Chapter 12 #2
since they were born, and I had no doubt Gram would’ve done anything for that woman. She knew something about making friends—the
good kind.
“Don’t be afraid, Claire,” she’d said. “You walk up to a table with an empty seat and ask whoever’s sitting there if you can join them. Maybe ask if they want to
be friends. Ask what they like. It’s all about listening to other people. People like to talk about themselves. The only way
to have a friend is to be a friend, sweetheart. Remember that.”
It had worked too. I met my best friend, Libby, because I sat down across from her at lunch and found out she loved Strawberry
Shortcake as much as I did. We stayed friends all the way through high school.
I study the woman reading alone and wonder if she could be the Libby for this chapter of my life.
I stop next to her table on the opposite side of where she’s sitting. “Excuse me? Hi!”
She looks at me, eyebrows drawn downward in whatever expression is one step more abrasive than a frown. “Yes?”
The woman’s lunch sits untouched on her tray.
“Hi!” I repeat dumbly. “Do you, uh, mind if I sit with you?”
She looks around the space. “Why would you do that? There are plenty of empty tables.”
My grip tightens on the tray, and all at once I’m standing on the stage at the country club again, the bitterness of rejection
on full display.
My face is on fire, and beads of sweat gather above my upper lip. “Oh! I’m here by myself, and I just thought maybe you’d
like some company—”
She makes a show of putting her bookmark into the crease of her book and closing it. “Did it ever occur to you that some people like to be alone?”
She’s not Libby.
Embarrassment washes over me as I realize the mistake I’ve made. I start to respond but realize I have nothing to say.
But she does. “Some people spend all morning at work just counting down the hours until they get one free hour—just sixty
pathetic minutes—of alone time. Uninterrupted. Undisturbed. No kids pulling at you. Nobody asking where the report is. I figured
the book was enough of a sign, but apparently not.”
“Okay, I understand. I’ll just—”
“A bit of free time. I have zero, and it’s all I ask. But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?” She looks me
up and down. “You’re probably bathing in free time.”
Are people really this rude?
The words hit me and tears spring to my eyes. “I’m really sorry. I—”
“Don’t you dare apologize.” I hear a woman’s voice from behind me loud enough to make me turn around. She’s tall and blonde,
probably mid-thirties, wearing a gray pencil skirt, white blouse with the top three buttons undone, and pointy black heels.
I didn’t see her before, but I notice she’s sitting two tables over.
She makes her way to my side, and wow. She’s tall. She looks like an actual model. And not a catalog model—a runway model.
“If anyone should apologize, it’s her,” she says to me, nodding at the woman with the book. She looks at the woman. “You didn’t
have to be so rude. What is wrong with you?”
The woman, clearly outmatched, slowly looks down at her book.
“You could’ve just politely declined.” The blonde motions to me. “This woman asked you to share a meal with her, and you practically spat in her face.”
“I didn’t want to share a meal with her,” the woman retorts. “I don’t even know her.”
“Well, I want to share a meal with her.” The blonde loops her arm through mine. “Come sit with me.”
My heart sputters, aware that the mahjong players have stopped playing, the man on the laptop has stopped typing, and the
two men in deep conversation have stopped talking. They’re all watching this scene play out.
What is it about me being vaulted into publicly awkward situations? The country club stage, the fountain, Roger, the French
diplomat, and now this.
“I’m Lennon,” the woman says once we’re back at her table.
“Like John Lennon?” I ask.
She smiles, probably used to that question. “Yes. My mom was a fan.”
There’s a cheeseburger and a big bowl of fries, along with what I think is a chocolate milkshake, at her place setting. She
sits down and nods at the chair across from her. “Go ahead. Sit.”
I slide into the chair as Lennon picks up her burger and takes a huge bite. “Ooh, you got the Aloha Bowl.” She nods to my
tray. “It’s really good.”
“It is?”
She nods, mouth full of food.
“I’m Claire, by the way,” I say, still sort of dumbfounded. “Thank you for that.”
She picks up a french fry and drags it through her ketchup. “No thanks necessary. That woman is awful. Last week she yelled
at a young mom because her baby started crying.” She shoots a glare at the woman, who seems to be pretending to read her book
but is actually watching us. “Who does that?”
“Yeah, I don’t know,” I think out loud. “Maybe she’s having a rough day.”
“Still no excuse,” Lennon says. “When I’m on my period, I’m miserable, but I’m only mean to the people who have to love me.”
She picks up her milkshake and takes a long sip. “So. Claire. What do you say . . . do you want to be friends?”