Chapter 2 WHAT BEST FRIENDS ARE FOR
Chapter 2
W HAT B EST F RIENDS A RE F OR
“You’re kidding me,” Vivian says, showing that radiant smile of hers.
“It’s not funny,” Charli whispers, paranoid of others eavesdropping. She and her best friend are at their favorite restaurant, but like everywhere else in Boston, real estate is valuable, so the restaurateurs squeeze their patrons in, leaving enough space between tables so that you won’t elbow your neighbor. Charli has just recounted the sorry tale of how Patrick and her relationship had reached its conclusion.
Viv lets her smile fade and leans in. Her braids are long enough to graze the white tablecloth. “I know it’s not funny. But still ... you have to laugh a little. Losing your keys. Red lights. The wrong restaurant. There’s some part of you that’s doing this intentionally, because you and I both know you’re not looking for anything serious.”
“Yeah, well, we’d run our course.”
Her eyes widen. “He was a good one, Charli.”
“I know he was a good one.” She pulls her wineglass toward her and twists the stem.
“Even if he’s the best catch in New England,” Vivian says, “you’re going to find something wrong with him before too long. It’s almost like you don’t think you deserve a good man.”
Charli whips a hand into the air. “Look at my competition, Viv. You should be the one dating him.” Charli sighs as she takes in her friend. They’re both twenty-nine, born a week apart. Viv has teeth that a dentist would put on marketing materials and lips that women would kill for. Her golden-brown skin belongs to a supermodel. She’s great at being a friend, and so funny all the time, so happy. And talk about brilliant. She was the top of her class at Yale Law, and that was after four years at Harvard. She is unstoppable. When she eventually has children—after she’s conquered the world—she’ll make it look so easy.
Viv postures like she’s addressing someone on the witness stand. “Tell me something. Why do you think I’m your friend?”
Charli is puzzled, as if Viv asked her what number she’s holding behind her back. “Because we’ve been friends since we were kids. And because you like to surround yourself with inferiority?” She drinks to that and lets her lips bend into the slightest smile, because she is at least aware of her tendency to self-deprecate. It’s soothing.
Viv stares Charli down. “I am besties with you because I see in you what you don’t see in yourself. That part of you, I love being around. Don’t get me wrong, I love all of you. But the really good stuff, your soul. Your heart. The way you’ve always been there for your father since the moment your mom broke his heart. The way you drop everything when I need you.”
Her toes curl. “Would you please stop? Someone might overhear, and I have a reputation to uphold.”
Viv lets the slightest smile grace her face. “And I shouldn’t even tell you this, because you’ll use it as an excuse, but your sarcasm is pretty darn entertaining.”
Charli fidgets with her napkin. “You know I don’t do compliments.”
Viv sits back with a splash of attitude. “So sue me for giving you compliments. Maybe one day you’ll actually hear them.”
“Sue a lawyer, that’ll go far.” Charli slides her eyes left and right, sure that the wide-eyed youngsters dining next to them are listening in. Or maybe the two women on the other side who are suspiciously silent. “I would prefer someone less than perfect.”
Vivian shakes her head. “That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard. What, you want a white-collar criminal who drinks too much? Doesn’t give orgasms and leaves the seat up? Why would you want that?”
“Well, Viv, I realize now that it’s best to undercompensate when it comes to men.”
Viv retreats to her Manhattan, probably realizing she’s pushing the limits. “You make no sense, girl.”
“Try living in this skin.” Now Charli’s just venting and doesn’t want to stop. “For whatever reason, I am not meant for love. And I don’t think I’m meant for happiness either.” She jumps in for more before Vivian can disagree. “But I’m happy in my unhappiness. No, that’s not true. But I’m happier accepting what is, as opposed to spending my whole life chasing a carrot that I’ll never catch.”
Viv cracks a smile. “You’re impossible. Do you hear what you’re saying? I should record you and play it back. Give yourself a break.”
“Easy for you to say when you’re getting all the green lights.” Charli sucks in a breath. She hates all this self-pitying victim stuff. “Look, you’re meant for greater things.”
Viv holds back what Charli is sure would have been a long lecture. She blows out a blast of air and picks up the menu.
“What I know, Charli, is that love and happiness are universal rights. As soon as you tell me you don’t deserve them, I tune you out.”
“Oh, thanks. What a great dinner pair we make.” Charli slides her wineglass across the tablecloth. “What do you want me to do? I’ve tried all the things: therapy, yoga, meditation—both transcendental and whatever you call just regular, sitting there watching your thoughts, which are a whole thing, let me tell you. My apartment is drowning in self-help books.”
“That’s because of your leftover inventory from the bookstore. How many of the self-help ones have you actually read?”
Her friend’s words are daggers to the heart. “Some of them.”
Viv gives a chuckle that makes Charli consider tipping the Manhattan over on her. “Talk about metaphors,” Viv says. “You’re surrounded by the answers, but you’re not listening. Those red lights? You’re the one attracting them.”
Charli’s feathers are ruffled now. “How am I doing that, Viv?”
“You want me to be honest?”
“I would expect nothing less from you.”
“By letting your mom win. By believing the crap she said to you.” Viv sets her palms on the table and lifts her fingers. “I know you’ve done all this work to get better, but I’m not sure you’re past it. You’re funny. You’re awesome when you let your light shine. You’re beautiful, Charli. You’re all the things. Guys are desperate to break through your barrier, but you’re not letting them in.”
Charli starts to argue, to make up an excuse, but what’s the point? “What am I gonna do? I’m trying. My mom didn’t hold me enough as a baby, and she smashed my dolls, and she told me she would throw me away if she could. Yada, yada, yada. I’ve already been down this road.”
Viv frowns. “It breaks my heart that I didn’t realize the extent of it.”
Charli had hidden it longer from Viv than from her father, only sharing the details after they’d left high school. “What would you have done about it anyway?”
“I wish you had told someone.”
An unwarranted tear is coming, and Charli bites it back. Would anyone have believed her?
Viv pushes. “You might have gone down this road, but you haven’t come to peace with how she treated you. Georgina’s still controlling the narrative.”
Charli’s teeth grind. “Please stop.”
No one really knows how badly Georgina hurt Charli, not even her father. She was trying to protect him for some reason, holding back that her mother was the worst when he went away. So many of the things her mother said are branded into Charli’s psyche—how she was a mistake, how ... how Charli was put on this earth to torment her. How she should be taken out with the trash. Georgina would always come back later with an apology and beg for Charli not to say anything to her father when he returned from his trips, a request Charli always abided by.
But it hurt. It still hurts. She made her—
Crack.
Charli looks down in time to see the bulb of her wineglass break from the stem. In slow motion, she watches the bulb crash down and wine splatter everywhere. The puddle spreads quickly over the heavily starched tablecloth to the edge of the table and lands on her lap before she can rise.
“Oh shit,” she says, standing quickly. The whole restaurant turns to see why she cursed like a sailor’s daughter.
Viv is on her feet, too, already disposing of the mess. That’s the way she is. Never in shock, always moving forward, fixing the situation. She dries off Charli’s phone and then notices Charli’s hand.
“You’re bleeding.”
Charli lowers her eyes. Blood drips down her fingers and into her palm. All she can do is smile. “This is my life,” she mutters. She looks down at the kids next to her, who are trying not to stare.
She holds her bloody hand out in front of her. “Just wait until you’re my age.”
Fifteen minutes later, the stain on Charli’s dress is drying. She holds a freshly bandaged hand on her lap. She looks over at Vivian and feels all kinds of gratitude, as there’s nothing better in the world than knowing you have a best friend who will never leave you, no matter how much you screw up. They’ve been friends since they were five, so it’s not like Viv has much of a choice.
They met because their fathers were friends who’d been sailing together since their days at Harvard. Some of Charli’s favorite memories were boating with both of their families. Her father was in his element, and her mother was always on her best behavior, showing the side of herself that Charli wished were the norm. Funny—or maybe not so funny—Charli and her mother had that in common, an ability to behave and be their best for a while.
Their parents had gotten along well, and Charli and Viv had latched on to each other, though Viv grew into an incredibly impressive woman, while Charli felt stuck on the sidelines. Sometimes she feels like Viv’s charity case. Viv’s best friend should be someone who attends royal weddings and visits the White House.
Charli has a fresh glass of wine and holds it gingerly. Viv has drunk her second Manhattan but seems completely sober and in control. She has a sharp mind that a little alcohol cannot dull. Nothing will stop her from swimming her laps at five in the morning.
As they wait for the salads they ordered, they chat about how Viv wants to find a new place to live, as her upstairs neighbor stomps on the floors. This topic segues into Viv’s own troubles, and she vents for a while.
“Terry wants to get married. I’m not ready.” Terry is disturbingly handsome and runs a LGBTQ nonprofit in downtown Boston. And he does triathlons. “Maybe after I make partner. But I’m not ready ... to be locked down, have kids—’cause I know that’s what he’s thinking. He’s going to reel me in and then knock me up. I want a few more normal years before I stop wearing makeup and my boobs turn into dairy udders and ...”
Charli lets out a laugh. “Dairy udders?”
“Seriously. And forget about sleeping. Maternity leave for a lawyer in this town is about twelve minutes.”
“Why twelve?” Charli asks.
“I don’t know. Because thirteen is too long. It’s hard enough staying ahead as a woman, let alone a Black woman. I can’t imagine trying to work a baby into my schedule.” Viv pulls her hair back. “Besides, I’m still working on me.”
Charli’s heard it all now. “You? What in the world do you have left to work on?”
Viv jolts her head. “You always do that. You act like I’m living the perfect life, but trust me, it’s not easy for me either.”
She’s right, Charli realizes. She does always treat Viv like she’s superhuman, like she doesn’t have her own share of difficulties. “I’m sorry,” she says. “Seriously, though, you’re kind of like a souped-up human. Like half-AI.”
“You realize you’re doing it again, right?”
Charli gives up on being funny. She looks down like she got in trouble for playing with matches. “Sorry.”
“Forget about it.” Viv leans in. “Did I tell you I’m seeing a spiritual guide?”
“Hold on, what?” Charli didn’t see that one coming.
“Yeah, I’ve seen her twice now. Because my souped-up human life is not all that you think it is.”
“Wait, you’re seeing a spiritual guide, and you’re just now telling me?”
Viv draws a circle in the air toward Charli’s head. “We had to wade through your stuff first.”
“That’s fair. I’m sorry. Your turn now.”
Her friend gets real, which is another wonderful trait of Viv. “I’ve just ... I’ve felt a little superficial lately, you know. Do this, do that ... but to what end? What’s out there? A neighbor of mine has been working with a spiritual guide for a while, and I thought, ‘What the heck?’ Turns out, this guide is plugged in like no one I’ve ever met. She’s changing my life—and that’s only after two sessions.”
“What is she, like a psychic?” Charli tries not to show that she feels left out.
“She’s a soul reader, a kind of yogi or guru. I don’t even know what happens in there. She sits across from me and pulls back the layers. I’m telling you ... she can see inside me, see that I’ve always defined myself by my work, my grades, my accomplishments. She’s helping me get to know myself better, you know?”
Charli leans forward on her elbows and listens intently. Not only because she wants to be a good friend, but also because she’s intrigued. Why is the most perfect woman in America seeing a soul reader? Is she really dissatisfied with the life she’s living? Because her incredibly hot and chivalrous boyfriend wants to take the next step?
“She has a retreat coming up in Costa Rica,” Viv continues, “doing family constellation therapy. I’m dying to go, but there’s no way I can get away from work right now. Which, I know, is counterintuitive to me trying not to work as much ... but whatever. I still have to work.”
“What is it?” Charli asks, noticing a server pass by with a delicious tray of food.
Viv starts talking with her hands. “It has to do with transgenerational patterns, memories, trauma. Being a Black woman, I can tell you without a doubt that trauma gets passed down. You’ve heard me talk about that. But it’s more than genetics. With family constellations, a family exists within a cloud, a sort of energy field that includes dead family members. All my ancestors are connected to me. If something bad happened to them, or if they did something bad, I could be suffering from it too. Frances says the therapy allows the family to restore balance, taking away the suffering of not only you, but your family too. I know it sounds wack but ...”
Charli hears a bell ring in her head. This could totally be what’s going on in her own family. “No, no, it doesn’t sound wack—not completely.”
“You’re looking at me funny.”
“No,” Charli says, “I’m thinking that it sounds like something I need more than you. And I’m thinking I’m the worst friend in the world for not being there for you, not knowing this stuff about you.”
“Um, who was there for me when I caught my ex-fiancé—he who shall not be named—sleeping with his boss? I seem to recall you taking all your vacation from the bookstore in Rhode Island, driving up here to Boston, and hunkering down with me for two weeks while I complained about men.”
Charli smiles at the memory. Maybe she isn’t as bad of a friend as she thinks. “I gained five pounds in those two weeks, all that pizza and ice cream.”
“You and me both.” Viv lets out a smile. “You tried to get me to go skydiving. Remember that?”
Charli shrugs. “What better way to move on?”
Viv waves a hand in the air. “I could go run out into traffic, too, but I don’t have a death wish.”
They share another laugh before Charli gets serious. “Still, I’ll try harder, okay? I know you have your stuff too.”
“Trust me. It’s not always easy for me, either, this life thing.”
A quiet rises between them as they hold each other’s gaze.
Charli is surprised at how raw the moment is. She doesn’t have experience with such feelings.
“So, this therapy . . . ,” Charli says.
“You should watch some videos. Mind you, I’m just learning about it, but the facilitator, Frances in this case, creates an environment where the dead family members can communicate to the people in the room.”
Charli sits back and crosses her legs. It’s like finding out Viv went on a girls’ trip and didn’t invite her. Not that she’d go, but that’s beside the point. “Look at you.”
“What?”
“I didn’t know you were into woo-woo. Is this the new Viv?”
Viv looks offended, as if she’s been pegged into a political party in which she does not belong. “I’ve always been into woo-woo.”
“Oh, c’mon. You’re a lawyer.”
“And that means I can’t have a little faith in the unexplained?”
“That’s exactly what it means.”
Viv bites her bottom lip and nods as if she’s about to drop a condemning piece of evidence onto the judge’s lap. “You want her number then?”
“Whose?” Charli asks, putting off the dare.
Viv wraps her cream-colored scarf around her neck. “What do you mean, whose ?” she mocks. “My spiritual guide. Frances.”
“Frances,” Charli says. “Shouldn’t her name be something more ... I don’t know ... guru-ish?”
Viv rewards her with the faintest smile ever smiled. “You might like her, Cha Cha.” Charli hasn’t been called Cha Cha in a long time, and it unspools a reel of childhood memories in Charli’s mind, the good ones like the lemonade stand she and Viv used to host at the marina.
“What do I need a guru for?” Charli asks, as in: What’s the point?
Viv turns into a mannequin, her face frozen in bewilderment. Though she knows Charli better than anyone, she probably can’t tell whether Charli’s joking or asking such a question earnestly. Charli would love to clarify, but she’s not sure herself. Of course she needs a guru. She needs a guru and a better therapist, and probably a prescription of some sort. But the idea of it feels a lot like trying to shovel a sidewalk while it’s still dumping snow.
The silence between them goes on for a long time, and hardheaded Viv seems to wait for a response.
Viv finally caves. She raises her hands and sets her index finger on the opposite hand’s pinkie, ready to count. “Want me to list the ways?”
“You don’t have enough fingers,” Charli says.
Viv tilts forward. “You’re going to call her then?”
“Give me her number. I’ll call her.”
Viv knows her too well and lets out a “Mm-hmm.”