The Queen of Hearts(88)

Of course, this generally applied to minor dustups, not earth-shattering betrayals. But at the same time, there was so much more at stake here. I didn’t want to lose my best friend. I still loved her. And if you looked at this rationally, she’d surely canceled some of her debt with years of steady friendship: soldiering together through our careers, through raising our babies, through various social disasters, and all the other things for which you rely on your friends. Every time I needed her, she’d been there. I knew from the guilt emblazoned on her face that she felt as culpable as Nick—this wasn’t a case of unreciprocated pursuit on his part—but I hadn’t heard her side of things yet. Maybe she had an explanation.

I hummed as I drove into the garage, moving quickly toward the elevators. I liked these elevators because they came equipped with a pleasant but bossy computerized female voice. “Don’t even think about getting on if there are more than ten riders,” cooed my elevator when the doors opened to admit me. “There’re only eight of us,” somebody hollered as I hesitated. Hurriedly, I tried to decide if a weight-challenged person near the back counted as one or two people.

I rolled the dice. We made it up to the lobby, where I waved Drew’s work lanyard at a card reader. All the buildings in Charlotte’s uptown district connected via pedways, skybridges, and tunnels, making it easy to park for free in Drew’s building and hoof it over to the glitzy skyscraper housing the restaurant without ever setting foot outdoors.

Just before leaving the house, I’d finally fessed up to Drew that tonight’s dinner qualified as more than a mundane social engagement. Somewhat surprisingly, he’d made it home in time for me to leave, although he wasn’t overwhelmed with excitement at me bailing on the freewheeling mayhem that passed for bedtime in our house.

“You’re going where?” he said, his eyes drifting past me to our bed, where all four children had apparently decided to practice gymnastics.

“Dinner with Emma,” I repeated, trying to look beguiling.

Drew’s consternation grew. “Now?”

“Yes. If that’s okay. It’s an emergency, actually.”

“You have an emergency dinner at a swanky uptown restaurant with your best friend?”

I grabbed Drew’s arm and dragged him into the master bathroom, shutting the door on the kids’ ruckus. Both of us relaxed. I met his eyes. “Emma and I had kind of a . . . falling-out,” I said. Drew started to say something, but I butted in. “More than just a fight.”

“About what?”

“About a guy.”

Assuming there’d be more, Drew merely raised an eyebrow.

“Right, then.” I took the plunge. “Do you remember me talking to a surgeon at the Arts Ball? I dated him once. His name’s Nick Xenokostas, but everyone called him X. He was not one of my better decisions.”

“Why not?”

Quick assessment: Drew’s countenance was peaceful. Forge ahead.

“He was a monumental jackass, actually. It was against all the ethical admonitions of the medical school for us to date, at least while we were on the same rotation, since I was a student. He knew that, of course, and was constantly warning me not to tell anyone. But it wasn’t a deal breaker to me; I thought, why should the school control who I see romantically? It was a little bit exciting, even.”

“Zadie the rogue.”

I checked again. Instead of jealousy, Drew’s expression now reflected vague amusement.

“Well. As it turned out, he was less concerned with people finding out about me because I was a student and more concerned with me finding out that he was also hooking up with another student at the same time. And also: he was married.”

“Whoa.” Drew’s face finally relinquished its complacency and took on a more appropriate, repulsed look.

“Wait. There’s more,” I said. “The other student was Emma.”

Now he was truly shocked; his mouth opened in confusion. Eventually he sputtered, “I bet Emma kicked his ass when she found out.”

“Not exactly. She knew the whole time. At least, she knew about me; neither of us knew he was married.”

Drew processed this. “Holy shit,” he said slowly. “I’m sorry, honey.”

“It was sordid and disturbing on many levels,” I admitted. “Lots of bad decisions on everyone’s part.”

“You found out about Emma back then?”

“No,” I said. “I found out about her at the Arts Ball.”

As we say in the South, Drew hadn’t just fallen off the turnip truck yesterday. It didn’t take an emotional genius to deduce from my tear-stained face and hysterical hiccupping on the ride home from the Arts Ball that something had gone awry. Both of us had had enough to drink that we Ubered home; the presence of the driver rendered me mute until we reached our house, where I’d fled to the bathtub. Drew asked me through the door if I wanted to talk, and I yelled that I didn’t.

He nodded his head as he put it together, then folded me up in his arms.

“I’m okay,” I said. “I mean, I’m pissed, but it happened a long time ago, and Emma is a genuinely good person. It was totally out of character for her to do what she did. I’m going to let her grovel for a while, and then I’m going to forget about it.”