I was about to cry a second ago, but now all I can do is laugh.Hard. So hard that Ethan and Jen and Ethan’s buddies and their wives are probably looking over at me now, as I make a scene.
Lauren starts laughing, too, covering her mouth as she snorts. I wheeze a laugh, fold forward toward the table.
We are embarrassing. And I couldn’t care less.
I finally settle down enough to dab my eyes and take a long drink of ice water. “Yes, Lauren, I have other friends, here. Mostly through work and the library.”
“So…bookbuddies,” she says as she dabs around her eyes, too. She sounds concerned.
“I met them through the bookish community, if that’s what you mean. We’re notclose, but I’d consider them friends.” I shrug. “I don’t know. I used to have more close friends, back in St. Louis, but then, the last couple of years before we left, they all started having babies, and understandably their lives changed so much. I plugged in how I could, but they were in a new chapter of life, making new friends…” My voice wavers. “Momfriends.”
Lauren reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “And you wanted to be one of those mom friends.”
I nod. “Obviously, when we moved here, I understood those already-dying friendships weren’t going to last long distance. So I threw myself into finding a job I loved, which I did, and getting settled into the house and exploring the city. And then I met you.”
Lauren grins. “And then I completely monopolized your time for three years.”
“Wouldn’t have had it any other way.”
Ethan’s loud braying laugh rings out in the restaurant again. It’s impossible not to look over. When we do, Ethan glances over his shoulder right at me, curls his arm tighter around Jen, and smirks.
Lauren glares his way. “I’ll fucking end him.”
“Lo,” I chide.
She slants me a look of pure frustration. “You’re too gracious toward him. Villainize him, Thea. Hate his guts. He was a piece of shit to you.”
“In some ways, yes,” I tell her, “he was. But I’m tired of being mad, Lo. I don’t want to waste any more energy on being mad at him.”
“I agree,” she says. “Channel your energy into brutal premeditated vengeance.”
“Lauren.”
“For instance, while he’s got lil Ms. Tinkerbell here over atyourhouse that the fucker took”—she points her fork my way—“you take a shit on his porch, then ding-dong-ditch him.”
A laugh jumps out of me in spite of myself. I adore Lauren—her honest irreverence, her fierce love, her unapologeticvindictiveness. I clap my hands over my face and muffle the sudden sob that bursts out on the tail end of my laughter.
“Sweetie,” she whispers, leaning in. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” She’s silent for a beat, then tells me, “I should have said, ‘I’lltake a shit in a bag, light it on fire, leave it on his porch, then ding-dong-ditch him.’?”
Another gunky laugh jumps out of me. “I’m going to miss you so much, Lo.”
“I’m going to miss you, too.” She sniffs, straightening her shoulders, then leans in as she says, “The jackass clocked us again. And can I just say, you look slammin’?”
“Youlook slammin’,” I tell her. “You always do.”
Lauren scowls at me. “So do you, you turd nugget.” She picks up her phone, unlocking it, then turns it my way.
I blink, startled to see a photo of me in profile, candlelight soft and flattering to the angles of my face, accentuating the summertime freckles scattered across my nose and cheeks, drawing out the amber in my brown curls that spill to my shoulders, calling out the gold in my hazel eyes. My head’s bent from peering down at the menu, but my eyes are up, my lips pursed in a pout that accentuates their fullness, something I’ve been self-conscious about for as long as I can remember.
“Go ahead,” Lauren says. “Look at this hot-as-fuck photo of you and try to tell meI’mslammin’ while implying you’re not.”
“Okay.” I grin. “I look slammin’ tonight.”
“Hell, yes, you do!”
I hear the click of another photo being taken and groan, “Lauren!”
“What?” she says. “I needed a photo of you smiling, too, not just giving me bedroom eyes.”