June, this year
Keeping my eyes on the highway, I reach for the cell on its mount and hit speed-dial for Bonnie on speaker.
She answers with a high-pitched squeal that takes me back to when we were first friends, driving up this highway together. “Happy Friday sunny long weekend! And I’ve finally got the weekend off!”
I laugh. “For once! I can’t wait to finally hang with you this entire weekend and not have you at the store the whole time.” I have to raise my voice over the sound of the wind rushing past my ears.
“Yaaass, girl! Where are you right now?”
I roll the window up a little to hear her better. “Heading up 94. But Google says there’s traffic ahead, so I’ll be maybe forty minutes.”
“Okay, that’s good,” she replies. “I’m still stuck at the store, waiting on some inventory to be delivered. It was supposed to be here at five, so hopefully any time now. If you beat me to the house, you can let yourself in through the basement side door.”
A long-ago memory of Ben playing guitar, younger and clean-shaven back then, and shirtless, jumps unbidden into my mind.
“Gotcha. I have some of that good red wine. Is Ben joining us?”
“I don’t think so, but he didn’t say,” Bonnie replies. “I think something’s going on with that woman he started seeing. Shelley? The daycare assistant.”
Ugh, right. I’d heard about him going on a few dates with some daycare hottie.
“Just us two then, even better,” I reply, covering my disappointment. I mean, it’s always fun when Ben’s around. “Unless, of course, that cute guy from the bakery finally texts you, like he promised. I realize I might have competition for your attention if that happens.”
Bonnie scoffs, in the way she does when she cares about something but wants to make it seem like she doesn’t. “Paul the pastry chef? I’m not holding my breath on that one. He’s too good to be true.”
“Well, he’s a fool if he doesn’t,” I reply. “Okay, I’ll see you in a while, I guess. You won’t be late, will you?”
“Ten minutes behind you, absolute max. And there’s already a cold bottle of white in the fridge — you can open that first.”
I smile. Bonnie’s ten-minute estimations tend to be more like a half-hour, at best, but that’s okay. I’ll have some cold wine to keep me company.
“Cool beans. I’ll see you at the house.” I hit end call, and roll the window down again. The highway is busy, and the air is hot, but I don’t mind. It’s very nearly summer, it’s a three-day weekend, and I’m spending it with my best friend in the world.
I really need this break. It hasn’t been the best week, honestly.
This morning, I got an email telling me my annual lease won’t be renewed on my apartment — my cute little downtown studio where I’ve lived for years and that I love — which means I have to find a new place in a very expensive city by the end of July. Which totally sucks.
Added to that injury, since my slightly inebriated talk with Stephen at the office party last week, I’ve been feeling pretty down.
It’s been kinda awkward. The following day, as promised, we’d brainstormed slogans for the Vici account — but he’d barely looked me in the eye the entire time.
He seemed to be feeling a bit guilty about the implications we both made in our what-if conversation.
Which is only natural, of course. He’s a devout Catholic, married with kids, and he let himself slip in a moment of tipsy wistfulness.
In the week since, we’ve laughed much less than usual, and spoken to each other much more formally — mostly about work, plus the habitual morning and end-of-day exchanges. And today, he took the day off for a four-day camping weekend with his wife and kids.
One thing is for sure — a conversation like that won’t happen again.
Not in this life.
Yes, I really need Bonnie and that cold bottle of wine.
It’s another fifty minutes by the time I’ve made it through the traffic to Bonnie’s house in Lake Bluff.
I tap in the memorable gate code and pull up in front of the house.
Unsurprisingly, Bonnie’s car still isn’t in the driveway, and I don’t have a front door key, but I can probably let myself in through the basement.
A growl of hunger tightens my stomach. I have zero faith in Bonnie being ten minutes behind me, so I’d better order some food. It’s a busy Friday night, and it always takes forever to arrive out here. I quickly ping Bonnie a text.
Should I get the dim sum ordered?
She responds within moments.
You know it! Get the usual, and add the new chicken pot stickers they have. Yum. :P
Chuckling gently, I order a selection of dumplings and spring rolls from our usual delivery app, optimistically adding extra servings just in case Ben shows up, after all. I mean, leftovers are always good, too.
Now there’s just the small matter of breaking into the house. I grab the red wine, leave my overnight bag in the car, and descend the steep sloping lawn that leads to the basement’s side door.
A wave of nostalgia floods over me. That first time I ever came here, when I had also entered through this side door .
. . that weekend changed my life. I’d already gained Bonnie as my new best friend, but the way her parents and brother also embraced me into their lives had cemented our bond into something unbreakable.
The weekend gave me a new family — one that I came to love deeply.
If only we hadn’t later lost Ange and Frank in such a senseless way.
If only we hadn’t asked them to be on the road that night.
I shake off the thought, and place my hand on the slightly rusty door handle.
That memory again. First meeting Ben, who’d been living in the basement since graduating.
What had he been playing on his guitar when we’d surprised him in his underpants?
Something that was super popular back then.
“Starlight,” that Muse song, that was it.
I chuckle to myself — and at younger, grungier Ben — and hum the tune as I give the door a tug. The frame is even more warped than ever, and it’s stubborn.
I give another, harder, tug on the door. This time, after a moment of resistance, it gives in with a whoosh — almost like a vacuum seal has broken, and the basement can breathe again.
Still humming Ben’s guitar riff, I step into the dark, unlit space, closing the door behind me, and head towards the stairs that lead up to the kitchen.
Bonnie has left the stairway light on — which is unlike her, given her zealousness for switching off all unnecessary lights and electrical devices. But at least I can see.
What’s weirder, though, is the unmistakable, delicious smell of Chinese food emanating from upstairs.
Maybe Ben decided to join us for the weekend, after all, and he was way ahead of us in terms of ordering dim sum? I didn’t see his car in the drive, but he often parks on the street to leave space for me and Bonnie.
I climb the steep staircase and push my way through the door at the top, calling out, “Ben? Is that you?” as I enter the kitchen.
I stop. The kitchen looks . . . nothing like when I last saw it.
Different cabinets, in tan wood rather than white, and a different color on the walls, dark taupe instead of cream.
An array of food in large dishes all over a black counter, and a bunch of fancy-looking countertop appliances.
A red wall calendar with some beautifully scripted Asian characters on it.
And, through the archway, in the dining area . . . a group of people, a family, sitting around Bonnie’s dining table.
Chopsticks frozen in mid-air, rice dropping, as they stare at me in evident shock and disbelief.
And it’s not Bonnie’s simple, rustic, long dining table, but an oval table with elaborate carvings.
Then, the woman of the group — presumably the mother — screams.
Immediately, it’s mayhem. The mother is screaming, the kids begin whimpering, and the man at the head of the table stands and starts shouting at me in something that could be Mandarin or Cantonese or maybe something else, waving his noodle spoon aggressively.
I hold my hands up. “Hey, hey, I’m sorry!
I’m sorry! I’m Millie, I’m Bonnie’s friend.
Bonnie’s friend?” The mother stops screaming, although she doesn’t seem to understand what I’m saying.
“I’m here to see Bonnie. Who are you?” The kids, three of them and all probably under ten years old, begin to quiet down, but are still staring at me, wide-eyed.
The man takes a step forward towards me and yells something that I don’t understand. My hands are still raised in compliance.
What the fuck is going on? Who are these people, and what the hell are they doing having dinner in Bonnie’s house? Which doesn’t even look like Bonnie’s house?
“Okay, okay! I don’t know what’s happening, but I’m gonna call Bonnie, we’ll get it straightened out, okay?
” I don’t know why I keep speaking English at them — clearly they’re not understanding me.
I pat down my jeans back pocket for my phone, but it’s not there — I must’ve left it in the car.
Shit. “Okay, I’m gonna go get my phone, it’s in my car, I’ll call her, okay? ”
Not okay, apparently. The man is still yelling, and he’s getting louder, and he’s taking more steps towards me. I look at the youngest girl, whose gorgeous little face has a fat tear on its cheek, and it breaks my heart to be scaring her.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat, holding up my hands again.
“I’m gonna go outside until this is all straightened out with Bonnie.
She’ll be here soon.” I back away towards the front foyer, which is painted in a deep plummy red rather than its usual gray-blue, and let myself out of the heavy wooden door, my heart racing.
What in God’s name was that?
I look around for my crappy car, but it’s not in the driveway. Instead, there’s a very nice black Audi and a bright red Tesla parked out front.
I hear a shout from behind me — the man has followed me to the front door to ensure I leave.
“I’m going, I’m going!” I tell him. I gesture around me. “I can’t see my car!”