For the Love of Friends

I considered calling Alex back, but I didn’t want to interrupt Tim’s bachelor party any more than I already had, without even being there.

Megan’s comment wasn’t remotely fair—I had practically been a nun since her engagement party. A nun who cursed and drank, but men-wise, I had been so good. Yet enough of Megan’s comment rang true to scare me. I had found something good with Alex, even if it was platonic. And calling him now would lead to his coming over, which would lead to me sabotaging everything, just because Megan hurt my feelings.

I sank onto the couch, kicked off my shoes, and curled up in the fetal position.

I’d had relationships, of course. Just nothing lasting beyond six months. Not since David, when I was twenty-four. I realized with a shudder that that had somehow been eight years ago. I was Amy’s age when we were together.

I wouldn’t say David broke me, because that gave him too much credit, and the reality was that he had just never been that invested. Instead, I broke myself over him. He could waltz through my door at that exact moment, and I would, without question, tell him to get out. I didn’t want him anymore. I probably never actually wanted him. He was just so perfect on paper that I fell in love with the idea of him, not the reality. And he was such a coward in dumping me that he couldn’t admit that he just didn’t care. Instead it was all about how he needed to work on himself, but knew I was “the one” for him when he eventually got there. And idiot me believed him.

Three years later, Facebook told me he was married. To a blonde who resembled the rat from the Muppets and who commented on all of his posts about how funny he was. Spoiler alert: he wasn’t that funny. And he had two kids now and had lost most of his hair. Not that I still Facebook-stalked him. Well, not more than once or twice a year at most.

And since then, I had just been working under the assumption that anything that seemed too good to be true, well, was.

So was Megan wrong? No. Especially considering that I met David through her. He had been her friend in college. And when we broke up, she chose me without hesitation, ending that friendship. With eight years of distance from the situation, I realized that must have been harder than it looked to me at the time.

But Megan also didn’t realize that I now understood what I had done by building an effigy of David instead of looking at the real person. Or how much growth it took to sneak out of the hotel room after her engagement party instead of trying to form a meaningless relationship with Justin to validate my mistake—a relationship that I would then have to intentionally sabotage because Justin was the absolute worst.

Hell, a few months earlier, I would have definitely called Alex and asked him to come over, ostensibly to prove Megan wrong, but in reality to do exactly what she had accused me of.

Instead, I took a long shower, the water as hot as I could stand it, and got into bed. There I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, wishing I had managed a different trajectory eight years earlier instead of taking David at his word. Because Megan was wrong about one thing: I didn’t sabotage relationships, I sabotaged myself. There was a big difference.





CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE


I woke up sad, but clear-headed, to an apology text from Alex.

I’m so, so sorry. It had come in around four in the morning.

I smiled grimly. At least he was sweet about it. Even if the fallout sucked. I sent a reply, figuring he had to still be asleep. So how was I last night? Since we’re apparently a thing now . . .

But he replied immediately. Amazing. How was I?

You got too drunk and passed out.

Ouch. I probably deserve that one.

It’s okay, we made up this morning.

Oh good. I’d hate to think we were fighting because I got too drunk.

Did you?

Nah, the Justin thing sobered me up real quick. You?

My sister called me having a meltdown right after I got off with you, so I bailed early, I lied. Best to keep the story consistent since Tim apparently told Megan everything.

Hope everything’s okay.

It is. I hesitated, then added more. Megan is mad at me though. Tim told her that we were sleeping together and she didn’t like that.

Did you tell her the truth?

Yeah. Sucked anyway.

I’m sorry, he said again. Three dots appeared, then disappeared. Apology brunch today?

Absolutely nothing sounded better than a mimosa and some French toast with Alex. I wish. Today is salon day with the evil bridesmaids.

Gross. How long will all of that take?

Forever, apparently. Caryn said a keratin treatment takes three hours and then I can’t wash my hair for three days, and the eyelashes will take about an hour too. No idea if they can do the eyelashes while my hair is getting done.

And what’s the point of all this?

That was a really good question. It was the compromise I reached when I couldn’t go to Caryn’s bachelorette weekend extravaganza in New Orleans. And I was still meekly hiding the tan lines that I hadn’t completely fixed from Mexico, so a flat-out refusal to get my hair straightened and eyelashes extended wasn’t worth the drama, even if it would save me something like five hundred dollars.

On the plus side, I wouldn’t have to wear fake lashes in the remaining four weddings, and my hair wouldn’t frizz. There were worse beauty procedures that you could go through in DC in the summer.

Salvaging that friendship, I said eventually. And beauty of course. I sent the hair-flip emoji.

He replied with an eye-roll emoji. Try not to stab anyone with a pair of hair cutting scissors.

I grinned.



I wasn’t grinning anymore at the salon.

“Wait, what?” I asked Caryn.

She sighed. “I said it in the last newsletter email.”

“You did not tell me I had to dye my hair a different color.” The stylist had separated pieces of my hair for what I assumed was the keratin treatment, then left and come back with foils and dye. “Is that the keratin?” I asked suspiciously. She told me it was the highlights because they do color before keratin. When I said I wasn’t dyeing my hair, she said she was just doing what the bride told her. I jumped up and charged over to Caryn’s seat to straighten out the misunderstanding.

“It’s not a completely different color, just some balayage highlights to soften how dark your hair is.”

“I like how dark my hair is.”

Caryn threw her arms up in an exasperated gesture that I had come to know all too well. “You’re the only one with dark hair. I don’t want you to be the one who stands out the most in the pictures!”

“Caryn, you’re going to be wearing a wedding dress. No one is going to notice my hair color.”

“Then what’s the big deal if you change it a little?” she asked, arms crossed. I looked behind her at the other bridesmaids, who were all there for touch-ups only. Caroline smirked.

“So basically, you want me in your wedding as long as I look exactly like them”—I gestured over her shoulder—“and nothing like me.”

“Fat chance of that happening.” Caroline snickered loudly enough that she meant to be heard, though she would deny it if I said anything. Dana looked at me sympathetically. Caryn didn’t reply.

I bit the inside of my lip. Hard. And for the approximately nine-hundredth time, I debated just telling her I was done and walking away. But if I did that, she would never forgive me.

“Fine,” I said through gritted teeth. “As long as it’s just highlights, not a full color change.”

“If you’d read the email . . .” Caryn said, but I walked away and went back to the stylist’s chair.

“Subtle,” I warned her. “Or I’m going on Yelp.”



By the time I left the salon five hours later, I didn’t recognize the reflection of the girl in the mirror behind the checkout desk. The highlights were subtle by the stylist’s definition, but still more blonde than my hair had ever been before. My hair was stick-straight, with strict instructions not to let it “bend” or get wet for seventy-two hours, and I looked like a Kewpie doll with the eyelashes. If it wouldn’t have ruined them, I would have been shedding some angry tears.

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