“I wouldn’t let him walk me to my apartment when we got back because he needed to get home and treat his rash.”
All three of my friends set their wine glasses and phones aside and lean into the table.
“What rash?” Odette demands.
“Apparently he ate something he was allergic to and broke out in a rash and didn’t tell me until the end of the night, when it becameveryclear he was super uncomfortable.”
“What’s he allergic to?”
I wince harder. “Mango,” I whisper. “We had mango salsa at our cooking class date.”
He didn’t tell me. I googled him andfood allergy, and I found an old, old,oldinterview that he did where he talked about how long it took him to realize he was allergic to mango since his rashesdidn’t appear for three to four days after he ate it and the doctors always told him he had poison ivy.
“And you didn’t offer to go help him treat it?” Odette says.
“Same question,” Sheila says.
Evelyn nods. “All three of us have to know now.”
Oh, for the love of wine. “Hi, thanks for making the exact right scene as my wedding date when my ex decided he still has a say in any part of my life, sorry I gave you an allergy rash, I like you as a friend way more than I thought I would, how about you strip so I can rub itch cream all over your body?That’s what you wanted me to say?”
They share a look, then nod as one. Even Sheila. “Yes.”
“I’m leaving the country soon.”
“And he’s twice-divorced and in a current long-term relationship with his sport that’s lasted exponentially longer than both of his marriages combined,” Evelyn says. “Go ride the pony, sweetie pie. Have your fun while you’re still dating guys young enough to get it up without the assistance of a pill.”
“You basically owe it to the entire country,” Odette agrees. “Their discovery of a new sport to obsess over rests on you dating a man who left a very successful European career behind to come and build attention for the players here too. Including your brother.”
Ah, my brother.
I pull up my text messages from him and hand my phone to Odette, who tilts her head to read it all through her bifocals. “If that bastard gets within a hundred yards of you again, no one will ever find his body,” she reads.
“Eye roll,” Evelyn says.
“What did she say back? I can’t read it from here,” Sheila says. “I hope she tells him to be nice.”
“Goldie:Good plan. Orange is your color. How did your first day go? It must’ve been hard posing for a camera in that silver and black kit all day.”
Evelyn snickers.
“Is there more?” Sheila asks.
I gesture to Odette to keep reading.
“Silas:He’s fucking with the entire vibe of the team. Half the guys hate him. You should too. Do you know what his second ex-wife says about him?”
“Goldie:That he has a big penis?”
“Silas:That he’s emotionally incapable of loving anything that’s not himself or a rugby ball. You should’ve told me about the wedding and fuck-face. I would’ve gone with you and no one would’ve found his body either.”
“Goldie: It’s much healthier and more productive to put your energy toward liking people and letting other people live their own lives, right? Studies show that excess hate and excess interfering with your sister’s love life leads to premature hair thinning, muscle mass loss, and impotence.”
Evelyn cackles.
Sheila presses her lips together like she’s trying not to.
I sip my wine while Odette hands my phone back to me.
