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THAT EVENING, GABE and I take an Uber to The Optimist well ahead of our reservation. We sit at the bar, eating oysters and drinking champagne, as we wait for the others to arrive, getting progressively more buzzed. Leslie shows up first, upstaging me in a clingy black dress with a plunging neckline, which with her flat chest creates a kind of Kate Moss effect. I chalk the wardrobe choice up to jealousy over the bartender, and tell myself to give her a chance, as Gabe stands, kisses her cheek, and offers his stool. She refuses it, saying she’s fine standing, then turns to wish me a happy birthday. “Have you had a good day?” she asks, giving me a hesitant hug.
I nod and say I have, that I went shopping, then got a manicure. I hold up my fire-engine-red nails, which she promptly compliments, although she doesn’t seem like the red-nail type. She puts her clutch on the bar, covertly but furtively glancing behind it.
“Don’t worry,” I say with a smile. “The ho’s off tonight.”
To Leslie’s credit, she doesn’t play dumb, but laughs and says, “Oh, good!”
“Besides, you’re way prettier,” I say—which is actually true.
“You totally are,” Gabe says, nodding earnestly.
Leslie laughs again and says, “You have to say that.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “Gabe’s painfully honest.”
“And that’s a bad thing?” he asks.
I ignore his question and look at Leslie. “Just don’t ever ask him if something makes you look fat. Not that you could ever look fat. But still.”
“Hold the phone, birthday girl. I have never told you you look fat. Not one time,” Gabe says, then shifts his gaze to Leslie. “She’s always asking whether I can tell she’s gained weight….Sometimes I can’t. Sometimes I can. But I’ve never called her fat.”
“All right. Fair enough,” I acquiesce, as Leslie gushes about how refreshing it is to be with an honest man. I nod in agreement, deciding that they really are a pretty cute couple, though they could almost pass for brother and sister.
“You two look sort of related,” I blurt out.
Gabe shrugs, throws his arm around Leslie, and says, “Yeah. Well, what’s sexier than dating yourself?”
The bartender comes by and I order an Old Salty Dog, a vodka and grapefruit cocktail. I warn Leslie that they go down like water, as she orders one, too.
By the time Sydney, Shawna, and Pete walk in, pretty much all at the same time, I can hear myself starting to slur my words a tiny bit as I make the requisite introductions. A moment later, just after Gabe hands me his glass of water and discreetly suggests that I “slow down,” the hostess finds us at the bar and leads us to our table. I slide into the middle of the banquette. Sydney and Pete end up on either side of me; Gabe, Leslie, and Shawna across from us—which leaves the awkward seventh chair on the end for Meredith, should she ever decide to show.
“So happy you all came tonight!” I announce, overcome with a warm feeling of affection for everyone at the table. I tack on a special postscript for Shawna. “Thanks for making the effort…I know it’s hard when you have a baby…and I really appreciate it. Please thank Lars for me, too,” I say, knowing that her husband is home with their son.
“It’s our pleasure,” she says, reaching across the table for my hand. She gives it a little squeeze, followed by a smile that reminds me of the way things used to be between us—like she’s about to share a very juicy tidbit of gossip. Instead, she turns her gaze to Pete, staring at him through funky dark-rimmed glasses.
“So, how did you and Josie meet?” she asks. “Are you a teacher, too?”
Pete shoots me a fleeting glance, clearly looking for guidance, but when I provide him none, he simply says, “Um, no. I’m a physical therapist, actually.”
“Oh,” she says, nodding enthusiastically. “Do you have a specialty?”
“Sports and orthopedics,” he says.
“He works with a few Braves players,” I brag.
She looks impressed as he modestly adds, “Ex-Braves.”