Mrs. Fletcher(50)

Julian was intimately familiar with this line of thinking. It had played on a loop during the black hole of his senior year. My life is good. People love me. I have a promising future. So why can’t I get out of bed?

“Doesn’t matter,” he told Dumell, surprising himself with the conviction in his voice. “You feel what you fucking feel. You don’t have to apologize to anyone.”

Dumell squinted for a few seconds, as if he was trying to get Julian into focus. But after a moment, his expression softened.

“Guess you know what I’m talking about, huh?”

“Kind of,” Julian told him. “I got PTSD from high school.”

*

Eve stopped drinking after her second glass of the house white—a watery pinot grigio—but Margo happily accepted Barry’s offer of a third.

“What the heck,” she said. “I’m not teaching tomorrow.”

It was close to eleven, and Eve started thinking about the logistics of a graceful exit. It would have been simple, except that she felt responsible for getting Margo back to campus, where she’d left her car. She was about to broach the subject when Margo turned to her with a wistful smile.

“This is nice,” she said. “It’s just what I hoped it would be.”

“What do you mean?”

Margo gestured vaguely, sculpting a roundish object with her hands.

“Just this. Going out with a girlfriend and talking about . . . stuff.” She laughed sadly. “I always thought I’d have more women friends after I transitioned. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I have friends. But not too many of them are cis women.”

“It’s hard,” Eve said. “Everybody’s so busy.”

Margo tapped a manicured fingernail on a damp cocktail napkin. “I think I watched too much Sex and the City, and read too many novels about amazing female friendships. These women who talk about everything, and help each other through the hard times. I never had friends like that when I was living as a guy.”

“My ex-husband didn’t have any friends like that, either. Men just don’t need that much from each other.”

“But you do, right? You have friends you can confide in. Talk about your love life or whatever. Share your secrets.”

“A few,” Eve said, though she hadn’t done a great job of maintaining those friendships in recent months. She hadn’t told Jane or Peggy or Liza about her porn problem, and she certainly hadn’t mentioned her crush on Amanda. The only person she could imagine confiding in about her feelings for Amanda was Amanda herself, and that wasn’t possible at the moment. They hadn’t really talked since their fateful dinner at Enzo, even though they saw each other every day at work. When they did communicate, they were both a little guarded, very proper and professional, as if neither one wanted to venture into any gray areas, or get anywhere near the other’s personal boundaries.

“You know what the problem is?” Margo said. “I missed out on the bonding periods. I didn’t grow up with a tight group of girls, didn’t have any women roommates in college, didn’t get to swap sex stories with co-workers at lunch. No Mommy and Me classes, no hanging out with a neighbor while our kids had a playdate. The only woman I could ever talk to like that was my ex-wife, and she refuses to be my girlfriend. She wants me to be happy, but she doesn’t want to go clothes shopping or hear about the cute guy I have a crush on. Can’t really blame her, I guess.”

“That’s gotta be complicated,” Eve said.

Margo nodded, but her mind was elsewhere.

“When I was a guy, I used to get so jealous when women went to the bathroom together. One of them would get up, and then her friend would get up, too. Sometimes two friends. It was like a conspiracy. And I’d be like, What’s going on in there? What kind of secrets are they telling each other?”

“Nothing too exciting,” Eve said, though she’d actually had some interesting bathroom experiences over the years. Sophomore year of high school, Heather Falchuk pulled up her shirt and showed Eve her third nipple, a little pink island at the bottom of her rib cage. Her college friend Martina, a recovering bulimic, used to have Eve accompany her to the bathroom so she wouldn’t be tempted to purge after a big meal.

“I know it’s stupid,” Margo said, running her finger over the lip of her wineglass. “It’s just one of those things I always wanted to do.”

*

Julian had made it through two-thirds of the pitcher when the extent of his inebriation made itself clear to him.

“Oh, shit,” he told Dumell.

“What?”

Julian’s laughter sounded hollow and faraway in his own ears. “I’m pretty fucking wasted, man.”

“I can see that. You been sucking it down pretty good.”

“Can I tell you a secret?” Julian leaned toward Dumell. It felt to him like something important was happening. “I never had a black friend before. You think that makes me a racist?”

Dumell thought this over, scratching the corner of his mouth with the tip of a thumb.

“I hope you’re not driving home,” he said.

Julian shook his head and pointed to the floor.

“Got my trusty skateboard.”

“Where you live?”

“Haddington.”