Like a Best Friend | ✓

chapter thirty-two

The rain that greeted us off the plane continues until Sunday, when at last the clouds part and I spy a sliver of blue sky as I get off the T at Kendall/MIT and walk to the Tatte on third street, the closest to Sally's place in East Cambridge. The three weeks since I was last in the office marks the longest time I've gone without seeing her since we met six years ago. I've missed her dry commentary in my ear five days a week, but I know I'm about to get an earful. She's been pestering me for the last couple days about meeting up, even though we'll both be in the office tomorrow.

I reach Tatte first. Not a surprise. Sally's always had horrendous timing. I order our coffees – Americano for her, as per usual; house latte for me, same as always – and make myself comfortable at a table, the only empty one in the whole cafe. I may not have been to this particular Tatte before, but it's a vibe I know and love so well, the honeycomb floor tiles and the low hanging ceiling lights and the huge windows. The space reminds me of my new home. White walls and high ceilings, an abundance of natural light and a persistent aroma of coffee.

After a few minutes, I spot Sally outside on the other side of the road with a cigarette between her fingers and her hair blowing around her resting bitch face. The walk from her place to here is long enough that she has smoked it almost to the end, enough that it isn't worth saving. I watch as she stubs it out and throws it in a trash can and checks both ways before she hurries across the crosswalk.

"Look what the cat dragged in," she crows when she spots me. She pulls out the chair opposite with a screech of its metal feet on the tile floor and says, "It's been so long I nearly forgot what you look like."

"Ha. You're hilarious." I push her coffee across the table. "How've you been?"

"Nuh-uh, we're not doing that, missy," she says as she takes a long sip and gives me a nod of thanks. "We've got a lot to talk about. You're a whole new woman, Miss Campbell."

"That's Mrs Campbell-Cohen to you." Okay, not yet, not officially, I still need to file the paperwork. But I will be. At heart, I already am.

She gasps, like she already forgot. "Oh, fuck. Jeez. How the hell has it only been three weeks?"

"You tell me," I say with a wry laugh. "You can talk, though. You've been on two whole dates with your husband in that time. That's, like, a year's worth of the old Rich's attention."

Sally laughs. Her marriage has been the source of a lot of her griping over the years, but not so much recently. "We spent way too much on marriage counseling to let this fail," she says, cupping her hands around her Americano. "You know what, I actually can't remember the last time things were so good with Rich and me. Want the number of our counselor?"

I choke on my latte when I snort. "Sally, I've been married for a week. Literally seven days. You can keep that number. At least until ... how long have you and Rich been together?"

"Twenty ... seven? Shit, yeah. Twenty-seven years. Married for twenty-three."

"Okay, ask me again in twenty-seven years," I joke. She raises her eyebrows at me.

"I'll be eighty by then, Fliss, and dementia runs in my family," she says, dry as a bone. "Never mind the fact that the counselor's in her sixties already."

"How about we just forget it then?" I roll my eyes at her fondly.

She reaches out to take my hand, turning it over to check out my finger, where I'm still wearing the thin band that cost about as much as a cup of coffee. "Welcome to the wives club, I guess," she says softly. "I need to get you a wedding present."

"Hmm. What could you get me?" I purse my lips and act like I'm thinking hard, when Sally abruptly drops my hand.

"Actually," she says, "I already gave you the best present."