Chapter 13
“So, let me get this straight. He calls you. Criticizes you. Then asks you to help him do his work? Who the heck is this guy?”
It’s safe to say that I really like Lennon.
After she finished eating, she went over to the sweets counter and ordered us two giant chocolate chunk cookies.
Her metabolism must be as fast as an Olympic sprinter.
Mine is not. But I still eat half the cookie.
Not as good as my gram’s recipe, though. These taste processed.
I’ve just told Lennon the abbreviated version of my history with John, ending with the phone call that prompted me to go window
shopping in the first place, and her immediate rush to my defense makes me feel warm on the inside.
It’s been a long time since I’ve had a girlfriend. And there’s something really special about female friendships.
“You see what he’s doing, right?” she asks. “Classic manipulation. Ugh, thank God you’re not married to him anymore.”
I smile, but it must not come across right because Lennon’s face falls.
“Oh, Claire . . . are you still sad about it?” she asks. “I wasn’t sure if we were in the pitchfork phase or the tissue phase
of your divorce.”
At that, I laugh. “A little from column A, a little from column B,” I say with a smile.
She laughs back. “Yeah, I get that.”
“I’m not sad,” I say. “I mean, mad, maybe? Or vengeful? Sad, though? Not really. Only at night.” I pause. “I’m trying not
to be.”
She reaches across the table and puts a hand on mine. The simple gesture surprises me—I don’t have touchy-feely friends. “Look, Claire. People who just want to use you are never going to appreciate you for who you are. Trust me, I know.”
I want to hear that story.
“It’s all about what you can do for them,” she continues. “You bend over backward to make their life better, but it will never
be good enough.” She holds her hands up and makes a shooing motion, like she’s brushing the air away from her. “Let him go.
He’s S.E.P.”
“S.E.P.?”
She leans forward in her chair. “Someone Else’s Problem.”
I laugh ruefully, cross one leg over the other, and run my hands through my hair. “He was my problem for so long. It’s like my whole identity was wrapped up in him and his family, his work . . . I’m having trouble
figuring out what to do next.”
“But that’s the beauty of it!” Lennon exclaims. “You can do anything you want!”
“Right.” I thought I’d be a little closer to figuring out what that is by now.
She levels my gaze. “It only works if you let go of all of that old stuff. If you don’t”—she casts a quick glance over to
the table where The Reader is now packing up her things—“you’ll end up like her. Bitter and alone.”
The woman tucks her book into a bag, picks up her tray, and walks it over to the garbage area. Even though I felt really embarrassed,
I can’t help but feel a twinge of empathy for her.
I have no idea what her story is, but maybe she’s just trying to figure things out too.
I look at Lennon. “I’m not sure how to let it go. I mean, the man ruined my life.”
She polishes off her cookie, brushes her hands together, then stands. “Come on.”
I do the physical equivalent of a stutter as I stand, gather my things, and try to keep up with Lennon.
Her stride is much longer than mine, especially in those heels.
We throw away our trash, then take the elevator down to the ground floor, stepping outside into another glorious spring afternoon
in the city.
The weather is darn near perfect, and I feel spoiled by it.
I follow her out onto the street, and we start walking past restaurants, shops, and offices. “Look around, Claire,” Lennon
says. “You’re living in one of the greatest cities on the planet, and you can choose to do anything you want, anytime you
want to.”
The light changes green just as we step up to the curb, and I pay attention to what’s around me. There’s an underlying bed
of noise from the cars. The buildings tower, almost too tall to take in as the sun glints off their reflective windows. And
people—lots of people—are moving, talking, laughing, carrying bags from all kinds of shops and stores. There’s a group of
college kids chatting excitedly as they walk with purpose; there’s a couple lifting a toddler by his hands and swinging him
every third step. There are three young guys drumming on buckets on a street corner, and it’s crazy, but 75 percent of these
people have dark hair.
The world ebbs and flows, and Lennon just takes it in stride.
“It’s freeing, really.” Lennon glances at me. “And look—you made a new friend today!” She holds her arms out to indicate herself.
As she does, she accidentally knocks into someone walking past. “Ope! Geez, so sorry.” She winces at me with a smile and moves
to the side. “Plus, I know the city like the back of my hand, so if you have any questions—I’m your girl.” She turns and keeps
walking.
“What do you do?” I ask, quickening my pace to keep up.
“I’m a Realtor,” she says. “Luxury properties.” She pulls a business card out of her purse and hands it to me. “My cell is
on there, so you can call me anytime.”
I look at the card, then tuck it into my purse.
“What about you?” she asks. “What are you into?”
“Well . . .” I screw up my face and take a breath.
It was easier when the answer to that question was “Strawberry Shortcake.”
“I’m trying to figure that out. I haven’t actually been here that long.”
“You didn’t move here for a job or something?”
I shake my head. “No, it was—” I pause, then decide to open up. “I needed a change. I needed to do things that scared me.
So I made a list, and ‘move to a new city’ was near the top of the list.” I go quiet for a second before adding, “I always
wanted to live in Chicago.”
She drops her jaw and frowns in admiration, hitting me on the arm. “Claire! That’s amazing.”
I half roll my eyes because, seriously, it doesn’t feel amazing right now. “Jury’s still out on that one.”
“Are you kidding? It’s huge.”
I smile. Someone in my corner. It’s nice.
“One of my goals is to get a hobby,” I say.
She laughs. “That’s fair.”
“What about you? Other than selling condos to Chicago’s elite, what are you into?”
“Mostly my husband, Daniel, and my baby, Eve.” She smiles. “And pickleball.” Her eyes light up. “Oh my gosh! You should come!
We play on Saturdays. I’ll text you the details.” She hands me her phone. “Here, put your number in.”
“This is a big step in our relationship,” I joke. “I don’t know if I’m ready.”
“True.” She sucks in a breath. “We are moving fast . . .”
We both laugh, and I wonder why I waited so long to try to make new friends.
I hand the phone back, and she opens a new text. Seconds later, my phone dings.
Unknown number: It’s your new friend, Lennon. Save my number.
I talk and type out her contact info. “New . . . Friend . . . Lennon. Got it.”
She beams. “I’m so glad that lady was rude to you!”
I laugh. “Me too!”
She sticks her phone in her pocket and looks down the street, then takes off purposefully. “Come on, slowpoke.”
Unlike Miles, Lennon does not seem to be out for a stroll. The opposite actually—she clearly has a destination in mind. I’m
tempted to ask where we’re going but decide to stay quiet and go with it.
She slowly steps off the sidewalk as a silver SUV pulls up. A man rolls down the window. “Lennon?”
She nods.
“Like the Beatles,” the guy says, and I realize she probably gets that a lot. I assume this is where she and I part ways,
but she looks at me. “Our Uber. You want to come?”
“Where to?”
She smiles wide. “I’ve got a showing. I thought if you didn’t have anything to do, you could come?”
“Oh. Okay,” I say. “Yeah. That sounds fun.”
She grins, and I slide in beside her, hoping this isn’t some elaborate human trafficking ring, and a little relieved when
the address she gives the driver is a street I recognize.
“So, you’re married,” I say, hoping to learn a little more about her as we drive away from the busiest parts of the city and
into a residential area. I’ve been told that these neighborhoods start to feel like small towns over time—but I’m not sure
about that.
No one has a yard.
“Yep,” she says. “Daniel’s a fommy.”
I frown. “A what?”
“Father plus mommy,” she says. “Fommy. He made it up.” She gives a little shrug. “Eve was such a miracle baby that after I had her, we knew one of us was going to stay home with her. Daniel was an elementary school principal, so it was a great fit. He’s so good with her.”
She doesn’t state the obvious—she was making more money as a luxury Realtor than he was in education, so it made more sense
for her to keep working. I notice because it’s so different from what I’m used to. The people who were in my social circle
before loved to brag about money.
New Friend Lennon doesn’t seem to need to.
“It took us a long time to get pregnant,” Lennon says, her perfectly manicured hand wrapped around the strap of a pink Kate
Spade purse. “And even longer to keep a pregnancy past three months.”
I look over at her. Even behind her sunglasses, I can see she’s struggling to maintain her composure.
She sniffs and looks away, trying to laugh. “Wow, I still can’t talk about it without crying.”
And I realize that no matter how together a person looks on the outside, inside, we’re all dealing with something. Just like
that, I see the thing that makes this beautiful, successful, confident woman just like me.
Sometimes I think if we chose to focus on the things that make us similar more than the things that make us different, the
world would be a much kinder place.
I take a cue from what she did for me earlier and reach over and squeeze her hand. “I’m sorry, Lennon.”
She shakes her head and sniffs, lifting her sunglasses to dab at the corners of her eyes. “Ugh. It’s silly, really. I should
be over it by now, right?”
“I mean . . . no,” I say. “Grief doesn’t have a timeline. And it doesn’t always make sense.”
She nods quietly, and I see something settle inside her.
I smile at her, silently thinking about Strawberry Shortcake.
“Oh! We’re here.” Lennon stops and pulls out her phone as I look around the block. We step out of the car and onto the sidewalk
in front of a storefront with a For Rent sign in the window. It’s one of many storefronts lining the street in what looks
like a very popular area.
Above the stores, there seem to be apartments, and if I didn’t love The Bexley so much, I could easily imagine living in one
of them. The whole street is charming and quaint in a way I didn’t expect Chicago to be—in a way that almost makes you forget
you’re in the city at all.
It reminds me a little of that quintessential Main Street in every Small Town, USA.
“He’s running a little late,” Lennon says, tucking her phone away. “Do you want to see it?”
I smile. “The store? Yeah!”
“Great,” she says, animated. “There’s just something exciting about an empty space—they’re always brimming with possibility.
Like . . . I can’t wait to see what comes to life in each one.”
I peer through the large front window. Maybe Lennon’s excitement is rubbing off on me—or maybe she’s right, and there’s nothing
but possibility in a space like this.
And that possibility makes me excited to walk through the door.