“Thank. You,” she adds flatly.
Our waiter finally takes the hint and makes himself scarce. Lauren sucks down half of her second spritz.
“Must be tough,” I say. “Being that hotandpossessed of a snort that works like a mating call.”
She flips me the bird.
I laugh. Lauren laughs, too—a loud, throaty cackle.
It’s been a while since I can remember her laughing. And I’ve been too distracted with my own pity party to pick up on that. Guilt hits me again, though a bit gentler this time. A shove nudging me forward.
I slide the card across the table. “Happy almost birthday, Lo.”
Lauren glances from the card to me. “My birthday is over a month away,” she says.
I shrug. “You know me, I hate waiting to give gifts. Honestly, I’m proud I lasted this long. Pretty sure last year I gave you your gifts in—”
“May.” She rolls her eyes, but it’s softened by a smile. “Which is ridiculous.”
“Come on, open it.”
“Thea.” Her smile falls. She peers warily at the card. “Your cards make me emotional. You know I don’t like public displays of emotion.”
I nudge the card closer to her. The card teeters on the café table’s edge. “Lo,” I say dramatically, “don’t let my gift fall! My precious gift! Oh no, it’s going to—”
She swipes the card from the table.
“You and your damn gifts,” she mutters. She slides a finger beneath the envelope’s edge, careful as she opens it.
“How,” I ask, “can you open it that slowly? Don’t you just want to rip it off?”
“Nope.” Lauren pulls out the card and traces the embroidery. She smiles softly. I can tell she loves it. When she opens the card and sees what’s inside it, her mouth falls open. She swats me with the card. “Theadora—”
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” I tell her. “Bon appétit, friend.”
She stares at the gift card in her hand. “It’s too much.”
“Is not,” I say.
“Savoureux,” she says quietly.
Savoureux, Lauren’s told me, is the first restaurant she visited after moving to Pittsburgh for work. It’s the place that made her fall, in her words, “just alittlein love” with the city. Since then, she’s had the worst luck trying to get a reservation. They book months out, and any time she’s tried, they haven’t had openings that lined up with her demanding work schedule.
She peers up at me, and, shockingly, her eyes are wet. Lauren isnota crier. “Thea, thank you.”
I squeeze her hand. “You’re welcome. And that’s not all. I got a reservation on your birthday weekend! The first opening they had was the second Sunday in September, which I figured was pretty safe, since you usually only work through Saturday on the weekend…” My voice dies off as Lauren bursts into tears.
“Oh my god.” I lean in, clasping her arm. “Lauren, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she chokes out. She drops her forehead to the table.
“Lauren, clearly something is wrong.”
Her chest rises and falls with a deep, yogic breath as she gracefully sits up, then dabs beneath her eyes.
“I’m fine,” she says.
Giving me another one of those too-bright smiles, she grabs her Aperol spritz and sucks down the second half.
