Rich and Pretty(56)

“A body for childbearing,” he says. “Ouch.” He sips the wine. “Cheers.”

“Well, I’m just saying.”

“I’ve never even met her,” he says. “Am I going to meet her before this big fancy wedding?”

“Probably,” she says, though she has no real idea.

“Sarah with the important father, whose parties are attended by members of the Supreme Court, that’s all I know about her.”

She shrugs. “I’ve known her for a million years,” she says. “She’s my best friend.”

“So you don’t want her to meet me,” he says. “What am I, your sexual plaything?”

“And personal chef, don’t forget personal chef.”

“Seriously, though, we should all get together, do something, don’t you think? I think. Invite them over. I’ll cook.” He looks at her.

She tries, fails to imagine Sarah and Dan here, in this kitchen. There are four wooden folding chairs pulled up to a shabby table Rob also uses as a desk. A jar that once held organic strained tomatoes has been repurposed as a vase. The flowers are a nice touch though. “Dan,” she says.

“The fiancé?”

“He’s unbearable,” she says. “I don’t know. Maybe we can all get a drink or something.”

“He’s unbearable, but your best friend is marrying him,” he says. He’s slicing mushrooms, pushes his slipping glasses back up his face with his shoulder.

“He’s not so bad, I guess. He’s not my favorite person in the universe, but they’re very well suited to each other. It makes, like, one hundred percent sense that they’re getting married.”

“Because he’s a loser?”

“He’s not a loser.” She pauses. “I don’t know.”

“You described him to me, like two weeks ago, and I quote, as a ‘loser.’”

“I didn’t realize you were taking notes. He’s fine. He’s just such a . . . I don’t know what the word would be. A nerd?” She knows that’s not right.

“I’m a nerd.”

“You like baseball,” Lauren says. “Dan likes medical ethics.”

“I like medical ethics.”

“You do not.”

“I could.” Rob reaches into the fridge, removes the butter.

“You couldn’t, trust me, it’s horribly boring.” The wine is good.

“Can I just ask though, seriously, it’s not me, right? You’re not ashamed of slumming it with the lowly editor type? Fucking the temp.”

“You’re not even a temp, anymore,” she says.

“I’m asking a serious question here, Lauren.”

“Don’t be insane,” she says. “I’m not hiding you from them. I’m protecting you from them.”

“Well, you can see how a guy might get the wrong idea,” he says. “It’s not like I’m saying take me home to meet the folks.”

“The folks,” she says. “Let’s talk about something else, okay?”

“Are you sure Sarah is your best friend? You never sound all that psyched about her.”

“I don’t? Yes, I’m sure. Obviously. Look, we’ve known each other for years, and maybe we’re a little different now, as grown-ups, but there’s a long history there. We go way back, as they say.”

“You seem a little on edge, though, when you talk about her. You know what I mean?” He’s dicing garlic.

She isn’t sure what to say. She’s annoyed. She’s known Rob four months, she’s known Sarah twenty-one years.

“I’m just saying, sometimes it doesn’t sound like you’re best friends. You seem a little . . . annoyed by her,” Rob says.

“Everyone’s friends annoy them sooner or later, right?” She drinks. “She’s my best friend. I can’t explain it.”

“I didn’t mean to make you mad,” he says. “I thought we were just talking.”

“We are just talking.” She’s being short with him but she can’t stop herself. “I’m sorry. I don’t know. It’s—” She doesn’t know how to complete the thought. It’s complicated. It’s her way. It’s private. All of those things, though this last is too mean—she doesn’t think Rob should be allowed to talk to her about Sarah. Four months, fine, but they don’t know each other. She can’t be known in so short a time.

“Hey.” He puts the tongs down on the counter and looks at her seriously. “You there? I’m sorry if I said the wrong thing. I’m just curious about Sarah. I’d like to meet her. She’s a big part of your life. It seems right that I would know her.”

She looks down into her glass. He is right. “You’re right. Never mind. Let’s focus on the task at hand. Can I help?”

“I don’t know, Lauren. I run a pretty serious kitchen.”

She climbs off the stool and goes to stand beside him in the kitchen. Things are very organized in there: cutting board, bowls, the pepper mill. She’s seized with a powerful urge: to take him by the hands and pull his arms around her, to feel the weight and warmth of his body behind her, to feel him, there, a real human being, hers, to just stand there for a moment, quietly. She doesn’t do this, though she doesn’t know why. She reaches up—he’s taller than she is—and grabs the towel from his shoulder. She tosses it over her own with a flourish, like Isadora Duncan with her fatal scarf.