You're Invited(43)
I looked at Kaavi, all but glowing, and felt the familiar stirrings of resentment.
People talk about romantic breakups like it’s the worst thing in the world. And it’s true, in a way. When Spencer and I ended, I thought my mangled heart would ooze out all the love I had ever known. That I would never really smile again. And I wasn’t wrong.
Movies are made about romantic breakups. Books are written. Songs are sung about how the sun stops shining and nothing has meaning anymore and how much, no matter how hard you try to drive yourself forward, how much it hurts.
But there’s another type of breakup. The kind that’s not romantic. The kind that happens between friends. There are no movies made about that. Perhaps because the pain is too deep, too profound to even encapsulate.
I couldn’t write a love song for my lost friendship with Kaavi. I’d lamented for Spencer, yes. I mean, I still lament sometimes. But I mourned just as much when I lost my best friend. Am I allowed that? It’s still the same pain of losing someone you loved with all your heart, isn’t it?
But it looked like I was the only one in mourning.
I could try to put it all behind me. Be happy for both of them. But I knew, from the moment I saw Spencer’s smile on Kaavi’s announcement photo, that I could never let that happen.
But I couldn’t dwell on him for much longer because I was accosted by Laura, who squealed like she hadn’t just met me for the first time a few hours ago.
“Amaya, oh god, there you are. Come join the girls for a drink!”
All the aunties at the table raised their eyebrows at this. In Colombo, some women drank. Most women didn’t. But certainly, no one ever admitted to it so openly. At least in their generation.
“I’m more in the mood for dessert,” I dodged, “but I’ll come say hi anyway. Aunties, will you’ll excuse me?” They gave me appreciative smiles as they side-eyed Laura’s deep-cut dress, which looked amazing, by the way, but looking amazing wasn’t the first priority for Colombo 07 aunties.
The space directly in front of the bar was, as expected, taken up by a group of young men in varying stages of inebriation. There were a lot of “Machangs,” “Ados,” and general swaying going around. I took a deep breath and held it till we walked past them, but none of them paid me any attention. All eyes were on Laura in her low-cut dress, but of course no one dared approach her. This was Colombo society, after all. Not some rave on a beach. No one would dare be rejected in public. Any form of interest was conveyed covertly, either through friends, or relatives, or lusty, meaningful eye contact and sly smiles. Straight out of a Jane Austen novel, but usually with a lot more booze.
Laura led me over to a secluded area behind the bar where a group of girls had gathered. They stood around a small cocktail table, discreetly sipping on their cosmos and Long Island iced teas. A little mountain of—of course—Louis Vuitton clutch bags was nestled on the table between them, and they were all dressed in some variation of colorful, flowy maxi dresses. I couldn’t have felt more out of place—a crow in the middle of a flock of exotic flamingos. I immediately wished the floor would open and swallow me up.
“Ladies,” Laura boomed, “meet Amaya. One of Kaavi’s old friends.” It felt strange that I, who had known Kaavi since she wore braces, was being introduced by Laura, who had known her all of five minutes. But still, the group, a mix of Sri Lankans and foreigners, all smiled and said hi.
“Hi, lovely to meet everyone,” I said, taking care to make sure my voice didn’t squeak. Is there anything more intimidating than a group of immaculately dressed women sipping on cocktails?
“Amaya, this is . . .” and Laura rattled off a list of names there was no chance I could possibly remember, but it was strange that I didn’t recognize anyone. There was no one from the fancy international school we went to, nor from college.
“So,” one of them asked the moment the introductions were over, “how do you know Kaavi?”
“We went to school together, so I’ve known her since we were kids,” I said, and then taking the opportunity, “And how do you guys know her?”
“The three of us,” a redhead in a stunning green dress said, pointing to two other girls in the group, “all interned at J.P. Morgan at the same time.”
“And Lakshi and I,” said a very tall Sri Lankan girl in sky-high heels, “work on Kaavi’s charity with her.”
So that explains why they are new. The thought hit home more than I cared to admit. Kaavi had a new life after I left. New friends who thought she was important enough to fly halfway around the world for. She’d moved on.
You’ve moved on too, the voice in my head spoke up, defensively. You have new friends too. Who cares if I spend a significant portion of my day watching Kaavi’s every move on Instagram, Facebook, and YouTube? I had Jessica, Deepa, and Imogen, didn’t I? Although my brunch friends seemed more like a dream from a different life that I had shaken myself awake from. I had no idea what was real and what wasn’t anymore. Except for Beth, of course. She was real. My only real friend. I thought about discreetly sending her a text, but one of the women turned toward me.
“So, did you know Kaavi and Spencer were dating?” the girl introduced as Lakshi asked. It looked like they had been talking about it when Laura and I arrived.
“Um, sorry?” I wasn’t playing dumb. It just caught me off guard. Great, now these women were going to think I’m some sort of moron.