I looked down at my black slacks (slimming) and lacy gray chiffon top that I’d left untucked. I’d accessorized the outfit with my happy beads.
Sam peered more closely at my blouse. “Oh my God . . .” She began to giggle. “That shirt . . .”
“What?”
Sam laughed harder. “Mrs. Porter was wearing the exact same one at the holiday cookie party!” she finally managed.
“Jonah’s mom?” I flashed back to the prissy woman who’d come to my conference wearing lipstick that precisely matched her rose-hued dress. “No, she wasn’t!”
“I swear.” Sam wiped her eyes. “Jonah’s little sister is in my class, and I remember because a kid smeared frosting on it and I had to help her clean it off. Come on, we’re not going to tea at the Ritz.” She dug through the clothes heaped over the back of a chair. “I’ve got this new pair of Jeggings from Anthropologie—hang on, they’ll look great on you.” She found them and tossed them at me, along with a black scoop-neck top.
Sam had seen me dress and undress hundreds of times. I’d never been modest around her, but that night I felt self-conscious. I knew I wouldn’t fit into her pants, no matter how much Lycra they contained.
“I’m fine.” I wrapped my arms around my knees, recognizing I was doing so in an effort to look smaller. “It’s not like I’m trying to impress anyone.”
Sam shrugged. “Okay. Want a glass of wine before we head out?”
“Sure.” I jumped off the bed and followed her to the kitchen. The cabinets were still painted the creamy shade we’d applied together when I first moved in, but the color was now faded, with a few chips showing by the handles. The countertops were lined with boxes of herbal tea: chamomile, lavender, peppermint, nettle leaf. Sam’s ever-present honey jar was there, but it had been changed to a squirt container.
“You cleaned up your act.” I picked it up.
When Sam opened the refrigerator door, I noticed containers of hummus and bags of organic baby carrots and celery. Not a single leftover Chinese-food container in sight. They’d always adorned our fridge, even days after they should have been discarded.
Sam grabbed two glasses from the cabinet and filled them, then handed me one.
“I meant to bring some wine,” I said, suddenly remembering the bottle I’d left in our home’s vestibule.
“I’ve got plenty.” We clinked glasses and each took a sip. “It’s probably not as good as the stuff you drink with the Prince, huh?”
I blinked. “Who’s the Prince?”
Sam hesitated. “You know, Richard.” She paused again. “Your Prince Charming.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Of course it’s not a bad thing. He is, isn’t he?”
I looked down into my glass of wine. It tasted a little sour—I wondered how long it had been uncorked in Sam’s fridge—and looked more like apple juice than the pale gold liquid I’d grown used to drinking. The blouse I was wearing, the one Sam had mocked, cost more than my monthly rent had here.
“No more Diet Coke.” I gestured toward the empty spot by the front door. “Are you drinking nettle tea instead now?”
“I haven’t gotten her to try that yet,” a soft, airy voice said. I turned around to see Tara. The photos Sam had shown me on her phone didn’t do Tara justice. She was brimming with good health—her teeth were white and straight, her skin glowed, and her eyes were bright. I could see the sleek, rectangular bulge of thigh muscles through her leggings. She didn’t wear a stitch of makeup. She didn’t need it.
“Tara read me the ingredients in Diet Coke one day. Remember?”
Tara laughed. “By the time I got to potassium benzoate, she had her hands over her ears.”
Sam picked up the story. “I was so hungover, and it almost made me throw up.”
I gave a little laugh. “You used to guzzle that stuff. Remember how we’d always stub our toes on the cases?”
“I’ve got her drinking water now.” Tara reached up to twist her damp hair into a knot on the top of her head. “I infuse it with parsley. It gets rid of the natural inflammation in the body.”
“So that’s why your arms look so good,” I told Sam.
“You should try it,” Sam said.
Because I’m puffy? I finished my wine quickly. “Ready? We’ve got a reservation. . . .”
Sam rinsed our glasses in the sink, then put them on the drying rack that hadn’t been there when this was our apartment. “Let’s hit it.” She turned to Tara. “Text me later if you want to meet us for a drink.”
“Yeah, that would be fun,” I added. But I didn’t want Tara there, talking about her parsley-infused water and laughing with Sam.
We took a cab to the restaurant and I gave my name to the ma?tre d’. We walked through the thickly carpeted entranceway into the dining room. Nearly every table was full—this place had gotten a great write-up in the Times. It was why I’d chosen it.
“Nice,” Sam said as the waiter held her chair. “Maybe you were right not to change into the Jeggings.”
I laughed, but as I looked around, I realized this type of restaurant—with its ten-page wine list in a thick leather folder, and napkins intricately folded on the plates—was the sort of place Richard would take me to. It wasn’t Sam’s style. I suddenly wished I’d suggested sitting on her bed and ordering in spring rolls and Szechuan chicken, the way we used to.
“Get anything you want,” I told Sam as we opened our menus. “Remember, this is on me. Should we share a bottle of white Burgundy?”
“Sure. Whatever.”
I went through the wine-tasting routine, and we decided to split a rustic goat cheese and tomato tart and a watercress and grapefruit salad for appetizers. I then ordered the filet mignon, medium rare, with the sauce on the side. Sam chose the salmon.
A server came by the table holding a basket with four artfully arranged bread selections. He described each one and my stomach rumbled. The scent of warm bread has always been my kryptonite.
“None for me,” I said.
“I’ll take hers, then. Can I have the rosemary focaccia and the multigrain?”
“Does Tara eat bread?”
Sam dunked a piece in olive oil. “Sure. Why are you asking?”
I shrugged. “She just seems so healthy.”
“Yeah, but she’s not a zealot about it. She drinks and she even smokes weed once in a while. Last time we did it, we went to Central Park and rode the carousel.”
“Wait, you get high now?”
“Like, once a month, maybe. No big deal.” Sam lifted the bread to her mouth and I noticed her defined biceps again.
After a little pause, the waiter brought our salad and tart and we each took some.
“So, are you still dating that guy—the graphic designer?” I asked.
“Nah. But tomorrow night I’m going on a blind date with one of Tara’s client’s brothers.”
“Yeah?” I took a bite of salad. “What’s his story?”
“His name is Tom. He sounded great on the phone. He runs his own business. . . .”
I tried to feign enthusiasm as Sam told me about Tom, but I knew that the next time we spoke, Tom would be a vague memory of hers.
Sam reached for a spoon and added more tart to her plate. “You’re not eating much.”
“Just not that hungry.”
Sam looked me straight in the eye. “So why’d we come here?”
I’d always loved and hated her directness. “Because I wanted to treat you to something nice,” I said lightly.
Sam’s spoon made a clink as she dropped it back onto the plate. “I’m not a charity case. I can buy my own dinner.”
“You know that’s not what I meant.” I laughed, but for the first time, the cadence of our conversation seemed bumpy.
The waiter came by the table and topped off our wineglasses. I gratefully drank a bit more, then my phone vibrated. I pulled it out of my purse and saw Richard’s text: What are you up to, sweetheart?
Dinner with Sam, I texted back. We’re at Pica. What are you doing?
Heading to the golf course with clients. You’re taking a car home, right? Remember to set the alarm before you go to bed.