The Hopefuls(13)

When P. J. Clarke’s started a members-only dining room, Colleen had a key card in her possession before most people even knew it existed. At least once a year, she was named to some list, and she’d forward the link to us: DC’s 30 Under 30; Rising Stars of DC; DC’s Young Power Women. She always pretended like these things were random, that they didn’t matter to her, but we all knew better.

I was lost in thought but could feel Colleen staring at me. “What’s going on with you?” she finally asked. “You’re all doom and gloom.”

“No, I’m fine,” I said. “I think I just miss New York.”

“It’s not so bad here, you know. I mean, you have a washer and dryer for Christ’s sake. And it’s not like you were going to live in New York forever.”

“I guess not,” I said.

“And everything will work out,” she said. “You’ll see.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I know.”

It was easier to agree with Colleen than try to explain what I really thought. This move to DC had disrupted things. The truth was, I’d liked being married to a lawyer, liked that Matt’s job made sense, that there was a steady future plotted out. It felt like we were ahead of everyone else in the race to become adults. We were married, we owned a home, we were a couple to be envied. I’d always felt so grown up in my life with Matt—at twenty-five, I used to offer to drop off his dry cleaning just so I could say, “Light starch on my husband’s shirts, please.”

And then, he’d joined the campaign and I’d lost my job. We moved to DC and Matt was making less than half what he did before. I was still unemployed, and we were renting a place with a twenty-year-old refrigerator and water marks on the ceiling. All of a sudden, everything felt uncertain.

“You’ll be happier once you find a job,” Colleen said.

“I’m sure you’re right,” I said.

She sat back, looking pleased. “Of course I am,” she said.

—

After our nails were done, we walked back to my apartment—carefully, with our hands held in front of us so that we wouldn’t smudge the polish. It was only a couple blocks away, but we were both sweating by the time we got there, thankful for the blast of air-conditioning that hit us as we opened the door.

“How is it so hot out?” I asked. I kicked off my flip-flops.

“This is nothing,” Colleen said, removing her own sandals. “It’s only June. Just wait until August.”

“I can’t believe you haven’t been here yet,” I said. “I’ll give you the grand tour.” We walked barefoot through the apartment, poking our heads into the kitchen, then went up the stairs to the bedroom.

“This place is nice,” Colleen said. “How much are you paying?” She sat down on the bed and leaned back against the pillows, kicking her legs up, which made me smile. Only my college friends would lie down on my bed, uninvited, and ask how much my rent was. There was something refreshing about being around someone who wouldn’t hesitate to open my cabinets and help herself to anything in the refrigerator.

We spent the next two hours chatting. Colleen had become obsessed with politics since moving to DC and rarely talked about anything else, except when she was discussing actual people in DC who worked in media or were otherwise important.

The refreshing thing—because honestly I don’t know if we would have stayed friends if she only talked about politics—was that Colleen remained a devoted watcher of The Real Housewives and Keeping Up with the Kardashians. I only tuned in by accident, but she taped them all. She was the only person I knew who seemed genuinely concerned about Kim Kardashian’s future. She had just said to me, “I just don’t think she’s choosing the right guys,” when we heard the front door open.

“Hello?” Matt called.

“We’re up here,” I said.

Matt was already loosening his tie and getting ready to pull it off when he walked into the bedroom, but he stopped when he saw Colleen.

“Oh, well hello,” Matt said. “Look who’s here.”

“Hey, Dogpants,” Colleen said. (She still, almost exclusively, called him Dogpants. Once in a while, I heard her call him Matt and it just sounded wrong.)

Normally, Matt would’ve kissed Colleen on the cheek, but I could tell he was a little uncomfortable that she was lying on our bed, so he just waved from across the room and said, “So, what have you two been up to?”

“Got our nails done, caught up, tried to find Beth a job and convince her this isn’t the worst place in America to live. You know, the usual.”

Matt laughed. “Oh yeah? Any luck?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m now fully employed and I love it here.”

They both laughed, even though my joke wasn’t particularly funny. Matt perched on the bench at the end of our bed, and he and Colleen started talking about how Colleen’s husband, Bruce, wanted to take Matt golfing soon. Bruce was seventeen years older than Colleen, which somehow still surprised me. The first time I met him, the four of us went to get drinks at a dark hotel bar that served snacks in white ceramic dishes and had egg whites in most of the cocktails. It was noisy, and Bruce kept leaning forward and cupping his ear toward whoever was talking, which was the same thing my dad did in crowded restaurants.