“I prefer strategic,” I say primly, but the corners of my mouth twitch. “Honestly, I think Pamela’s less worried about Dylan’s creativity and more worried about keeping her precious soccer star’s schedule intact. The kid struts around like he’s already been drafted.”
Zoe snorts. “Middle school Messi.”
“Middle schoolmenace,” I mutter.
Charlie tilts her head. “Is that the same mom who cornered you at parent-teacher night about how she’d like you to help Dylan cut the sirloin steak she puts in his lunch each day?”
“The very one,” I deadpan.
“If Dylan’s such a prodigy, maybe he can cut his own steak,” muses Zoe.
“God, she sounds like half the PTA at Noah and Meadow’s school,” says Charlie. “That’s why I steer clear—it’s not about the kids, it’s about who can run the bake sale like a Fortune 500.”
Zoe leans back, lip curling. “PTAs are just high school mean girls in cardigans. If it’s really about clout and cookies, I’ll happily write a check and save myself the estrogen cage match.”
“Not all PTA moms are like that, though,” I add, thinking of all the wonderful mothers who take time out of their day to help fundraise. “It’s just that, unfortunately, at my school, Pamela runs it like her personal empire.”
The conversation shifts, and when Charlie gets up to use the bathroom, I turn to Zoe and lower my voice a little. “Okay, hen’s night planning. I know you’re Maid of Honor, but I have ideas.”
Zoe arches a brow. “Hit me.”
“Karaoke,” I say, tapping the table for emphasis. “Costumes. Sequins encouraged. Maybe… a choreographed group number.”
“I’ll allow sequins,” Zoe says, considering. “But no choreo. Nobody wants to see me attempt a high kick in heels.”
I sip my matcha, pretending to think. “Noted. Maybe just… one song? You know, a classic. Something ABBA.”
She gasps, and her eyes widen. “You know I can’t resist them!”
I nod and lean in conspiratorially, watching in case Charlie reappears. “Imagine it.Super Trouper. Lights flashing, disco ball spinning, the girls on stage singing it to her.”
Zoe stares at me, then grins slowly. “I hate how much I love that.”
“Exactly.”
She clinks her coffee cup against mine. “Fine. But if we do it, you’re leading.”
“Gladly.”
When Charlie comes back, we fold her into a different conversation, and soon, the table hums with laughter and chatter loud enough to draw side-eyes from the barista. By thetime we spill back onto the street, my cheeks ache from smiling, and I’m pumped to go fetch my favorite golden retriever for the evening.
Zoe insists on giving me a ride, and when her car pulls up to my driveway, Betty is already outside next door. Perfect slacks, cardigan buttoned, pearls neat as a debutante—except for the generous glass of chardonnay in her hand. At three in the afternoon.
She narrows her eyes at the car until she spots me and Zoe behind the wheel. Her smile spreads slowly as we emerge.
“Hey, Betty, this is Zoe.”
“Well, well. So you’re the firecracker I’ve heard about. God help the man trying to keep up withyou.”
Zoe blinks, caught off guard, then breaks into a grin. “Oh, Iloveher.”
“Everyone does,” I say cheerfully. “Betty collects fans.”
Betty ignores me entirely, taking a languid sip of her wine. “Had a deliveryman here earlier, strutting about like he invented cardboard boxes. Told him if he wanted to impress me, he should deliver something worth undressing for.”
Zoe looks at her dubiously. “You did not.”
“She absolutely would’ve,” I confirm.
