“Oh, I’ve already had two.”
“Gulps?”
“Margaritas,” she says.
I laugh. “Go on.”
“I am,” she says. “Margarita número tres is ready to go.”
“I was talking aboutwork.”
She sighs. “I kicked off a new project with the client from hell at the end of last week. It’s already a nightmare. I don’t need to get into it beyond that.”
Pinning the phone between my ear and shoulder, I jiggle the key in the door’s lock until the bolt slides home. “Why not?” I ask.
“Because you just survived the bookstore-restroom-cleaning trenches, hours after you should have clocked out, and I’m pleasantly buzzed. The last thing we should talk about now is our jobs.”
“Well, I had my turn to vent about work, but you didn’t.Ithinkwe should talk about it, so you can have your vent session, too. Look at me, pushing! Please clap.”
“Sure, we’ll call that ‘pushing.’?”
“We’ll call that progress.”
“Progress,” she concedes.
“Speaking of progress.” I cross the small gravel driveway reserved for The Bookshop’s staff, then start walking up the side street toward the main drag.
Summer dusk is in its glory, dripping tangerine down the shops that have closed for the day, the restaurants that spill crowded two- and four-tops across the sidewalk. I wend my way around them, walking the curb like a balance beam, and pass tables littered with the dregs of happy hour—nearly empty glasses, half-finished plates of food. Laughter floats on the humid air, everyone’s bodies turned like flowers toward the sun.
“Speaking of progress?” Lauren reminds me.
“Right. Progress.” Stopped at the intersection, I press the crosswalk button and squint a smile at the sunset warming my face. “I managed to run a whole two miles nonstop yesterday without you barking at me to keep going—”
“I do not bark,” she says. “I encourage with vigor. Also, I’m proud of you!”
“Thank you. There’s even more.” I indulge myself in a dramatic pause. “I, for the first time ever, prepped, cooked, and served an entire meal on my own.”
Lauren gasps. “Thea! You buried the lede!”
“I know!” The crosswalk signal tells me I can safely cross, right as a car whizzes through the intersection. I wait another second, look both ways, then step off the curb.
“So,” she says, “what’s this meal Hot Chef taught you to cook?”
I scowl. “Stop calling him that.”
“Why?”
“Because his name isAlex.”
“Not because you don’t want me to remind you that he’s a hot chef?”
“I don’t need to be reminded of that. I’m aware.”
“So jump hisbones, already!” she yells.
“Lauren, we’ve been through this.”
She sighs, then says flatly, “Because he’s yourlocalbest friend”—a distinction she makes every time Alex comes up, and every time it makes me smile—“and friends don’t jump friends’ bones.”