A few minutes later, he is breathing deeply, and I can tell he’s asleep. I wonder exactly when the snoring will begin, and if it will get loud enough for me to move to the guest room, as my mind returns to Josie, and Nolan’s statement that she wants what I have. For a few seconds, I feel sorry for her, but then I remind myself that Josie made her own bed, blazed her own self-destructive path. She could be listening to Will snore right now, or plenty of guys for that matter, but instead she chose to put fun and games with Gabe over a real commitment.
And then it hits me with a jolt: the sudden realization of why I got so upset the other night when Josie told us her news. I suddenly see that it actually has far less to do with the decision, or any of the pitfalls of single motherhood, and more to do with Josie herself. The fact that she has always done exactly what she wants, when she wants, how she wants. My sister puts herself first, period. And maybe, for this reason alone, I’m actually the one who is a little bit jealous of her.
—
THE NEXT DAY, Nolan and I take Harper to Isla Graham’s fourth birthday party. Isla is Harper’s best friend, which is really to say that her mother, Ellen, is my best friend (though Nolan and Isla’s father, Andy, are close, too; hence Nolan’s attendance at a Pinkalicious tea, wearing a pink checked shirt, no less). We arrive at the party early, as suggested by Ellen, and walk up the long, winding driveway of the Grahams’ Brookhaven home. Nolan rings the bell, which Ellen had rewired to, in her words, sound less foreboding, as I simply open the door and head straight through the house to the backyard.
“Wow,” I say under my breath, taking in the pink wonderland. Clusters of hot and light pink balloons bob in the breeze. A long child-size table is elaborately set with crystal and silver, pink polka-dot linens, and pink hydrangeas. All of the food is in various shades of pink—mini bagels covered with strawberry cream cheese, jelly sandwiches cut into hearts, strawberry yogurt in pink porcelain bowls, cubed watermelon tossed with raspberries, even peeled hard-boiled eggs dyed pink. Ellen is a far cry from Martha Stewart, so I know her mother-in-law is behind it even before I see her emerge onto the porch, carrying a pitcher of pink lemonade, Ellen trailing behind her.
“This place looks amazing!” I say, giving them both a hug.
“It’s all Stella,” Ellen says, gesturing toward her mother-in-law as I notice the goody bags in a basket by the back door, tied with pink tulle and filled with pink candies and pink Play-Doh.
“It was fun,” Stella says modestly as I feel a little sheepish about Harper’s lackluster farm-themed party in our backyard, complete with a mangy pony, two ornery goats, and a rather pointless flock of dingy brown hens.
Meanwhile, Harper runs to embrace Isla, both girls in pink tutus. Andy hands Nolan a Pabst Blue Ribbon, and the two head inside to watch the second half of the Georgia–Tennessee game.
“Did she buy your dress, too?” I say, once Stella is out of earshot.
Ellen laughs. “Close. I borrowed it from Margot,” she says, referring to her sister-in-law.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in anything pink,” I say, fondly remembering the day I met Ellen, shortly after I moved back to Atlanta from New York. I was behind her in a long line at the post office, sizing up her outfit the way women do with one another, noticing the details of her faded blue jeans, ripped at the left knee and rolled at the ankles, her bold gladiator sandals, olive-green linen tunic, and layers of funky bead-and-leather necklaces. She looked cool in an effortless way, and although she wouldn’t have stood out in New York, she made an impression in the Buckhead sea of brightly colored Tory Burch, Lilly Pulitzer, and Lululemon. Then I glanced down at her package and saw the familiar address of my old New York apartment building in black Sharpie: 22C, exactly three floors down from my 25C. It wasn’t like me to chat up strangers, but this coincidence was too great. I tapped her shoulder and said, “I don’t mean to be nosy, but your package…That’s my old building! I lived in 25C.”
Her face lit up, instantly elevating her from plain to pretty. “You’re kidding! My good friends Hillary and Julian live there. Did you know them?”
“No,” I said, smiling back at her. “But small world, huh?”
She nodded and said, “So you’re a New Yorker?”
I told her no, I was actually a native Atlantan, but that I’d lived in the city for years. “I miss it,” I added.
She nodded and said, “I do, too. I lived there for years myself. Why’d you come back? For a job?”
“My husband’s job,” I said. We had only just married, and saying the words my husband still felt so foreign to me.
“Same here,” she said, then introduced herself as Ellen Graham. I told her my name, and we continued to talk in line. I learned that she was a professional portrait photographer, originally from Pittsburgh, married to a lawyer, and I told her my bare-bones biography. She waited as I completed my transaction. Then, on our way out to the parking lot, she reached into her tote bag, handed me a little square business card, and suggested that we go for coffee sometime, maybe grab dinner with our husbands.