Chapter 19 Then
I have three missed calls from my mom, but no texts, which means it’s not urgent, but it is uncommon enough to put me on edge.
I’m annoyed that I’m distracted by this, that she can call a few times, not leave a voicemail, and still tug on my heart, thread it with worry, despite how little connection we share.
The last thing I want to be is distracted tonight. I want to be fully present. Even though tonight is bittersweet.
“Hot Chef did this,” Lauren says over her menu. “Didn’t he?”
I smile at her from across our two-top at Savoureux, shrugging. “What can I say? I’ve got friends in high places.”
She shakes her head. “Of all people to befriend a culinary star, Our Lady of Chef Boyardee.”
“Listen here. I don’t love eating garbage processed food. I just have to sometimes, so I don’t shrivel into dust.”
“You could,” she throws out, “do this thing called ‘learn to cook’?”
I glare at her. “I’m aware.”
Lauren beams. “I’m teasing.”
“Kind of,” I tell her.
“Kind of,” she admits.
“Sort of like you were ‘joking’ about dragging me into going on runs, then you actually regularly dragged me into going on runs. Or when you were ‘just playing’ about giving me nearly all of your furniture when you moved?”
Lauren breaks first, laughing hard, her chin tucked to her chest, but I’m close behind her, head thrown back, elbows on the table, manners be damned, trying and failing not to snort.
As our laughter fades, the mood turns somber for the first time since we sat down to dinner—her goodbye dinner, before she flies out tomorrow to her first consulting job in Chicago, until the next client takes her somewhere else.
Over the past week, Lauren’s condo has been emptied, too much of its beautiful furnishings and art foisted on me, sticking out like swanky sore thumbs in my dingy shoebox apartment, a few treasures put into storage, left to wait for the day when Lauren’s job isn’t constant travel.
And now, tonight, on our last French Wine and Fried Food Friday until who knows when, it’s time to say goodbye.
I’ve been trying to stay upbeat, and Lauren has been, too. But we both know what’s coming, and the weight of that can’t be entirely ignored.
“I’ve been pushy,” she admits. “I know I’ve heckled you about the shit you eat. And I dragged you on runs. And I foisted a lot of furniture on you.”
“A lot,” I agree. “I’m going to have to plastic-wrap it all so Argos doesn’t destroy it.”
“Ah, he can fuck it up. I don’t care. I don’t want it back—I told you that. It’ll be out of style by the time I own a home or condo again, anyway.”
“Then I graciously accept your generous gift of someday-unfashionable furniture, Lo.”
She smiles, but it’s strained. “I just want you to be okay.”
“I’ll be fine, Mom.” I roll my eyes like a moody teenager.
It makes Lauren’s smile deepen before it fades. “I’m not mothering you. I’m best-friending you.”
“Well,” I tell her, “remember I have another BFF food snob now. So don’t worry, okay? He’s already just as pushy as you about making sure I periodically eat better fare than SpaghettiOs and Lean Cuisines.”
Her mouth twists. “That’s good.”
I clasp her hand across the table and squeeze. “He’ll never be you.”
She peers up. “And I’ll never be him.”
I pull my hand away slowly. “That’s… true. But I’m not sure what it means.”
“I know, Thea.” She smiles. “And now that I’m about to get out of here and we are solid in our friendship, I’ll illuminate you. The first day we met, and I asked if you wanted to grab a glass of wine?”
I nod.
She leans in. “I was hitting on you.”
I grip the table like the world just tipped sideways. “Oh my god.”
Lauren sets her chin on her interlaced hands, batting her long dark eyelashes. “Mm-hmm.”
“Oh my god,” I say again. “How did I miss that?”
“Well, sweets, it probably has something to do with what I figured out five minutes into our wine meetup—that you are extremely heterosexual. It didn’t even occur to you that I’d see you that way because you didn’t see me that way.”
I set my hands on either side of my face, full-on Home Alone. “I feel like a jerk!”
“Don’t,” Lauren says. “I wasn’t hurt at all or even particularly surprised.
I had meager hopes—with your worn-down bronze Birkenstocks, mustard-yellow stretchy overalls, wild hair, and ‘I like everybody’ energy—that you might be a delightfully chaotic bisexual, but it turned out you were just a delightfully chaotic straight. ”
“Lauren,” I say between my self-imposed squished cheeks. “This is so embarrassing.”
“Why?” she asks. She’s smiling, completely unflustered. I couldn’t feel more flustered.
“Because I might have hurt you—”
“I just told you that you didn’t,” she says patiently.
“Yeah, but I wasn’t aware. Why wasn’t I aware of that?”
“Listen, I’ve been around enough to learn that there are some people who don’t pick up on the cues that other people are attracted to them,” Lauren says.
“It’s nothing to be ashamed, of Thea. Honestly, it’s endearing.
Also, very badass. Think of all the broken hearts you’ve left in your wake and you never even knew! ”
“I need a drink.” I glance around. “Can we get some more wine? What kind of service is this?”
“The kind that isn’t rushed,” Lauren tells me, “and which starts with a small complimentary pour of blanc de blancs, which is lovely by the way.”
Wistfully, I watch Lauren sip the last of hers in its delicate glass flute. Mine’s long gone. I drained it the moment our server brought it by.
I sigh, meeting her eyes again. “I feel bad, Lo.”
“Thea, please don’t.” She sets down the flute. “I told you because I wanted it to be out there to be put behind us. And so you’d understand that, while I’ve known you long enough to recognize you and I would be a terrible romantic pairing—”
“Terrible? I’m a little hurt,” I tease.
She levels me with an I’ll indulge your nonsense look. “Thea. I’m a controlling, neurotic, hypercritical, vain, deeply opinionated woman, and you are literally none of those things, besides a woman. We wouldn’t have lasted a week.”
“Okay, fine,” I sigh. “You’re right.”
“I always am,” she says. “What I keep trying to get at is that this new BFF of yours… I’m not sure I’m ever going to be one hundred percent happy about him.
Even if he is the hot chef who pulled strings and used his in to get us this reservation before I left.
Because, doomed romantic potential aside, Thea, I love you so much.
And you’ve been my number one since the day I met you. ”
My vision turns blurry as tears fill my eyes. “Dammit, Lo.” I take a slow breath, trying to steady my voice. “You’ve been my number one, too.”
She smiles as she reaches across the table, her shiny red nail polish, the delicate gold rings on her tan fingers, glinting in the candlelight. I take her hand and squeeze.
“Love you, too,” I tell her.
A bottle of blanc de blancs settles on the table beside us, and our hands come apart as we ease back into our seats. We peer up at our server, perplexed.
He smiles. “From Chef, on the house,” he explains, drawing the cork out of the bottle with a cheery pop. “Chef said to tell you she’s glad to have you here and please come back any night; a table will always be available. Any friend of Chef Alex’s is a friend of hers.”
Lauren’s eyes roll up to the ceiling as he fills her flute, then mine. “Of course there’ll be an always-open table,” she mutters, “now that I’m leaving.”
“All the more reason for you to come back and visit.” I lift my flute and tell her, “Cheers to wishes coming true… better late than never?”
Lauren sighs as she clinks her flute with mine. “That goddamn Hot Chef.”
Our meal is divine, at least by my humble standards. What makes me happiest is that Lauren thinks so, too. When we order dessert and ask for the check, we’re told it’s already been covered. On the house, we’re told again.
But I have a hunch that while Chef might have been kind enough to gift us a bottle of wine, she would not have comped a three-hundred-dollar meal.
Alex did this.
While Lauren’s in the bathroom, I text him from beneath the table, You’re in trouble.
My phone buzzes in my lap, and I peer down. Wouldn’t be the first time.
I smile as I type, Being serious, thank you, Alex. For the reservation. For the meal. That was incredibly generous. TOO generous.
When it comes to good food, there’s no such thing. You deserve a damn fine send-off for your friend. Now enjoy it, Chef’s orders. Bon appétit.
Before I can form a meaningful response, Lauren’s back from the restroom. I tap a heart on the message, then hide my phone. Determined to enjoy this bittersweet night as much as I can.
Bellies and hearts full, we linger at our table, the last pour of dry, sparkling white fizzing in our glasses as we pick at the lemon mille-feuille on a plate between us.
“Jesus,” Lauren mutters around her bite. “This is decadent.”
I nod, eyes shut, savoring the flavors on my tongue. Buttery puff pastry, tart-sweet lemon curd, rich pastry cream. “I love it,” I whisper.
Lauren snorts. “I can tell.”
A loud familiar blast of a laugh echoes through the restaurant, rupturing my happy bubble. My eyes snap open, focused toward the source of the sound.
And then I drop my fork. It lands quietly on the tablecloth, drawing no one’s attention except Lauren’s. She glances over her shoulder, in the direction I’m staring, then freezes. “What in the ever-loving fuck is that chode doing here?”
Ethan sits with a group of eight, three tables over, his back to us, his arm stretched out along the chair beside him, where I see warm-honey-blond hair, a familiar petite hourglass silhouette… Jen.
“What in the ever-loving fuck is she doing here?” Lauren hisses.
I knock her knee with mine under the table. “Lo.”
She glances back at me, rage in her eyes. “What.”
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “It was bound to happen.” I shrug, hoping I seem fine, observant and unemotional. “Life in a midsize city, ya know?”