“I know,” I say, and I mean it. It’s been drilled into our family—a trauma that’s been passed down since the days women in our families were persecuted for their practices. “But maybe change will help us create more love stories, and isn’t that ultimately what we’re here for?”
She eventually nods and says, “You’re right. I just hope it doesn’t change what we’ve worked so hard to build.”
I reassure her it won’t, but I feel a bit uneasy making promises I’m not sure I can keep.
—
Marcella meets me later at one of our favorite lunch spots—Little Dom’s. We grab a table on the sidewalk under a striped awning, the best spot for people watching. You’re always guaranteed good celeb spotting here, and not B-list reality-TV-show types—for-real movie stars. I once saw all the hobbits gathered in a booth together.
She digs for every detail about hanging out with Daniel while we start on our deep-fried rice balls.
“So, did you guys kiss?” she asks after I give her a literal beat-by-beat breakdown of the night.
Our arugula salad arrives and I heap some onto my plate. “Bro. No! Way too soon and it wasn’t even officially a date. It felt like we were dipping a toe into the water, feeling things out. Not sayingthe thingout loud.”
“Probably because of Ellis,” she says with a mouthful of greens. “My poor little cutie.”
I roll my eyes. “Poor little guy will forever mourn the loss of the middle-aged lady who fell off her bike.”
“To him, the story is: This babe he was into dumped him. And then he discovered that his older, polished, successful boss stole her from under his nose.” She shakes her head. “God, I love this, let’s be honest.”
I laugh as I pour more sparkling water into both our glasses. “Get out. Listen, I don’t feel great about it. But I feel confident knowing he’ll be just fine.”
“I’m kidding.” Marcella puts her hand on mine across the table. “He’s probably fucking someone against a loft wall right now.”
The couple next to us hears and their conversation comes to a complete halt. I bite back my laughter. “Hey, so how’s the construction going?” I need to switch topics before we get kicked out of here.And I really don’t want to imagine Ellis doing anything with anyone. It hits me in a way I won’t examine.
She groans and her aviators reflect the sunshine. “A nightmare. Ninety-two percent of being an adult is complaining about contractors,” she says. “My memoir will be called:Don’t Even Get Me Started on Reliable Contractors.”
“It’s going to be a hit.”
Marcella grins briefly. “Yeah, it’s going terribly terrible and probably going to push back the opening by a couple months.”
“I’m sorry, dude,” I say. “But no one in L.A. will expect a new restaurant to actually open when they say it will. It’s like traffic. You need to pad on timing for reality.”
“I know. But I’d love to get this done before winter when the kids will be home half the time because of some plague or another.”
“Remember my evergreen babysitting offer.”
“Ooh, yes!” Mar gets animated. “Speaking of. Very last minute, but can you take them this weekend? Logan and I were taken off the waitlist at our fave hotel in Los Alamos, after we couldn’t get in for our anniversary.” Los Alamos is just a couple hours north of us and is wine country for Southern California. It’s gorgeous this time of year, everything green and lush.
“Sure,” I say, taking a bite of salad. “And since it’s not the season of hellish cold and flu, hopefully I won’t get norovirus from them again.” I have been babysitting these kids since they were born, and I have yet to have a winter without projectile vomiting since Mica started preschool.
“God, every year we come out of it alive I’m shocked. Luckily, they’re old enough to just turn into TV zombies on sick days,” she says. “I just wish I could plan ahead, knowexactlywhich days they’ll be sick.”
“You’d just get a monthly email from the future telling youwhich days to plan for, right?” I say as our pizza arrives—a Margherita piled high with prosciutto and fat dollops of ricotta. “Dear Marcella, Please plan to be entirely fucked from the twelfth through fifteenth. Sincerely, Future.”
She pushes her sunglasses up. “You kid, but that’s because you know the future.”
“I do not.” I pull a slice and the cheese stretches enticingly. I motion for Mar to give me her plate and place the slice on there. “I know how to find your fated.”
“Isn’t that knowing the future?” she asks. “You are the most laid-back person I know because of this. What’s it like not to be haunted by the specter of anxiety?”
“I get anxiety!”
She makes apfftsound. “Being controlling and type A doesn’t mean you have anxiety.”
“Rude. What about my insomnia?”
