I watch her walk to the alcove on the other side of the door, and like the little narrating traitor my mind is, it picks up right where it left off.
Thea was in only her second week of work when she found Lauren perched on a kid-size chair in The Bookshop’s children’s section, wearing an office-chic outfit and sighing as she opened books, shut them, and tossed them aside. After Thea asked her how she could help, Lauren told her she was browsing for her nephew but had no idea what an eight-year-old would enjoy. Thea nudged her toward the graphic novels and away from the picture books, suggested a few well-loved middle-grade titles, and somehow they ended up talking for so long, they learned they’d both grown up in St. Louis (Thea, quaint Webster Groves; Lauren, affluent Ladue). Then Lauren asked Thea if she’d want to grab a drink and bond over being St. Louis gals stranded in Pittsburgh. Two glasses into their first meetup, Lauren clasped Thea’s hand and said, “We’re going to be best friends, Thea Meyer. I just know it.” And, like always, Lauren was right.
“Okay,” Lauren says. “I’m back.” She slips her phone into her purse and smiles, the portrait of style, as always—a white sheathdress that makes her sun-kissed skin pop, red kitten heels that match her bag.
“So,” I say to her, “what can I help you find today?”
She shrugs. “I’m looking for a best friend who’d want to take a lunch break with me.” She glances around. “Think you can help me out?”
I peer at the wall-mounted clock. It’s noon, and since I’m scheduled to work more than seven hours today, my lunch break is a full glorious sixty minutes.
Smiling, I tell her, “I’ll get my bag from the back. Meet you outside?”
“God, yes.” She throws open the door. “This obnoxiously happy song is pissing me off.”
The sun is shining, my belly is full of wood-fire pizza, and I haven’t felt the urge to cry once during lunch. Maybe I’ll earn my gelato, after all.
Basking in the sun, I slouch in my café chair across from Lauren and slurp the last of my root beer. Lauren sucks down the dregs of her Aperol spritz.
Our waiter, who’s been very attentive since we were seated—unsurprisingly, he has the hots for Lauren—sweeps in, clearing our glasses and asking if we want another round.
I tell our waiter I’ll pass on a refill. Lauren orders another Aperol spritz.
My eyebrows lift.
Having two drinks at lunch, when she’s headed back to the office, is very un-Lauren.
“You okay, Lo?”
She peers my way, a notch in her brow. Also very un-Lauren. Lauren doesn’t believe in frowning: it “leads to premature wrinkles.”
“Yep!” she says brightly. She tugs down her sunglasses, hiding her eyes.
Suspicion, then guilt hit me, a swift emotional one-two punch. I’ve been such a mess the past few months—have I missed the signs that Lauren’s struggling, too?
Asking directly will get me nowhere. Lauren’s so protective of me, she’ll tell me what she thinks I need to hear rather than the truth.
Leaning down to my messenger bag at my feet, I lift the flap and rummage around for the embroidered birthday card I fell in love with and bought at The Bookshop this past winter.
“What are you digging around for?” Lauren asks.
“Mind your beeswax,” I tell her. My messenger bag is a black hole. Where the hell is that card?
“Theodora Meyer.” She swats my arm. “Donotget out your wallet.”
“I’m not!” I straighten, triumphant, card in hand.
“What,” she says, eyes narrowed, “is that.”
I hold off on answering and instead thank our waiter as he sets down Lauren’s Aperol spritz. Our waiter misses this. He’s otherwise occupied, smiling dreamily at Lauren.
Lauren peers up at our waiter. She does not smile back. I clear my throat, hoping that snaps him out of it.
The waiter blinks, then asks, “Do you ladies need anything else?”
“No,” Lauren says.
I knock her knee with mine from beneath table.