Neighborly(34)

Thinking of Doug brings back all the anger and hurt from last night. All that’s waiting to be settled.

“Anything you want to talk about?” Andie says.

I can feel her good intentions. She’s not pushing me; she’s just here to listen.

“Doug and I had a fight last night. Nothing ugly,” I assure her. “It’s just that we spent all our money to get into that house. I know it doesn’t look like much to everyone else on the block, but it’s our home.” Tears prick my eyes. “I thought Doug and I . . . I thought we both felt like that was enough, you know, just being here and living our lives.”

Andie’s nodding like she really gets it. “It can do a number on you, moving to a new place. The flip side of all that hope is disappointment, you know? We’re all afraid to be disappointed.”

“I don’t feel disappointed in the neighborhood.” Well, except for those notes, but I’m not ready to share that with her yet. “But I was really disappointed in Doug last night. He went out and bought these expensive bikes that he knew we can’t afford. Then he comes home and says, ‘Surprise!’”

I’m laying my cards out on the table, financially speaking. If she doesn’t want to have a broke friend, then she can just walk away now, before I get in any deeper.

“Classic male trick.” She says it almost fondly. “Do you believe Doug loves you?”

“Of course.”

“Do you believe that he values your happiness—and Sadie’s happiness—as much as his own?”

I have to think longer on this one. “Yes.”

“Is what happened yesterday big enough to divorce him over?”

“Of course not.”

“Then it’s not big enough to fight over, or hang on to, either. I have it on good authority: dating in your thirties is hell. Ask June.”

June’s only thirtysomething, with a teenager? She looks youthful, but I just assumed she had a good cosmetic dermatologist.

So June was a teen mom. She’s been through some shit, too, then. Just like Raquel, and like me. And maybe like Andie, I don’t know. It occurs to me that I don’t know anything about Andie’s childhood.

But back to the topic at hand. While there may be a flaw in Andie’s marital reasoning, it’s still so comforting. Let it go. Save myself the aggravation. Better yet, spare myself the confrontation.

“You don’t have a problem, really,” she concludes. “We’re talking about things. Possessions. Never let them get in your way.”

She’s right, but then, she has way nicer things than I ever will, and no worries about how she’ll pay for them.

But they are just bikes, after all. He was trying to make me happy, searching for a fun family activity, something as local as it gets, and maybe it was an error in judgment, but his heart was in the right place. What difference does another few thousand dollars of debt really make, in the grand scheme of things?

We’re here, and the sun is shining, and Sadie and Fisher are asleep in their strollers, and I have a new friend. A whole circle of new friends.

“You want to turn inland?” Andie asks. “Wander through the Village?” I’m glad that she’d like to continue on with me after all she’s heard, instead of just going back home.

When people say, “the Village,” what they really mean is Main Street, though there are a few branching arteries that also feature restaurants, cafés, and shops. On Main Street, there are artisanal bakeries and a market hall full of foodie delights; children’s and adult boutiques for clothes, shoes, and glasses (excuse me, “eyewear”); a small bookstore where the wares seem curated by color rather than selected for content; the bike shop; ethnic restaurants from Cambodian to Ukrainian along with California cuisine, pizza, and all the other usual family-friendly suspects; a few bars; and separate shops for ice cream, frozen yogurt, gelato, and bubble tea. Everything is locally sourced and independently owned. It’s zoned that way. You drive five minutes to get to the big-box stores, but you stroll on Main Street so you get the best of both worlds, city and suburbia, like Gina said.

We can’t go three feet without running into someone Andie knows. She introduces me to at least twenty people, whose names I’ll never remember. She’s an extrovert for sure.

“I’ll text you about the board meeting,” Andie tells one hot mama, the kind who’s not as good-looking as Tennyson but who likely shops at Le Jardin.

Andie suggests we stop in, though the saleswoman who greets Andie by name says that Tennyson isn’t there today. The store smells musky yet botanical, which fits the theme, and many of the clothes are gauzy, barely there, and incredibly expensive. Andie tries on a scarf and looks at some jewelry under glass, unruffled by the prices.

I feel out of place, though the saleswoman is incredibly friendly. She’s suggesting outfits that would “look great with my coloring.”

“Another time,” I tell her. “I really should be getting home.” I turn to Andie, who’s now perching various hats on her head, pursing her lips, and fluffing the ends of her hair as she stares at her reflection in the mirror. “Sadie could use a bath.”

Andie replaces the hat on the stand. “Let’s go, then.”

“That hat looked great on you. Maybe you should get it.” I’m telling the truth, but still, it feels a little phony. If Andie can see through me, she’ll know that I’m having a Yolanda-esque moment of insecurity. There was so much competition on that street, tons of women who are already Andie’s friends or would like to be and who could afford Le Jardin.