Chapter 4
I haven’t seen Cherry and Simone since the funeral two weeks ago. When they texted me afterward, I had the impression they had to google “what to say to a grieving friend” before reaching out. I appreciate their new initiative, but this is the worst timing.
Cherry’s face is alive with the delight she reserves for the juiciest gossip. “He’s hotter in real life than in photos. How did that happen?” She fans her cheeks. “There’s no way I would have recognized him if I hadn’t seen him on social media—and in The New York Times .”
It’s just like Cherry to appreciate someone once their stock rises.
When we were in school, she thought his name was Bartholomew.
Cherry moved to San Diego before our freshman year of high school and handpicked me to be her best friend.
But I sometimes wonder whether we would have become friends had we met now.
Back then, the captain of the football team was pursuing me, and I had all the unearned popularity he attracted.
My stock has fallen since—but one of Cherry’s best qualities is her loyalty.
I may not have my shit together, but her friendship is for life. It’s more than I can say for Beau’s.
“Phe,” she hums, turning her attention to me, “how are you?” She pulls me into a hug and pats my back, swaying until her long chestnut hair sticks to my face in a static dance.
“My turn.” Simone steals me from Cherry to wrap me in her long arms.
“We’re all yours. The kids are with Austin,” Cherry says.
“You’d think he’d offered me a full day at the spa by the way he was so proud to watch his own children for a few hours.
Meanwhile, I laid out outfits, diapers, and instructions on heating the breast milk.
I may as well hire a mannequin to parent while I’m away. ”
I expected my maternal yearning to kick in when my friends started to breed. But no. The batteries died in my biological clock years ago, and stories like this whack the snooze button.
Simone shrugs and flicks her long blond hair off her shoulder. “I have to say that your sad hetero thing is overrated. Alyanna is taking the kids out all by herself.”
“Why aren’t you dressed?” Cherry asks me. “We texted you five times.”
“Oh.” I don’t remember the last time I checked my phone. “Sorry, I didn’t get them.”
Cherry rolls her eyes. “You’re a mess, Ophelia Dahl. But we love you anyway.”
We head into the kitchen, and I search for something to serve them. The kitchen is spare. But the Spam musubi is still laid out on the counter.
Cherry inspects it. “Is that Spam?” she mumbles before drawing her hand back. “Where’s your wine?”
I open the pantry, but I don’t hold out much hope. Dad wasn’t a fan.
“There’s beer.” Simone pulls a six-pack from the fridge. She hands one to Cherry and offers another to me, but I decline with a quick shake of my head.
Luckily, there’s a beer opener attached to the wall, because I have no idea where the handheld would be.
Cherry sits at the kitchen table before taking a swig of her beer. “Okay, so, spill. What was Beau doing here? And why did he run away like you’d been doing something naughty?” She throws her head back and laughs.
Because he’s always hated you, I don’t say.
It was one of the reasons for our rift. Beau had a list of grievances about Cherry and referred to her as Regina George from Mean Girls —never to her face; he wasn’t that brave.
I thought it was unfair and didn’t appreciate what it implied.
Which idiotic sidekick did he think I was? “His parents still live next door.”
“Hmm ...” She eyes me skeptically. “Are you fucking him? I’m sure he’d love to comfort you in your time of need.”
“Beau, ew, no,” I say, too loud. “Married men aren’t my type.” And even if he weren’t married, Beau tolerates me out of familial obligation—and just barely.
Cherry shakes her head. “Beau’s not married.”
“Yes, he is. His wife is that adorable doctor who looks like she walked off the set of Grey’s Anatomy ,” I quip. “And she’s an influencer. Dr. Bianca Augustin. I thought you followed her.”
They both stare back at me, eyes alight with salacious news. “They divorced. Where have you been?” Cherry asks.
Simone chimes in. “Last year, she posted on her Insta all about fresh starts and new beginnings, broken hearts, yadda yadda, and then Beau was noticeably MIA on her socials when #HotHistorian had been the star attraction. It’s so obvious.”
“What? Seriously? What happened?” How did I not hear about it? Why didn’t Beau tell me when I asked about her?
I lean against the counter, wondering whether Beau’s extended stay has more to do with his divorce than whatever excuse he gave me earlier.
Simone shrugs, sitting next to Cherry. “No idea. But 50 percent of straight marriages end in divorce.”
“Not true,” Cherry snaps, her focus landing on Simone. “Educated professionals who marry in their late twenties have a higher chance of making it, statistically.”
I sense they’re both projecting.
I stare at Simone as she sips an IPA. The pack has been in the fridge since I arrived. Dad must have been saving it for a special occasion, and I couldn’t bear to drink it without him. He rarely splurged on microbrews unless he had people over. But that brand was his favorite.
Cherry waves her arms in front of my fixed stare. “Anyway, why was Beau here?”
“He was helping me pack up the house,” I say.
Cherry coos. “How neighborly.”
My phone erupts with a telltale ringtone, an instrumental version of Dolly’s “9 to 5,” and I fish my phone out of my pocket.
“Hello, Juniper. How can I help you?” I coax a professional calm into my voice and pinch my eyes shut as I answer.
“Why haven’t you answered my emails?” Her voice is without inflection; the barbed words speak for themselves.
“Sorry, today has been hectic.”
“Do you have a pen?”
I reach across the counter to grab a stray purple crayon and press it to the back of a CVS receipt. “Always.”
“I need a flight to Singapore on Monday morning. First class. One connection max. Returning in ten days. I will also need transportation and a hotel. The Fullerton will suffice. If not, the Ritz. I’ve forwarded additional details to your email. Any questions?”
“None. I’m on it.”
“Tomorrow, I have commitments until 3:30 and a spa treatment at 4:15. If you have any questions, call me at 3:45.” She clicks off, and my headache clicks on.
“Duty calls,” I hiss.
Simone jumps up from her chair and approaches me. “Ophelia, it’s Friday night.”
Is it? I’ve lost track of the days.
“We came to take you out. You need some cheering up,” Cherry says. “We aren’t taking no for an answer.”
I wince at the thought of going out—in real clothes, makeup, and heels. I’m too feral for any of that, not to mention the hellish task I must complete for Juniper and the mystery I need to solve about my existence.
“I can’t. Not tonight. I have this work thing, and then I need to pack up the house. Dad’s hoarding tendencies got a little out of control.”
“Pheeeeee,” Simone whines. “We never see you.”
“It’s the first time I’ve had a babysitter in a month,” Cherry says. A babysitter who is her husband. I don’t have to say anything, because Simone cuts Cherry a judgmental look that does the heavy lifting for me. “Austin works long hours,” Cherry says defensively.
“Thanks for the invite, but I can’t tonight.”
Cherry offers a little pout but hugs me.
I move them toward the front door, and Simone pauses, surveying the scene. “Do you want us to stay and help?”
I take in her dark-washed jeans, spike heels, silk camisole, and fresh blowout. I shake my head. “No, you go. Have fun. I need to knock this out.”
I shuffle them out and close the door before collapsing with my back against the oak. I take in the house, which grows a little emptier every day.
Every dent in the drywall contains a memory—when I played catch with Dad in the family room, when I convinced Beau to set off the toy rocket and it almost set the ceiling on fire, when my half-blind dog, Billy Goat, misjudged the doorway and punched a hole in the wall with his snaggletooth.
The ticks on the kitchen doorframe track my height from childhood to adulthood.
The walls Dad painted bright yellow when I said the house was dreary remind me he would do anything to make me happy—except tell the truth.
Back in the kitchen, the nearly full bottles of IPA sit on the counter, sweating as the condensation collects on the amber glass.
I load a plate with Lani’s feast and sink down at the table to eat alone.