“I’m depressed again. I don’t want to go there tonight, I don’t want to talk to anyone, I just want to wear my sweatpants and one of your big T-shirts and cuddle on the couch while we watch a trashy TV show and eat ice cream.”
He laughs. “Well, you don’t have to stay until midnight. Just go for a little. I think getting out would be good.”
“Well, going out is the last thing I want.”
He looks away and takes a breath, like what he says next will either make or break how the rest of this conversation goes.
“Babe…” he finally says, his voice softer now. “I understand, but you know how you get when you check out and hide from people for days. You’ll feel worse. At least go and try to have a good time. Have a glass of wine, and maybe laugh a little.”
I cross my arms. “So…what? You’re saying I’m a buzzkill?”
He tilts his head, sighing, and steps into the room. His hands find my waist, pulling me gently closer until our foreheads touch. “I’m saying you’re my wife, and I hate seeing you stuck in your head like this.” His eyes soften. “I’m not trying to push you, I just… These last two weeks were long, and you deserve a night out.”
The problem is, I want that too. But wanting it and actually having the energy for it are two completely different things.
“I guess.” I sigh, and he kisses my forehead before letting go.
“I love you, and when you get home, I’ll have the ice cream waiting.”
“Ice cream,” I repeat, giving him a pointed look. “Not lingerie.”
He smirks. “Ice cream. Maybe some whipped cream too, but strictly for the ice cream.”
I shake my head, muttering, “You’re ridiculous,” and shoo him out before he can add on something else.
* * *
Ella’s got her place looking sweet but simple; no Pinterest-perfect spreads, just a couple of strings of paper hearts taped along the wall, a few candles flickering on the coffee table, and mismatched plates set out on the counter. She’s three months pregnant, but she still made sure to pick up a couple bottles of wine for the rest of us.
Addison is already behind the counter, sleeves pushed up, mixing one of the mocktails she brought supplies for. She’s got them lined up in mismatched glasses, looking fun and fancy.
Megan came in carrying a plastic bakery container with cupcakes in one hand and a pack of frosted cookies in the other. She shrugged when we looked at her haul, saying something about not having time to bake.
I set my big bowl of tossed salad beside Ella’s casserole dish of baked chicken and the pan of mac and cheese, still bubbling around the edges. The whole place smells like home—cheesy, buttery, and warm.
We’re all dressed cute. Addison’s in a pink sweater, Megan has on a simple red dress, and Ella’s in one of those flowy maternity tops that hides the early bump. I chose the white dress with tiny flowers.
The four of us pile food on our plates and claim spots around the table. We start talking about everything from work to the kids to our significant others. The kind of conversation you can only have when it’s just the girls.
Halfway through dinner, Megan sets her fork down and reaches for her wineglass. “Alright,” she says, leaning forward like she’s about to make a big announcement. “I think we need a proper toast.”
Addison eyes her from across the table, mocktail in hand. “To what?”
Megan grins. “To us. The girls.” She lifts her glass higher. “God bless the girls.”
We all laugh, reaching across the table to clink glasses, Megan’s wine with mine, Addison and Ella’s mocktails tapping against them.
“God bless the girls,” Addison echoes with a grin, taking a sip. “It’s a song, you know.”
Ella snorts. “Of course you’d know that.”
Megan swirls her glass, leaning her elbows on the table. “Okay, but I feel like I don’t even know you guys. We see each other all the time, but it’s always at church and family dinner, where everyone’s talking over each other.”
Addison laughs. “That’s true. And it’s always about hunting.”
Ella grins. “Or fishing.”
“Exactly,” Megan says. “So, tell me something I don’t know about you. Karissa, go.”
