Chapter Seven Never Underestimate the Power of Friendship
Chapter Seven
Never Underestimate the Power of Friendship
San Jose, California
My condo is exactly as I remember it, except for two small details. There’s a weird smell—like stale air permeating the space—and the water pressure leaves a lot to be desired. After showering off the grime of the long intercontinental flight, I open several windows, hoping to air the place out.
Maybe I’ll book a massage while I’m here.
In the last few days alone, I flew nine hours from Nairobi to London, and then eleven hours from London to San Francisco.
I’m tired and cranky, and there’s absolutely not one thing in my refrigerator.
Okay, that’s a lie. There’re actually three things—one bottle of mustard, a questionable jar of pickles, and a bottle of water.
I toss a dead potted cactus into the trash in the kitchen. “Sorry, buddy.”
I don’t know why I bought the thing. I guess I figured a cactus was safe. Nope, not with my schedule.
I grab my phone and scroll through several texts—from Scarlet, Joslyn, and both my parents—all of whom I texted on the Uber ride from the airport to let them know I’d touched down.
There’s nothing from Hart.
Maybe he’s giving me a little space. Or maybe he got the message and finally realized that he and I make absolutely zero sense. I stare at my phone for a second longer, unsure how to feel.
My stomach growls, and I open the app for food delivery to peruse the options.
Settling on chicken pad thai, I place the order; then I collapse onto my sofa and begin the task of replying to all the emails I got while my phone was in airplane mode.
I’m in the middle of replying to an email from David, the logistics manager on my team, when another text pops up.
Mom: Can we see you tonight?
I check the time. It’s after eight.
Alessia: I’m exhausted. I want to eat and then crawl into bed. I can come over tomorrow, though. What time?
Mom: Whenever you wake up! We miss you!
I smile. My mom’s the best.
While I wait for my food delivery, I schedule a massage for tomorrow, splurging on the ninety minute rather than the sixty.
Over a pile of rice noodles, which I fork into my mouth in a very unladylike manner, I scroll through social media. Which was a big mistake because I have a notification at the top of my Instagram, and when I click on it, my heart races.
Hart has requested to follow me.
Scarlet’s baby shower is a casual affair. I’m not sure what her first two were like, but this one is at her house. Her husband, Will, greets me at the door with an easy smile.
“She’s going to be so glad you came,” he says, squeezing my hand.
He directs me to the backyard. The patio is full of partygoers, and several young kids, including Scarlet and Will’s, play on a jungle gym set. It’s a beautiful house with plenty of space for entertaining.
Maybe if I had a reason to stick around, I’d save up the money for a down payment on a house. Instead, I blow my money on trivial things, like nice handbags and expensive shoes.
I admitted this once in a therapy session, feeling slightly guilty, but my therapist assured me that they weren’t trivial if they brought me joy. I’m still not sure if that’s true.
I set the baby gift I got them in London down on the gift table, along with presents for their son and daughter, because why not? I figure they deserve a special treat for becoming older siblings. A Lego set for Crosby and a doll for Chloe.
When Scar spots me, she squeals and rises from her chair—which takes considerable effort.
I’ve never seen her this pregnant. She’s delightfully plump, but she would kill me if I said so.
“Look at you!” I laugh, holding open my arms. She embraces me, and I can feel the firm curve of her belly pressing into mine. We hug for a long time, and tears spring to my eyes.
“Seven and a half months,” she confirms, finally releasing me.
“You don’t look a day over seven,” I say, and she laughs.
“Liar.” She sticks out her tongue. “I’m huge .”
“You’re perfect.” And I mean it. She looks so happy and so full of life, surrounded by a man who loves her and all her family and friends. I swallow down a lump in my throat.
On paper our friendship might not make sense. Scarlet, a brilliant mathlete type, was raised by strict Catholic parents, whose vocabulary didn’t even contain the word curfew . They knew where she was at all times. Even into her college years, she still checked in with them every night.
My own upbringing was more bohemian, and my parents were happy to let me explore and try new things, to make mistakes. They insisted it was how we learn and that they would never be helicopter parents.
But despite all our differences or maybe because of them, Scarlet and I worked. We never lacked for topics to dissect together, even the tough ones. She was by far the more conservative of us but never harassed me over my own beliefs.
Our friendship was cemented during a confrontation in the dormitory laundry room.
Someone had taken over her machine and, despite having never met her, I rushed to her defense, always eager to problem solve.
We shared a coffee afterward and then found out we were in the same economics lecture. The following year we were roommates. In fact, we lived together for the next four years until Scarlet got engaged.
And this was how things were with us—a heaping dose of honesty and mutual adoration sustained us. Where other friendships grew apart over time, ours never had, and for that I was grateful.
“There are mocktails.” She points to the bar.
“Do you want one?”
“Sure.” She nods.
I fetch us both a watermelon mojito and find a seat next to her.
“How are you feeling these days?”
“This is the easy part.” She waves me off. “Once this baby comes out, then it’s midnight feedings and sore nipples ... and I’ll have two others to look after.”
My gaze follows hers out to the yard, where her adorable oldest son is waving around a stick like he’s a swashbuckling pirate, and her three-year-old daughter is lifting up her dress, showing her underpants to anyone who cares to see them. I stifle a chuckle.
“Yes, but you’re a pro now. You’ve got this,” I assure her.
Scarlet’s hand rests on her belly, which she strokes absentmindedly. “We’ll see about that. I feel like I’m more tired than I’ve ever been. Enough about me. What’s new with you?”
She knows better than to ask if I’m dating someone. If there’s news, I’ll tell her. Just like I knew better than to ask her each month she was going through IVF for this last baby if she was pregnant. My parents, unfortunately, do not have the same tact when it comes to my personal life.
“A lot, actually,” I say, giving her a coy look while I take a cheeky sip of my mocktail.
“Really?” She lifts one eyebrow.
“I may have something interesting to report. Of a more personal nature.”
“Oh, I’m going to need all the details.” She smiles knowingly.
“Mom! Mom! I found a toad!” her six-year-old son, Crosby, says excitedly as he comes charging over. “It’s the world’s most amazing toad, Mom!”
“Wow. Don’t touch it, okay?”
He nods and runs back to a spot in the yard where several kids have gathered around to peer down into the grass.
“Will!” Scarlet calls out to her other half. She points toward the kids. “I’m gonna need you to handle that.”
“Ten-four, little mama.” Will gives her a playful salute.
She turns her attention back to me. “Can you hang out for a bit?”
I nod.
“I need to talk to my cousin Sarah for a few minutes, or her mom will get mad at my mom—it’s a whole thing. Family politics.” She makes a displeased sound.
“No problem. Go. We’ll talk later.”
Scarlet hefts herself up from her chair, and I go off to inspect the world’s most amazing toad.
The world’s most amazing toad is also the world’s most incontinent toad because as soon as Will picks it up, it pees all over him.
The kids squeal with delight. I can’t help but laugh right along with them.
But Will’s not rattled—he was an army medic.
He pretends to reach for his little girl with his wet hand, and she shrieks, then runs away laughing.
This is what I want right here.
No, not a toad that pees on me. I want a big family full of laughter, endless love, and silly shenanigans.
While I wait for Scarlet to finish thanking all the guests for coming, I respond to a message from my mom.
Mom: Join us for dinner out tonight? We can go to that Italian place you love.
My stomach wholeheartedly approves of this idea. I’ve missed Italian food.
Alessia: Sure. What time?
My mom suggests seven, and I type a quick thumbs-up emoji.
I went to see my parents this morning, and my dad made us omelets.
They asked me all kinds of questions about Nairobi and London, and I filled them in on everything—everything except for Hart.
My parents view me as tragically single, and breathing the slightest word of an inappropriate fling would only solidify their knowing that I’m either bonkers or unmarriageable.
But it’s different with Scarlet. We have very few—if any—secrets, so of course I want to share my latest news.
“Okay. I think that’s the last of them,” Scarlet says, closing the door behind the final guest. “Will’s going to put the kids down for a nap, and you and I are going to finish that conversation.”
We head to the den, where it’s blissfully quiet, and take a seat on the large sofa.
“So.” She grins. “I can’t wait to hear your something interesting to report .”
“Can I edit that? It might be more crazy than interesting.” I swallow down a wave of nerves. She’s going to laugh at me and tease me endlessly, I’m sure, but part of me doesn’t want to keep Hart a secret. At least not from my best friend.
“I went on a date. I think.” My brow creases. “Maybe two dates.”
“Maybe? You think? ” She laughs. “God, I really don’t miss modern dating.”
“Believe me, you don’t. We went to dinner in London and then to a museum the following day.”