“Iknow.”
We look at each other, then squeal in unison.
“Okay, now I need to see what this man looks like,” she says. “I need to know what face goes with that voice.”
I’m already scrolling through my phone to find the pictures from Brandon and Leila’s wedding.
“He isn’t on social media,” I say as I search. “Trust me, I’ve looked. No Instagram, TikTok, not even a LinkedIn.”
“Richandprivate,” she coos. I hold up my phone to the one picture I have of him, snuck at the end of his speech. It’s in profile and a bit out of focus, but it still gets the point across.
Winona moans around a bite of French toast, so loudly that a waiter squeezing behind her barely muffles his laughter.
“That is absurd,” she says. “No way that man is flesh and blood. He looks like AI.”
“Oh, he’s flesh and blood all right.”
Winona wags her eyebrows suggestively, and this makes us laugh even louder. When we recover, smacking our chests and downing our water to clear our throats, Winny taps a finger against the table.
“And the petty tactics?” Winona asks.
“He’s holding my earring hostage,” I explain, biting back the enormous grin that threatens to bloom across my face. I show her another picture, this one of my wire-face earring held up by its hook next to a torn piece of paper with the date. Under it, a text:if you ever want to see her again, you know how to find me.I wait as she scrolls maniacally through the rest of the thread.
Sean:wow. are you resorting to extortion now?
Sean:fine, I’ll hear you out. What do you want.
Julian:You know what I want, Sean. The question is, do you love your precious little face earring thing enough to give it to me?
Sean:You’re a very nasty man, to do this. You know Sophie gave those to me, right? My goddaughter?
Julian:Nasty? You’re the nasty one. I’m not asking for anything improper. I’m just trying to get a second date.
“That’s it, I’m officially jealous,” Winny says, handing back my phone with a pout. “This just gave me necessary inspiration. It’s high time I put myself out there too. Find some strapping young cutie to help me get my groove back.”
She says it as a joke, but I know there’s truth to it. Winona is an objectively beautiful woman, but she’s also a working mom who has been cast aside by her ex-husband for a pretty little thing who doesn’t have her C-section scars or her smile lines. There’s only so far positive self-talk can go in restoring her self-esteem. What she needs is cold, hard evidence. Emphasis on thehard.
“I agree,” I say. “You’ve been through it, Winny, and it’s time. Go get wined and dined like you deserve.”
“Wined and dined sounds lovely,” Winny says wistfully. She sighs. “I can’t even remember the last time I had a…little romance, you know? I feel sexless down there. Like a Barbie doll.”
“I get that,” I say distractedly. “There’s only so much healing you can do on your own. You have to put yourself out there, learn to trust your judgment again.”
The moment the words leave my lips, the mood shifts. Winona puts down her fork, folds her hands on the table, and stares at her French toast like she half expects it to walk off her plate.
“I’m happy for you, you know,” she says. “You haven’t been this excited about a guy since, well…”
Acid rises to my throat, and I dab my napkin to my lips to push past it. I know what she means, but the young woman who had once been caught in my ex-fiancé Eric’s web doesn’t exist. I cast her in a fire alongside our engagement photos and watched her burn.
A hand covers mine, and when I meet Winona’s gaze again, she’s giving me the look. The one that means that she is ceding the floor to me, reminding me that no matter how many times I’ve recounted this particular trauma with her, she’s here to listen again. It’s the same regard that she gives to her cancer patients who are grappling with the question of their mortality alongside side effects from chemo, providing a safe space for them to scream and mourn in ways they can’t with their families. The depth of her compassion is what makes her clinic routinely run late, but also what probably makes her the most beloved psychologist in her practice. And without a doubt, an incredible friend.
“I’m sorry,” Winona says, when I don’t fill the silence she’s provided. “I shouldn’t have brought him up in this context.”
I shrug.
“Yes, well, he’s unfortunately a very relevant part of my story,” I say. “Besides. You’re probably right.”
And I hate that she is, because I hate what it bodes for me. Sean in love is not a reasonable woman. She abandoned herself for a man who held her in an ever-tightening grip, who abandoned her in turn as she bled out on the carpet. She accepted disrespect and even rage and made herself compact, and I cannot ever go back to being her. Not for anyone. Ever again.