner.
