Everything about her is polished and intentional.
Her ivory sleeveless tank top and chambray linen pants are wrinkle-free and paired perfectly with tan espadrilles. Even at five-foot-nine, Lindsay has never shied away from wearing heels. “Compared to your average woman, there are six more inches of me to love, so any man worth my time will focus on that over his own insecurities,” she said a few years ago when she joined a new dating app. Her give-a-fucks went on a permanent vacation not long after she became a mom, and I envy her for that.
I notice that her eyes look brighter and her skin smoother than the last time I saw her. In place of a hug, we chest-bump our boobs together like we always have, and I slide into my seat across from her.
“What’s all this?” I ask, gesturing to her face. “Did you suck the soul out of a child to get that skin, or was it Botox?”
She nods, beaming with pride. “Botox and filler and some other bits and bobs. Girl. Best birthday present I’ve ever received.”
“Birthday botox?” I ask. “Who got you that?”
Her brow furrows as much as it can despite the paralyzed nerves. “Me.”
I laugh. “Good for you. You look like you sleep more than the dead.”
She bows her head while munching on a French fry. “Thank you. Thank you.”
“How’s Jackson? Staying out of trouble?”
“For the most part. In fact, the older he gets, the less he seems like his dad, so really, I couldn’t be happier.”
I remember how terrified she was to find out she was pregnant. She and Jackson’s father were off-and-on, and she had just moved into a tiny, rundown studio apartment. I thought for sure she’d get an abortion, but she chose to keep it and raise the baby on her own. Jackson’s dad is involved in a limited capacity, which is most likely what Lindsay prefers. My girl loves control and doesn’t suffer fools.
I take a couple of fries from the basket and moan in pleasure when the crisp saltiness hits my tongue. “Did you order already?”
“No, of course not.” She looks mildly offended at the suggestion. “This is my reward for punctuality. Our reservation doesn’t start for another six minutes, so these don’t even count.”
“Genius.”
“By the way,” she starts, “this meal is on me. It doesn’t make up for the fact that I missed your mom’s funeral, but hopefully it can serve as a small token of my shame. I’m sorry it’s been so long since we last saw each other.”
“No shame needed. Mom didn’t want a funeral, so there was nothing to miss.”
“That right?”
I sigh as I recall the conversation I had with Mom about how she wanted things to go once she passed. “She hated being the center of attention, and she knew how much I hate it too. I told her I’d honor her however she wanted, funeral included. I’d give a speech, do an interpretive dance, anything. But she said no.She told me to spread her ashes someday in a place that meant something to me, and that was it.”
Lindsay chuckles. “Typical Rita. Selfless with a heart of gold.”
“Yeah.” I swallow down a wave of unshed tears as I watch the cars speed by on the highway. “Did you think we’d end up here?”
“Where, this place? Or, like, here in life? Because if it’s the former, hell yeah. Their shoestring fries aren’t too salty, or too crispy, and they have that squishy soft middle without being undercooked. Do you know how difficult it is to nail that balance? Few restaurants can.”
Ididn’tknow that. I also don’t care. Fries are like pizza to me. You put any variety of them in front of me, and I will devour them with gusto. “The latter.”
She considers this while studying the pale pink tips of her polished nails. “A forty-one-year-old single mom living in Boston, with saggy titties and legs covered in spider veins, sharing custody with a dumbass who used to shout, ‘That’s how Billy do!’ whenever he blew his load? No. This is not where I thought I’d end up.”
A smirk tugs at my lips. She’s being self-deprecating, when really, she should be proud as hell. She’s been successful in her career as far as I know, and at least she has a kid.
I got close to that. Once. The kid, the husband, the happy ending. I almost had it.
Before I can dwell on the memories, she adds, “Who gives a shit? I had goals when we were in college for how I wanted my life to turn out, but nothing happened the way I thought it would. There’s no blueprint for where you’re supposed to be because life isn’t a straight line. It’s a bunch of loops and dips and a few messy, tight knots that seem like they’ll suffocate you before you can smooth them out.”
She’s right. When I see friends from school on social media, a lot of them are hitting milestones in the “correct” order: thejob, the wedding, the family, the house, yada, yada, but I’m also seeing divorces, custody battles, moving back in with Mom and Dad, fresh starts, career changes, and the like. Just because you get the white picket fence doesn’t mean you’ll get to keep it.
“What are you doing here, anyway? Did you quit that fancy corporate job in Boston?”
“Nah, I took the week off. My grandmother died,” she says with a sigh.
