The movie I never paused makes itself known, Mark Ruffalo informing Jennifer Garner that he can’t do this.You can’t just turn back time!Don’t I know it.
Eitan steps closer to where I sit, staring at the television. “Why are you watching13 Going On 30at nine in the morning?”
The Universe punctuates his question by cutting to an advertisement where a silver fox tells me about another drug that will help with menopause. I groan and rush to turn off the television. “I swear to God my Prime account thinks I’m a sixty-year-old woman.” I toss the remote across the room into my armchair, with it my dignity. “I mean, you Google menopause symptoms one time! One freaking time! And you’re typecast for the rest of your life.”
Eitan’s brows are raised, but for the first time since he knocked on my door, he’s smiling. It’s lopsided and gorgeous. It makes me want to grab his face and?—
All of a sudden I’m sweating. I rip off my robe—beneath it I’m wearing a Hannah Montana t-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts I stole from Grant—and wrench open my fridge to stick my head in. “Are you sure she wantedmeto go?” I call out from the fridge. “That seems like a Miri job.”
“Well, when I saw her text thirty minutes ago, I also learned the breaking news that PenfiredMiri.”
I slam the fridge closed. “She did what now?”
“Youreallyneed to check your phone.”
My hot flash has ended abruptly—painfully—and I’m an inch away from shivering. I drape my robe back over myself like a shawl and root through last night’s purse for my phone. It’s a useless block of metal, just the way I like it after an identity-crisis-meltdown. When my phone is dead, I can pretend the world it connects me to doesn’t exist either. I plug it in and wait.
Eitan looks pointedly at his watch. “You should probably get changed.”
I look between him and the black screen, not sure who to trust.
“Why would I lie about this?” he asks, reading the suspicion in my face.
“I don’t know.” He’s probably not lying, which is concerning on many levels. The first being: Miri is actually fired. The second being: Miri is fired, and the reaction is to knock on my door.
The marquee lights spelling outAGENTED WRITERin my brain pulse, as if to remind me what’s become tied up in this wedding.
I grimace at my phone one last time before dropping it on the counter and stomping into my closet.
What outfit says,I actuallydidn’tcry myself to sleep last night!Does a blouse exist that screams,Ducks? Most definitely in a row!
I think about Felicity the Fair in her babydoll top. Babydoll says something along the lines of:I’m taking the patriarchy by the horns and reclaiming a silhouette made for little girls.Elizabeth Bennet essentially wears a babydoll silhouette, and Darcy crossed a misty field at sunrise to declare his love for her. There’s something there.
I emerge from my closet in a power combo of wide-leg jeans, babydoll top, and a hasty coat of mascara (don’t read into that). Eitan is sitting on my couch, having retrieved the remote and restarted13 Going On 30. His arms splay over the spine of the couch, and his feet are planted confidently. It’s the way, I imagine, a king would sit. Someone who knows who they are. Knows where they stand.
My phone has powered on and is buzzing in a stream of modern morse code:You! Are! Popular!I swallow down the thrill at the noise, stuffing more popcorn in my mouth, and scan the notifications: two text messages from Penelope, three text messages to a group chat of unknown numbers from Penelope, and one from Instagram.
The text messages are quick to read, confirming everything Eitan’s said so far. Fragments stand out like,You are saving my lifeandI can’t wait to get your help.
“It clicked why I’ve never met you,” Eitan calls from the couch. “You’re Pen’s friend who had breast cancer.”
My popcorn swallows wrong and I accidentally bite the inside of my mouth. I soothe the spot with my tongue.
“She had mentioned it a few times a while ago, and it clicked this morning when I saw her post, after what you said last night.”
“Post…?” I question, fearing the answer. Then I remember the Instagram notification.@PenelopeIsland tagged you in a post.
The first thing I see when the app loads is a cover image that Penelope took with me last night. We’re both smiling, arms wrapped around each other, faces pressed together. A warm fuzzy sense of belonging overflows in me. I swipe, hungrily, to see the rest of the carousel. It’s all pictures of us, I realize with awe. Photos of us waiting in line, inside bars, having bottomless brunch picnics. Then, at the end, a selfie Penelope took with me after my surgery, the one time she came to visit me. I’m still out of it on painkillers, with barely-there peach fuzz on my head and zero eyebrows. My skin is blotchy and my eyes are half open.
I’m SO honored to introduce you to the best bridesmaid in the world, @rubyhirsch23. Not only has my girl battled CANCER, but she’s already halfway done planning the joint-bach of my DREAMS! #cancerwarrior #pinkribbon #breastcancer #bridesmaid #bride
The air has been sucked out of the room. That’s the only explanation. I try so hard to move past this, and one photo threatens my sanity. It sucks me back into the treatment chair, hands and feet sitting inside ice packs, needle plugged into my chest with paclitaxel dripping into my bloodstream.We’ll haveyou out of here in an hour, the nurse assures me.Just as soon as your medicine is done.
And Penelope posted it to a hundred thousand people.
I can’t look Eitan in the eye. I shove my chin behind my shoulder so that my neck is craned away from him.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t say that to upset you.” Eitan stands up from the couch, walking toward me like he’s approaching a skittish colt. “I thought it was out in the open with you mentioning it and Penelope posting it.”
