Sophie grunts noncommittally, but even from across the room I can tell that she’s blushing. Christ, do my twelve-year-old goddaughter and I have the same taste?
“Okay, enough of that, we’re going,” I say. I give Julian a briefsidelong glance, as if a part of me knows that looking any longer will suck me back in. “Thank you, Julian. It was lovely playing with you.”
“You’re not going to give me your number?” Julian asks, a smile in his voice.
“I gave you a song,” I say plainly, and then I hold out my hand for Sophie to take. “Ready to hit the road, nugget?”
“Duh, that’s why I’m here,” Sophie responds, her preteen impertinence contradicting her childlike hold on my hand.
We walk out the door of the music room, out of Edison Mansion, onto the grounds.
I don’t look back. Something, a primordial instinct, tells me to keep moving forward.
Three
Two hours later, I pull into the driveway of the monstrosity that is Winona’s house. The four-bedroom, three-and-a-half-bath behemoth nestled in the center of Oak Park has all the trappings of new money: a cream brick façade, a manicured front lawn, and a “Secured by ADT” sign peeking out from the holly bushes. It’s a home much too big for a two-person household, but despite her complaints about the high property taxes and the neighborhood’s draconian homeowner’s association, Winona hasn’t been able to let it go.
Motion sensor lights click on as we disembark, illuminating the front door just as it swings open.
“Hi, baby,” Winona says to Sophie, who folds into her embrace like she needs it. “How was it?”
Sophie shrugs.
“The cake was gross. I don’t know whose idea it was to cover it with black fondant but it literally tasted like chalk. Thankfully they had cupcakes, so I had one of those instead. And the chicken was, like, super dry, but Dad let me have some of his brisket and that was pretty good.”
Winona’s mouth screws up like she isn’t sure whether to laugh or reprimand her daughter.
“Well, thanks for being a good sport. I know it was important to your dad that you were there.” She looks up at me with shining, haggard eyes. “You got your bag?”
I swing my overnight tote into view.
“Of course,” I say, inviting myself inside.
The living room of the former Pendersen-Evans household is sparse. Brandon and Winona purchased the home with the intention of having an interior designer outfit it to both of their tastes, but when Brandon met Leila and his interest in his familial home waned, Winona deferred her refurbishing dreams for the three-bedroom condominium that she is still yet to purchase. What Winona has by way of furniture is a peeling pleather sectional with a matching La-Z-Boy that is in even worse shape and an already aged Persian rug that has made the move from her parents’ attic to the grad school apartment she’d shared with me to the one she’d shared with Brandon before finding its home here.
It is on this rug that Winona and I, after sending Sophie to bed, debrief.
“So…” Winona says. We’ve changed into comfortable jersey pajama sets, and the baggy shirt hangs limply over her thin frame.
“So,” I say.
We laugh in bitter unison.
“Well, I’ve heard Sophie’s opinions,” Winona says. She blows over a mug of Earl Grey. “Where’re yours?”
When your best friend asks you what you thought of her ex-husband’s second wedding, you have a moral obligation to tell her it was shit.
“For one, I got put at the Boys and Babes table,” I start, using ournickname for my interventional cardiology group and their significant others. “Krause was Krause. One of Brandon’s cousins kept badgering me about how I look like a woman he once worked with until I reminded him that I was familiar because I was Brandon’s ex-wife’s maid of honor. And Sophie wasn’t kidding about the cake.”
Winona hums, satisfied. She stretches across her carpet, dropping her head back until her curtain of black curls brushes against the floor. She is runway pretty, all harsh lines and heavy eyelids. We used to joke that we were aesthetic opposites, her gaunt, Burton-esque features contrasting with my rounded, lush ones.
“What about the fine-ass man of honor?” she says after a moment.
I take a too big gulp of my chamomile tea.
“What about him?” I say.
“You get a closer look?”