I shake my head. “Consolation prize. I’ve grown attached.”
He holds up his fist. I bump it. “Good call.”
“Agreed, the Nespresso leaves over my dead body,” Lola chimes in as she drops her overburdened purse onto a barstool on the other side of the island and slides onto the one next to it. “I want to hear all about what led to the demise of SophKen, I really do, but first things first.” She reaches into her back pocket, pulls something out, and slides it across the counter to me like she’s presenting me with the answer to all my problems. Or at least a temporary diversion from the upheaval.
Two concert tickets. It’s been years since I’ve seen a live show because tickets are expensive; I’m intrigued. Picking them up, I scan the details and scrunch up my nose. “Thicker Than Water? Never heard of them.”
She slaps her palms down on the battered butcher block, tips her head back, and huffs. Eyes closed, but still pointed toward the ceiling, she explains, “Who cares. It’s a night out with me. Your favorite sister.”
“Myonlysister,” I interject.
She drops her chin and bats her expertly applied false eyelashes, ignoring the jab. “We’ll get drunk and dance and think dreamy thoughts about the hot guys on stage.”
“Sounds good to me,” Benji says, while searching the snack drawer.
Lola and I both swivel to him.
He plucks a granola bar out of the box and then looks up at us when the silence stretches. He shrugs. “Minus the alcohol, obviously.”
We nod with motherly and auntie approval, and Lola reaches across the counter and high-fives the fourteen-year-old.
My eyes circle the room, thinking of all the things I could do tonight. Mainly wallowing in the breakup, resurrecting and overthinking every past life decision in vivid detail, and eating junk food.
“We’re going,” Lola states with finality. “I’m not leaving you alone tonight to mope. Or to regret the time you cut off your hair in eighth grade to look like Pink.”
“Rihanna,” I correct. “Damn you, you mind reader.”
She shakes her head, but she’s smirking in triumph.
“Have fun,” Benji calls as he walks down the hall to his bedroom.
“You too,” I call back in defeat.
Benji rotates swiftly through short-lived hobbies. Tonight, he’s online with a band he assembled a few weeks ago. They play something he calls post-bop jazz. He’s learning how to play the drums. What he lacks in raw talent, he makes up for in passion. And volume. It gets loud.
“Rock on!” Lola accompanies the declaration with the hand gesture, because she’s extra like that.
He shakes his head, embarrassed for her, and shuts the door behind him.
With Benji out of earshot, Lola turns to me and asks, “Do you want to talk about it? I have a sharpened butcher knife hidden under my mattress. I could dismember Ken, discreetly of course, and make him disappear.” She knows I like to swim around in my thoughts. She’s offering me a buoy.
“I appreciate the grisly offer?—”
“Loving,” Lola corrects.
“Loving offer,” I amend. “But there’s not much to say—he left me for someone else. I didn’t see it coming.”
“That fucker,” Lola hisses, outraged on my behalf.
I grab the dish towel from the sink and scrub at a glob of peanut butter on the counter leftover from my rushed lunch. “Yup. Fucker.”
“Who is she?” She looks as stunned as I feel.
I shrug. “He said she works at a new wellness studio downtown. He sells them water. There was aconnection.” I wrap the word in air quotes. “I don’t remember much after that. I kinda tuned out.”
Chance reps ‘boutique’ water for his best friend’s start-up. It’s filtered city tap water perked up with minimal fruity flavoring and an unjustified high price tag. At least the label’s cute.
“That fucker,” she repeats. “We’re definitely lighting his shit up.”
