Chapter 5
CHAPTER
VAL AND KIKI already have a table in the corner when I arrive at Le Pain Quotidien.
I left my Tesla in doggy mode—even though Bruce’s allergies won’t allow us to have a dog—to make sure the lamb I picked up from the butcher doesn’t spoil in an overheated car.
The café is busy, a friendly buzz punctuated by the grinding of coffee beans and clatter of plates and cutlery.
My friends have ordered. A steaming double cappuccino and an almond croissant dusted with confectioners’ sugar wait for me at a linen-covered table. They know me so well.
Kiki wears a matching Lululemon yoga outfit and Val’s gleaming brunette tresses brush the top of her checkered dress.
I’m in my usual uniform: a perfectly pressed baby-blue button-down from Frank that they’re still happily married but don’t like to travel so we Zoom a lot.
My best friends might find my real past fascinating, lean into stories about Mama J, living under a bridge, scrounging food from dumpsters.
But ultimately those things would paint me as other, leave an invisible stain.
Sometimes I do feel guilty lying about my past. Real friends tell each other everything, just like the characters on Friends. But who I am now is what matters most.
You’ll get it, eventually, Mama J whispers.
Lately, I’ve been flashing back to my childhood and hearing her voice more and more. What is going on with me? I take a quick photo of my croissant and coffee and post it on LivLoud: #bestiescoffeebreak. As Val munches a tofu lettuce wrap and Kiki nibbles her Cobb salad, I ask “So, what’d I miss?”
“Sara Curry has a new petition,” Val says. “She wants to have Madame Gault, the high school French teacher, fired because she’d once appeared in a swimsuit calendar. In a one-piece.”
Kiki leans in. “I heard Caroline Gold has a boyfriend. He’s twenty-four!”
Caroline is one of the older moms. Her daughter, Sophia, is the same age as our girls, but Caroline is fifty-two while the rest of us are late thirties to mid-forties.
A few years ago, Caroline’s husband cheated on her. She caught him in the act, in their bed, then sent an email to all their friends, acquaintances, and Roger Gold’s business partners telling them about her discovery with a photo that showcased Roger’s hairy ass.
“Good for her,” I say.
Kiki gives me a startled look. “Okay,” she says, drawing out the word.
“What?” I ask.
“It’s nothing. I’m being judgey.” She glances at my empty mug. “Do you want more coffee?”
“Sure. You can never be too caffeinated, right?”
Kiki signals the busy waiter for a refresh when he gets the chance, then sighs. “Christopher wants us to go to St. John’s, scuba dive for spring break.”
“And that’s a problem?” Val asks with a snort.
“Topher has lacrosse practice during vacation and Haynes is desperate to go skiing in Utah with his best friend’s family. Charlotte wants to attend cheer camp in Texas.”
“Topher can stay with a friend, send Haynes skiing and Char to cheer camp, then you and Christopher could go alone,” I suggest.
“You’re right.” Kiki grins. “I’ll buy the tickets today.”
Those tickets will be first class. Christopher Hunt is one of the Hunts, a mining family originally from Nevada, though they sold the business a generation ago.
Kiki and Chris met in San Francisco, at a bowling alley of all places.
He saw her dark-blond curls, heart-shaped face, and sexy curves and threw a ball into her lane, said it was love at first sight. Because it’s Kiki, I believe him.
Val notices a man at the next table staring at us—or more probably the two of them. “What are you looking at?” she demands. He blanches and moves his coffee and croissant to a table inside.
Kiki chides, “Don’t be a hater. In ten years, we’ll wish a guy would check us out.”
Val makes a face. “He seemed like a creep.”
Unlike Kiki, there was never a Christopher in her life.
Val’s Prince Charming bailed after learning she was pregnant.
Good riddance, Val always says, I’d never want to share my kid.
The three of us have watched many divorces play out over the years and all agree that a fifty-fifty custody split would break our hearts.
“Did I mention I’m opening another salon?” Val asks, then takes a sip of her cold brew. She already owns three, plus a med spa.
Kiki hugs her, which Val hates but allows. “You’re flipping amazing!”
“No biggie,” Val replies with a wave of her hand.
She’s being humble. She’s successful and totally independent. I feel a twist of envy. I don’t want her life, but it’d be nice to know I’m capable of success.
Val adds, “Helps that I only have one kid.”
Heat dusts my cheeks. I only have one kid. “Congratulations,” I say and raise my coffee mug to toast her. A hand darts over my left shoulder. There’s a tattoo—
Fingers curl over the ripped fabric of the station wagon’s front seat, nails ragged, a black skull tattoo on the back of a meaty hand.
The skull’s eyes are red pits, and a snake with fangs slithers from an open mouth.
Before I can scream, the man launches over the seat.
He smells like a wet, dirty dog, grips a serrated knife, and holds it to my neck.
There’s a sharp bite and then blood dribbles down my sweaty skin.
The man puts his finger to his lips and says shhhhh, then unbuttons my jeans and yanks them down …