Henry was incapable of handling what comes beneath the surface of Natalie. Two years ago, Natalie wrote a book. In the last year, she has sent her manuscript out to at least a hundred different agents. As rejection after rejection rolled in, Natalie became more and more upset. Henry approached Natalie’s despondency the only way he knew how: to try and point out what she’d done wrong. What Henry didn’t understand was that Natalie had done nothing wrong. When Henry took Natalie to the library to look at books on how to become a better writer, I wrote crude comics on her rejection letters that I knew she’d find later and laugh about. For a while I thought maybe I had the advantage because I knew Natalie a few years longer than Henry, but I stopped thinking that. Henry is so short-sighted, I don’t know if he would’ve ever been able to see Natalie’s soul. And yet, despite all this, she loved him.
“You should take this experience and turn it into a book.” I’m only half kidding. I bet she could sprinkle some of her talent and magic on it and create a bestseller.
“Yeah, sure.” She snorts. “Readers will arrive in droves to learn about my failed marriage.”
I shrug. “They might.”
“Readers don’t want to read a fail. They want a happily ever after. They want a tidy, romantic experience to come in a cute box with the pale pink silk ribbon wrapped around it.”
“Why don’t you change it up?” I know it’s risky suggesting this, given Natalie’s current mood, but I forge ahead. “Give them something messy.”
Natalie eyes me. “Quit trying to change the subject.”
“Did you want to keep talking about your divorce?”
“Not really. Let’s talk about you.”
“What’s there to talk about?”
“How’s the new girl?” Natalie raises her eyebrows and puckers her lips.
I run a fingertip over the frost on the outside of my glass. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.” Of course I know what she’s talking about, there’s just no point in discussing the girl I swiped right on recently. She will be like all my other relationships: casual, unimportant, and short in duration.
Natalie sips from her beer but keeps her eyes trained on me. “What’s her name?”
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” I repeat.
“You’re lying.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because your mouth is moving.”
I give her a look and she laughs, but her eyes have turned wistful. “My grandpa used to say that.”
“I always liked your grandpa.” Right before he passed away, Natalie and I went to see him. He placed his frail, liver-spotted hand in my offered hand and asked me if I was going to make an honest woman out of his granddaughter.She’s already engaged, I wanted to tell him.I only nodded and smiled. I didn’t want his last moments to be anything but calm.He was drugged, he probably thought you were Henry, Natalie said to me later. She was already nervous about the upcoming wedding, so I didn’t tell her that her grandfather had said my name twice and knew exactly who I wasn’t.
Rubbing the pad of my middle finger around the top of my glass, I keep going until it makes a tinny, musical sound. “Her name is Allison,” I say, keeping my eyes on my makeshift instrument so I don’t lose focus and spill.
“Are you seeing her tonight?” Natalie finishes her beer and pushes it to the center of the table.
I stop what I’m doing and look up. The sounds of the bar have replaced the music I was making. Natalie waits for a reply, but I’m trying to read her emotions. Her face is expressionless, but the vulnerability I see in her eyes allows me to read her like a book.
“I’ll cancel,” I offer, and the second the two words have left my lips she tells me to keep my plans.
“Allison would be very disappointed.” Natalie gets the attention of our server and signals for the check.
I grab her hand and pull it down to the table. “We don’t have to leave yet. I’m not meeting her until seven.”
She slips her hand out from under mine and lightly pinches the top of my hand. “I have to finish packing.”
My eyes roll upward, my gaze lifting to the exposed piping in the ceiling. “Shit,” I mutter, looking back down to Natalie. “I forgot about that.” Weeks ago I’d told her I would help her move.
“It’s fine. I don’t need help. Honestly,” she adds when she sees the look on my face.
I feel like a real asshole. My best friend’s moving out of the apartment she shared with her husband and I’m not going to be there to help her.
“Will Savannah come over and help you?” Internally I’m crossing my fingers. Savannah is Natalie’s coworker and new roommate.
