Lauren sighs, or exhales, it’s not clear, the weight of her breath surprisingly loud. “I’m glad we don’t know. I’m sure it was idiotic. Did you ever read anything you wrote in a journal as a kid? It’s all garbage. Thank God I never had the discipline to write in my journal more than three times a year.”
Sarah was the same way. A journal as a birthday gift, two or three dutiful entries, then the book sat fallow in an old shoebox in her closet where she kept secret possessions: notes from friends, old boarding passes, playbills, useless foreign currency. That box must still be there in the house on East Thirty-Sixth Street. “I don’t know,” she says. “Whatever we were worried about then, it’s probably so sweet and unimportant.”
“It probably didn’t seem that way at the time, though,” Lauren says. “We wore black nail polish. We had real problems. The problems we have now pale in comparison.”
“You have problems?”
“I have no problems. How about you?”
“Wedding planning problems. Boring problems.”
“What’s the latest? Lulu been practicing her repertoire for you? She should do something with a mariachi band. Mariachi bands are so festive.”
“That’s cute, actually. No, the music is up to her. I just need to show up and get dressed. That’s the problem. The dress.”
“The dress, yeah. Have you been trying stuff on?”
“It’s all terrible, Lolo. Giant and puffy or like . . . slutty. I had no idea slutty was such a big thing in wedding dresses.”
“I think you should go slutty. I think it would be a real departure for you.”
“This is just one of those things. You can’t go in alone. I think I know what I want then I step inside and I turn into a babbling idiot and start trying on the most ridiculous things and I look at the salesgirl and she’s like ‘You look great!’ and I think maybe I do look great and should just give her four thousand dollars so I can be done with this torture.”
“The problem is you’re going in alone. Why don’t you take me? I’m rational.”
“Why don’t I take you?”
“I am the matron of honor,” Lauren says proudly.
“Maid.”
“Oh, didn’t I tell you? I got married. Sorry! I should have mentioned it. I just really wanted that matron.”
“If you want to come, please come, that would be so great. I could use the help,” she says.
“Why don’t you just ask? Yes, I will come. Duh. Don’t be a moron.”
“Talk to me about something besides this wedding.” Sarah’s eye falls on the stack of bridal magazines on the coffee table, several pages dog-eared for reasons she can’t recall. It just felt like what she should be doing—folding down pages and mentally filing away: mason jars for cocktails, Polaroid cameras left with the centerpieces, a basket of flip-flops by the dance floor. “What happened with temp?”
“Temp is fine. Temp is the same. Temp and I are working together on something, actually.”
“Just be careful,” Sarah says. “Your promotion probably means you’re his boss. A sexy complication.” Sarah’s teasing contains her own happiness: five years Lauren’s worked there, making cookbooks; it’s about time this happened for her.
“I just think he’s cute is all,” Lauren says. “He wears shoes. I’ve barely actually spoken to him.”
“Shoes are good.”
“No, I mean, like, shoes. Man shoes. Driving shoes. Moccasins? Drivers? What are they called, the ones that have the little buckle over the top? He might be the first man I’ve ever been interested in whose dressiest shoes aren’t Chucks.”
“Oh yeah. Drivers? Wait, are those loafers? Dan has a pair of those. Horsebit. It’s called a horsebit.”
“Of course Dan has a pair of those. He probably wore those in the second grade.”
“Shut up.” Sarah laughs. “Maybe. But yes. Man shoes, for a grown man. So the temp is a grown man, only without a grown man’s job.”
“Hey, it’s competitive out there, cut him some slack.”
“So you’re working on something. Mixing business with pleasure yet?”
“Nothing like that, Sarah. I’m trying to figure it out. I think maybe it’s not a good idea. I wouldn’t want my bosses to know that I was fucking some guy in the office, you know?”
She’s impressed. Lolo, her Lauren, making the responsible decision about a guy. “Maybe you’re right, maybe an office romance isn’t a good idea. Besides, guys, whatever, but this job thing, I mean, it’s about time this happened, really. You should enjoy it.”
Lauren is quiet. “It’s not that long coming. I mean, don’t make me sound like some kind of loser.”
“No, come on, all I meant was that it makes sense, I think, for you to be thinking about how this would look to your bosses. Versus your own wanting to date a guy who wears real shoes.”
“Okay.” Lauren is not convinced. Lauren sounds wounded. This is her way of punishing: monosyllables.
“I didn’t mean anything.” Sarah is quiet. “I shouldn’t have said it like that. If it’s real shoes you like in a man, we can find you real shoes. Let’s start looking. You’ll need a date for the wedding!” This last—a way to change the subject, to make herself the butt of the joke, to make herself seem the pathetic one.