It’s safe to say that Ireallylike Lennon.
After she finished eating, she went over to the sweets counter and ordered us two giant chocolate chunk cookies.
Her metabolism must be as fast as an Olympic sprinter.
Mine is not. But I still eat half the cookie.
Not as good as my gram’s recipe, though. These taste processed.
I’ve just told Lennon the abbreviated version of my history with John, ending with the phone call that prompted me to go window shopping in the first place, and her immediate rush to my defense makes me feel warm on the inside.
It’s been a long time since I’ve had a girlfriend. And there’s something really special about female friendships.
“You see what he’s doing, right?” she asks. “Classic manipulation. Ugh, thank God you’re not married to him anymore.”
I smile, but it must not come across right because Lennon’s face falls.
“Oh, Claire... are you still sad about it?” she asks. “I wasn’t sure if we were in the pitchfork phase or the tissue phase of your divorce.”
At that, I laugh. “A little from column A, a little from column B,” I say with a smile.
She laughs back. “Yeah, I get that.”
“I’m not sad,” I say. “I mean, mad, maybe? Or vengeful? Sad, though? Not really. Only at night.” I pause. “I’m trying not to be.”
She reaches across the table and puts a hand on mine. The simple gesture surprises me—I don’t have touchy-feely friends. “Look, Claire. People who just want to use you are never going to appreciate you for who you are. Trust me, I know.”
I want to hearthatstory.
“It’s all about what you can do for them,” she continues. “You bend over backward to make their life better, but it will never be good enough.” She holds her hands up and makes a shooing motion, like she’s brushing the air away from her. “Let him go. He’s S.E.P.”
“S.E.P.?”
She leans forward in her chair. “Someone Else’s Problem.”
I laugh ruefully, cross one leg over the other, and run my hands through my hair. “He wasmyproblem for so long. It’s like my whole identity was wrapped up in him and his family, his work... I’m having trouble figuring out what to do next.”
“But that’s the beauty of it!” Lennon exclaims. “You can do anything you want!”
“Right.” I thought I’d be a little closer to figuring out what that is by now.
She levels my gaze. “It only works if you let go of all of that old stuff. If you don’t”—she casts a quick glance over to the table where The Reader is now packing up her things—“you’ll end up like her. Bitter and alone.”
The woman tucks her book into a bag, picks up her tray, and walks it over to the garbage area. Even though I felt really embarrassed, I can’t help but feel a twinge of empathy for her.
I have no idea what her story is, but maybe she’s just trying to figure things out too.
I look at Lennon. “I’m not sure how to let it go. I mean, the man ruined my life.”
She polishes off her cookie, brushes her hands together, then stands. “Come on.”
I do the physical equivalent of a stutter as I stand, gather my things, and try to keep up with Lennon.
Her stride is much longer than mine, especially in those heels.
We throw away our trash, then take the elevator down to the ground floor, stepping outside into another glorious spring afternoon in the city.
The weather is darn near perfect, and I feel spoiled by it.
