Really Good, Actually(69)

Amy had told Ryan to give us some space, though I could see him lurking a few meters away, watching carefully, picking olives off a slice he was no doubt saving for his precious girlfriend once she was done telling me what an irresponsible idiot I was. I was having a hard time focusing on what she was saying, because it was tedious, and I was wonderful, and my mouth was very dry.

“I’m worried about you,” she said. “Did you read the book?”

“What book.”

“Wild Wishes,” she said. “There are a few poems in there that I turn to when—”

I knew I shouldn’t be laughing so hard. I also couldn’t stop it. “I’m sorry,” I said, “I’m truly very sorry, but . . . obviously I haven’t read the book.”

“Why not?”

“Amy, I mean, come on.”

“What happened to your therapist?”

“Just because I didn’t like your nightmare poetry book doesn’t mean I need therapy.”

“That’s not why I’m asking.”

I told her I didn’t want to learn about myself. I wanted to say something funny and move on. Actually, I wanted to look good in jean shorts. I explained my theory that firming the skin above my knees with what seemed to be some sort of sonar would have the same impact as therapy and would be significantly cheaper, because it only took two, sometimes three treatments to work.

“These feelings are normal,” I said. “This really is more normal than anything.”

Amy clicked her tongue, and I muttered something about the Instagram poet’s overreliance on enjambment. While rummaging in my pockets for my phone, I remembered my dress didn’t have pockets and tried to play it off like I just had a very itchy leg. I dropped my lip gloss on the ground and almost fell over picking it up. I righted myself quickly, but standing up at speed had been a bad idea. I rested both elbows on a nearby table, then helped myself to a piece of half-eaten cake sitting on top of it.

“It doesn’t seem—” started Amy, but I’d had enough.

“Maybe divorce stuff is harder for me!” I said, louder than I meant. Maybe I meant it. Amy was pissing me off.

She crossed her arms and continued in that special responsible voice drunk people put on when dealing with people only slightly drunker than they are. “Why would it be harder for you?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Because I have a critical mind? Because I feel things very deeply? Because I can’t just go to Tulum with thirteen of my ‘closest girlfriends’ and share a picture of a sunset with the caption ‘Te Amo, Mexico,’ and magically feel better?”

“You’re being mean,” said Amy. She pulled her pashmina—her pashmina!—around herself. I looked down and realized there was icing on my dress. (I hoped it was icing.)

“You don’t get it,” I said. “We are very different.”

“We’re not that different. Anyway, your friends agree with me.”

I told Amy she was full of crap. She didn’t even know my friends.

“I know Amirah’s engaged,” she said. “And she asked me not to tell you, because she didn’t trust you not to be a jerk about it.”

I tried to scoff and ended up spewing a non-negligible amount of cake and saliva in different directions. I wiped the corner of my mouth and said “not true” a number of times. I shivered slightly, and something warm fell over my shoulders. At some point during all this, Merris had wandered over with our coats.

“Time to make our exit,” she said, giving me a comforting little pat. “Sandy & Danny has more or less disbanded, anyway.” Merris regarded me with concern, and I felt instantly furious—at Amy, for making us talk like this out in the open; at Emily, for holding this wedding and making me buy a feathered headband for it; at Amirah, for . . . something.

I told Merris I could not join her. I was heading out for a walk. I needed to clear my head because somebody—and I was not naming any names, but actually it was pretty obvious who I meant—was being an ASSHOLE, and one day they were gonna feel reallyfuckingstupid, because I was going to get the fat sucked right out of my chin and put underneath my eyes, and then it would be clear how stupid whoever it was—who I was NOT naming—was being.

“Food for thought,” said Merris. “But for now, what say we put on our coats, and I’ll call us a cab?” The words were caring, even if her tone was detached.

I declined the cab, reminding Merris that it was important for everyone—women especially!—to get their ten thousand steps per day. I bid her “good e’en,” which I regretted, and did a little curtsy, which ruled.

“You shouldn’t go anywhere on your own right now,” said Amy.

I ignored her and turned to Merris, my real date tonight. My ally. I told her she was a reasonable person, a smart person. The smartest person I knew, in truth, and as a result she surely understood that life was complicated and experiences were complicated, and I was just someone in the middle of what was, you know, really for me kind of a sort of complicated experience. But obviously that was okay, right? Didn’t she think?

“I think you and I have a long conversation ahead of us,” said Merris, impatiently scanning the street. “But I don’t think we should have it tonight.”