As we approach her table, Courtney’s hand flies up to her head. “Oh my God, it’s so short, isn’t it? I literally just left the salon,” she says, biting her lower lip as if waiting for our approval. “I went in for a trim right after work and came out looking like this.” She throws her arms up. “At first I was furious with my hairdresser, who claimed the scissors just seemed to take on a life of their own,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Seriously, it was almost as if I blinked and it came out like this. . . . But now I kind of love it!” She squeals and claps her hands together like a seal.
“It looks good,” I say reluctantly. Really damn good. I sink into the chair across from her, deducing that I must be suffering some sort of karmic payback for wishing something bad to happen to another person. But maybe her hair looking good is just a fluke. She already has a pretty—make that beautiful—face, so I probably could’ve wished her bald and she still would’ve ended up looking amazing. I’d have to write a more impactful status next time—less about her looks and more about her. But what? It was one thing to hold this power in my hands. It was a whole other thing to use it properly.
“You totally pull it off,” Max says, jarring me from my thoughts as he takes Courtney in his arm easily, placing a small kiss on her left cheek, no different than he’s done in front of me a dozen times before, but this time, watching it sends a ripple of panic through me as I wonder if his kiss has ever spread to her supple lips, her red lipstick leaving its mark on his mouth.
“You think?” she says shyly before turning my way. “But look at you,” Courtney purrs as she eyes me. “That is one hot dress, mama, is it new? Did you sneak out of work and hit Nordstrom without me? Meow.” She holds her hands up as if they’re claws.
“Thanks,” I say, deliberately not answering her question. The truth was, this outfit was courtesy of a status I’d posted earlier. I’d wished for a dress that would make me look two sizes smaller and six inches taller and accentuate every curve—without the use of Spanx. I’d mused at the time that due to my newfound magical powers, I’d never again have to go through a dozen outfit changes to escape the frumpiness I was feeling. But I still felt inadequate now and also hadn’t succeeded in getting Max’s attention earlier. He’d barely looked away from SportsCenter as I’d descended the stairs. And now he only glances over at me briefly before burying his nose in the menu, asking if we want to order the spinach dip.
As I watch Max flag down the waitress, I decide that even though my wish for Courtney backfired, I am still the one with an engagement ring on my finger. I need to remind Courtney of something I had with Max that she couldn’t compete with—history. We took the trip to Barcelona last year and sat in a café on that quaint cobblestone street and talked about how many kids we’d like to have. We had registered for the chef’s knives and the Dutch oven and the waffle maker because we like to cook together. And we had fallen in love that night in Big Bear as we’d sat in the ski lodge and sipped hot toddies while sharing stories about our childhoods—me confiding how I’d let my mom’s insecurities become my own; Max revealing that he was adopted, and even though his parents had been everything he could ever ask for, he still often wondered why he hadn’t been good enough for the woman who gave birth to him.
I turn to Max. “You know what I was just thinking about?”
“What’s that?” he says.
“That time we went to Big Bear—we should go again.”
“What made you think of that?” he asks, and a flicker of concern flashes in his eyes so quickly I tell myself I must have imagined it.
I press on anyway. “Well, with the wedding only a month away, I’ve been working on my vows and was remembering where we first said I love you.” I smile. “Sorry to get all sappy in front of you, Courtney!” I say, resting my hand possessively on top of Max’s arm.
Courtney hides the beginning of a frown by taking a huge gulp of her mojito.
Okay, so clearly she already feels something. But what was Max feeling?
“So what do you think?” I ask Max. “I’ll book us the cabin we stayed at—remember, it had the most gorgeous view of Big Bear Lake and we had those delicious crab cakes at that restaurant in town?”
“Sure,” Max says noncommittally and takes a long drink of his scotch. I bite my tongue so I don’t make the sarcastic remark sitting on the edge of my lips: You seem about as excited as a guy going in for a vasectomy. But realizing it’s going to take more than one day to snap him back to our reality, I decide to change tactics—and focus on Courtney instead.
“So, Courtney, tell us what’s going on with that guy James you’ve been dating,” I say after our waitress sets down our appetizers. “You were all giddy about him—I think you even called him dreamy? Didn’t you go out on your third date last week?” I ask, refusing to look at Max, afraid I might see jealousy reflected in his eyes. But hoping this will remind him that Courtney isn’t sitting at home quilting every Friday night. That she is actively dating other men.
“That guy?” She laughs as she plays with the mint leaf at the bottom of her now-empty glass. “I was so wrong about him—found out he was seeing, like, three other girls after telling me he wanted to be exclusive.”