Lauren stands in the middle of my apartment, white-knuckling a frosty glass of French wine while trying very hard not to glare at my eyesore of a rainbow-sherbet kitchen—pea-green Formica counters, orange cabinets, vaguely coral vinyl floor tile.
“This,” she says, “is delightful.”
I sip my wine to hide my smile. “It’s a dump, and you know it.”
She spins my way, something fierce in her expression. “It is not. It’s… vintage. And cozy.”
I drop into a canvas director’s chair and gesture for her to sit in the other one. “Come on, Lo.”
Lauren eases into the chair, then sets her glass of wine on the round, wooden coffee table between us.
I meet her eyes. “I feel like we have a lot to talk about, but first, I just want to address the state of the place, because I can tell you’re freaking out.”
“I’m not freaking out!” she says, plucking at her black tank top. “I’m slightly warm, that’s all.”
I laugh. “Slightly warm?”
“Fine,” she says. “It’s as hot as Satan’s ass crack in here.”
“It is. The AC is getting fixed, though, as you overheard.”
“Good,” she says. “How long has it not been working?”
I sip my wine again, buying myself time. “Since I moved here.”
“What the hell, Thea? In this heat wave? Why didn’t you say anything? You could have stayed with me.”
“I’ve been fine!”
“How,” she says emphatically.
I point to the two open windows letting in hot muggy air, the box fan that whirrs in one of them. “The cross breeze.”
“What cross breeze?” she asks.
“Well, it’s coming,” I tell her.
“Coming?”
“It’ll be here shortly.”
She reaches for her wine and takes a gulp. “Thea—”
“I’m okay, Lo.” I set my wine on the coffee table and lean in, elbows on my knees. “I know my apartment is underfurnished,undecorated, and extremely hot, and the kitchen is a midcentury design horror, but I’m okay with that.
“The AC’s being fixed. I’m going to ask Mr. Fleischer if I can paint the kitchen cabinets something that works better with pea green, and replace the floor tiles with a design that ties those colors together. I don’t have more furniture or any decorations because I’m taking my time and figuring out what I want.” I smile, shrugging. “I’m going to make my living space look the wayIwant for the first time in my life.”
Lauren smiles, too, and lifts her wineglass. “Cheers to that.”
“Cheers,” I say, clinking my glass with hers, “to a home that isn’t wall-to-wall greige.”
“Ethan and hisfuckinggreige,” she mutters into her glass.
“So.” I ease back into my chair. “Are you going to tell me what’s been going on?”
Lauren pauses midsip, then slowly lowers her glass and sets it on the coffee table. Groaning, she slumps back in her chair, then frowns up at the ceiling. After a beat of silence, she asks, “Am I having a stroke, or is the overhead lighting cutting out every three seconds?”
“It’s the lighting,” I tell her.
