“She has that phobia where she’s afraid to leave the house, I think,” he says.
“Agoraphobia?” I suggest.
“That sounds right,” he says, buttering a piece of toast.
“Um. Wait, wait, wait. Are you kidding? He actually told you that?”
“Yeah. Well, I don’t think he used that word, no, but something like that,” he says, and I smack his arm a few times.
“Why would you not tell me that! Are you serious? Tell me exactly what he said.”
“Jeez, Cora. I don’t know. She had some trauma happen, and now she has to be within, like, spitting distance of her house or she freaks out and panics.” He eats his triangle of toast in two bites, opens his phone, and starts scrolling.
“Finn, oh, my God. That’s—He told you this, and you didn’t tell me?”
“We were having beers. I forgot. I’m not the one obsessed with her, so it didn’t seem like headline news I had to rush and tell you,” he says.
“And he just opened up and told you this out of the blue?”
“Uh...no, I don’t know. I think I suggested they come over or you two get together, and that was the reason she couldn’t.”
“Oh. My. God,” I say, picking up my phone.
“Cor, don’t.” He stops me.
“What?”
“Don’t tell Paige. Just—”
“I’m not,” I lie and put my phone back down. “At least it’s a good reason. I just thought she was a bitch.”
“Maybe she is. She could be an agoraphobic bitch. Why do you care so much?” he asks.
“Are you gonna hang out with Lucas again? Our house is within ‘spitting distance’ of hers, right? Maybe she’d be comfortable coming here. Maybe it’s in the comfort zone, y’know?”
“I don’t know how it works, but he didn’t make it sound like that was an option.”
“Just—do you have plans with him again?”
“We mentioned golf in a couple weeks. The club is having an amateur tournament. I said he should come.”
“Oooh. When is it? I could invite her over. It would be a way to start the conversation. ‘Since the guys are abandoning us for golf, you should come over for a glass of wine’ sort of thing. Perfect. When, when, when?” I push, and he shrugs, mumbling through a mouthful of food that he’s not sure.
“Can you check?” I ask.
“Now?” He looks at me with a mix of amusement and annoyance.
“Yes, please.”
“You’re obsessed,” he says but places his napkin on his now-empty plate and goes to grab his day planner. He’s the sort who needs to write everything down in neat, blocky ink letters into a physical datebook, says his phone can be unreliable and a successful man always has a backup. He comes back and sits down again, sipping his coffee and paging through it.
“The thing at the club is on the nineteenth. But, Cor, maybe take a hint if she doesn’t wanna be buddies.”
“Um, for your information,” I say, “she would be very lucky to know me. I still know every teacher at the elementary school, my book club has a waiting list, and I can tell her who all the good parents are in the neighborhood and which ones to avoid—”
“I think she wants to avoid all of them, right?” he interrupts. I look at him a moment, then stand and start to clear the table.
“You know what your problem is?” I ask.
