Both of their European boyfriend fantasies are somewhat stereotypical, but I just laugh and drop my eyes back down to the sidewalk. We’ve just left the Refinery, so my latte to-go is hot against my palms as I slightly lag behind my two companions, my gaze following the lines in the concrete.
“Eden,” Rachael says, spinning around with a sense of urgency. “You have the final say: British or French?” She and Meghan both stare at me, their expressions intense, as though I’m about to announce who’s just been elected president.
I simply shrug. “French,” I say.
Rachael’s face distorts with disgust as she turns on her heels and stalks off for dramatic effect. Meghan grins and tells me I’ve made the right choice, and we rush through the flow of pedestrians until we catch up with Rachael again, who appears to have gotten over it by the time we reach her.
“We’ve got to wait for Tiff on Broadway,” she reminds us as we reach the promenade and head round the corner onto Third Street.
Given that it’s like three hundred degrees out today, it’s no surprise that there are people shuffling around, pushing past each other as they weave their way toward their next purchase. I don’t know where Broadway is, but Rachael and Meghan certainly do, so I drop back and tag behind again as we sweep southbound down Third Street. Every time I come here, I notice stores that I somehow didn’t notice the time before, like Rip Curl, some Australian company selling water-sports apparel, and Johnnie’s New York Pizzeria, which looks adorably Italian and reminds me of Dean.
Rachael slows to a halt by H&M, pushing her sunglasses up into her hair as she peers through the windows at the mannequins draped in floral designs. “Cute shirt,” she comments. She tilts her shades back over her eyes again and starts walking, this time both Meghan and I scrambling to keep up with her. It’s almost as if the alpha status gets passed onto Rachael whenever Tiffani isn’t here to fulfill the role, but today the switch doesn’t last long. We’re meeting Tiffani any minute now.
We reach the end of the promenade and file onto Broadway, where the promenade flows into Santa Monica Place, the upscale mall cluttered with designer stores that the girls have taken me to a couple times before. We pass Nordstrom and linger on the corner of Broadway and Second. Meghan presses her body back against the windows of the store as she squints at the sun, and Rachael folds her arms across her chest and taps her foot against the concrete as she studies the traffic. For a while I watch her and wonder what she’s looking for, but very soon it becomes clear.
She straightens up after a few minutes, arms dropping to her sides, expression curious. I follow her gaze. It lands on the white car that’s just pulled up across the street, windows down, engine still purring as it comes to a complete halt. It’s Tyler. My jaw tightens. There’s so much tension between us at the moment that it’s almost unbearable to be anywhere near him, especially under the watchful eyes of our friends.
“Why is she smiling?” Meghan asks as she steps in between Rachael and me, a hand resting on the top of her head, her fingers woven into her hair.
“Because she’s insane,” Rachael answers blankly.
The more I stare at the car, the more my jaw begins to twitch, and the more my jaw begins to twitch, the more I become frustrated with the whole situation. Tiffani is in the passenger seat. I knew she would be. The very first thing Tyler decided to tell me this morning when I woke up was that he was heading out to meet her, so it’s no surprise to see her with him.
The three of us watch for a few moments as the pair talk inside the privacy of the vehicle, Tyler’s eyebrows furrowed as Tiffani angles her body to face him, her hands moving as she speaks. I really wish I knew what they were saying. Tyler cracks a smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and she leans over the center console to kiss him.
“She’s insane!” Rachael yells, her sudden outburst grabbing the attention of people around us, but she doesn’t seem to notice as she throws her hands up in frustration. I’m surprised she doesn’t hurl her coffee at the car. “A goddamn lunatic!”
I’m thinking the same thing about Tyler. I just don’t say it out loud.
Something is happening inside me, like a light switch has been flicked on, and all at once a wave of fury rushes through my veins. I try to convince myself that it’s not jealousy, that I’m not jealous. But I am. My hand tightens around my cup and I almost crush it. I squeeze so hard that the plastic lid pops off and flutters to the concrete, delicate wisps of steam floating up and into the air. Immediately I draw the cup to my lips and sip at the latte as I watch the scene at the other side of the road.