“Almost-birthday that’s amonthaway,” she mutters. Standing, she hikes her bag onto her shoulder. “Not forgiven.”
“Lauren.” I stand, too. “All you’ve done lately is steal tabs when we eat out.”
“Well,” she says, as we start down the sidewalk, “only one of us is divorced and not collecting alimony from her dirtbag ex.”
“I don’t want Ethan’s money. I don’t want anything of Ethan’s.”
“Why not?” she says. “You should clean that fucker out, Thea.”
I peer at her. There’s an edge in Lauren’s voice, a level of anger toward Ethan that, even for her, seems unprecedented.
“You sound more pissed at him than I am. Which is impressive. And up till now, I thought, impossible.”
Lauren’s mouth tightens.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
She adjusts her sunglasses but doesn’t answer me.
“Lauren.”
Lauren peers up at the sky and mutters, “Fuck.” Then she rips off her sunglasses, meets my eyes, and says auctioneer fast, “I saw Ethan on a date with a woman last night.”
My stomach tightens. Ethan. On a date. With Jen.
Or maybe it wasn’t Jen. Maybe they just banged and moved on. If that’s the case, I’ll have no reason to be friends with Alex.
That thought leaves me oddly sad. Alex and I haven’t texted since exchanging numbers that night at his house, but I told myself it was fine for there to be a stretch of quiet following the chaos that threw us together. He said he’d have Mia the next few days, so I’m sure he’s been busy. And I’ve been fully booked with work at The Bookshop and tears to cry and also maybe waiting for Alex to text and make the first friend move. It’s only now, when faced with possibly having no cause to stay in it, that I realize I was weirdly looking forward to this pickle Alex and I got ourselves into.
Or maybe I was only looking forward to, for the first time in a while, being inanythingwith somebody else. Not feeling so deeply alone.
“So this woman,” I say to Lauren. “Was she by any chance petite? Annoyingly pretty? Natural honey blond with sky-blue eyes and killer curves?”
Lauren blinks. “That… was a disturbingly accurate guess.”
“Not a guess,” I admit.
“Wait, youknewabout her already?” Lauren throws up her hands. “Why haven’t I heard about this?”
I bite my lip.
I was going to tell Lauren about Alex, about our lie, about Ethan and Jen, over lunch. But then I realized something was up with Lauren, and the last thing I needed was to spend more time talking about me and my dumpster-fire life.
She steps closer, eyes locked on me. “First, you steal the tab. Then, you don’t tell me your ex is out there swinging his dick around mere weeks after your divorce. Happy almost-birthday to me!”
“Oh sonowyou’re fine with calling it your ‘almost-birthday.’?” I lift the flap of my bag and pull out the cookbook. “Her name is Jen. I met her at Ethan’s when I picked up Argos on Monday. Their vibe was… postcoital.”
Lauren shudders. “Ew.”
“Very ew. And very awkward. Also.” I lift the cookbook and point to Alex’s face. “This guy was there.”
Lauren blinks. “I’m sorry, did you just say the hot chef was there?”
I nod. “He’s her ex-husband.”
“Get the fuck out of here,” she says. “Wait, that means you’vemethim.” Her voice is getting louder. “You didn’t tell me you’d met the hot chef! What kind of best friendship is this?”
“A loving but dysfunctional one,” I remind her. “In which, say,one best friend uncharacteristically bursts into tears, and, when asked by her concerned best friend if she’s fine, refuses to talk about it?”