I make a quick stop off for groceries, indulging in an old best friend tradition of picking up a few of Sibby’s favorite things, too, because I figure she’ll appreciate that after being away. It’s Friday afternoon crowded, but Trina behind the counter still makes time to tell me she got rid of the infection in her belly button ring and celebrated by getting a new piercing “somewhere private.” Thankfully for me and everyone else in line behind me she does not offer to show it to me. When I get to my place, our post office guy has our bank of mailboxes open, so I sit on the steps and chat with him—he loves a good weather talk—while I wait for him to get to our apartment’s delivery.
My phone pings when he’s finishing up and I check it as I’m waving goodbye to him, smiling as I see I have a new message from Reid.
it says, because Reid texts direct, the same way he talks direct.
You onlylikehim, Meg, I tell myself as I stare down at it, that heart-tighteningtugging again.
I spell in my head.
But right as I’m getting ready to respond, my screen flashes with a different four-letterLword, and not the one I’ve been trying not to feel.
L-A-R-K, it reads, and that’s the first indication I get that my weekend is about to go a lot differently than I’d planned.
Here’s the thing: It is not easy preparing your home for an unplanned visit from a princess.
Lark’s voice on the phone had been soft, friendly, maybe even embarrassed—so different from the sharp way she’d spoken to me the last time I’d seen her. She was in the neighborhood, she’d said, and was hoping she could stop by the shop.
“I’m at home now, but I could get back there quickly,” I’d told her. “But it’ll be a full house—there’s a class happening there right now. How about we meet at a—” I’d begun, then remembered her reluctance about pretty much everywhere else.
“I could come to you,” she’d said, filling up the awkward silence, and two minutes later I’d been texting her my address, frantically running through a mental list of all the stuff I needed to pick up.
I can’t do much about the boxes that fill up the corners of the space, but I do my best with everything else. A quick cleanup of the kitchen, a grab-and-dump-elsewhere strategy of dealing with the mail I’ve let stack up on our breakfast table over the last few days, a flustered attempt at tidying the coffee table and couch, which shamefully—because Reid came over here last night—involves me shoving one of my bras between the cushions. My face heats at the reminder of that particular interlude, which ended with me on my knees and Reid with his hands in my hair.
When I buzz her up I use the last few seconds to look over the space (well, and to fan my hot face), acutely aware of how small and cluttered it’ll still probably look, given that townhouse-tower she’s used to.
But when I open the door to her, I’m reminded: Lark isn’t really a princess, and her townhouse isn’t really a tower. She’s five foot two of regular person, with a self-conscious smile and—if I’m not mistaken—a sheepish look in her eyes, and seeing her stand there on the closest thing I’ve got to a front porch, I suspect she feels about as awkward as I did the last time we saw each other.
“Come in,” I tell her, ushering her to my somewhat-sagging couch. I cheerfully list every type of beverage I have in my refrigerator, but really I know she’ll pass. I’m already bad-habitting my way through this, stalling away from the confrontation I remind myself I’m determined to have—even if it wasn’t the one I was planning on practicing for.
“Thanks for letting me come by,” she says, when I’ve finally taken a seat on the other side of the couch. She has her hands clasped tightly on her lap, and her throat bobs with a swallow.
Not for the first time, I think Lark and I probably have more in common than I would’ve ever thought.
“Sorry I haven’t called,” she says breezily. “I got really busy working with this new decorator Jade hired, and we had a quick trip up to Toronto for a shoot Cam is doing, and there’s been so much shopping to—”
“Lark,” I interrupt. Seeing her struggle through this performance—it somehow stops me cold from even attempting my own. “It’s okay. I get it.”
She looks at me with a mute, embarrassed regret that makes me want to change the subject for her. Instead I say, “I know I spoke out of turn at our last meeting.”
She blinks at me, then lowers her head for a minute, smoothing lint off her black jeans.
“No,” she says finally, her chin raising. “Hespoke out of turn. I was so embarrassed he acted that way in front of you. Not just . . . you know, what he said about me. But also his—” She breaks off, presses her lips together.
“His really bad quote idea?” I supply, sending a smile her way.
She raises a hand to her hairline, wincing and then breathing out an exasperated laugh. “I don’t knowwherehe gets this stuff. Every time I get close to finalizing an idea for the house, he comes up with something so . . . sodisruptive.”
My own smile fades.He’s doing it to control you, I’m thinking.He’s doing it to make you feel unsure of yourself.
“I hope you push back on that,” I say, and this time, I don’t put any cheer at all in my voice. “I hope you don’t think of yourself as a . . . a lightweight.”
“I don’t,” she says, and the quickness and confidence of her answer reassure me somewhat. Then she lowers her head again, looks down at her clasped hands. “But I’m pretty lost here. In New York, I mean. The truth is, I’d really only just gotten used to LA.”
“It’s pretty different, I imagine.”
She looks up, gives me a sardonic, closemouthed smile.You have no idea, this smile says.
“I had more people there, you know? We moved here, and I—he’s theoneperson.”
