“Hi. Can I sit?”
“Sit. Obviously.” Lauren doesn’t sit. She stands by the door, looking down at Sarah. “You ready to go home?”
“Look, I—” Sarah stops. “Meredith told me what she saw, and I am just. A little surprised, or something. I don’t know.”
“Well, I don’t know what Meredith saw, but . . .” Lauren barely has it in her to protest.
“Meredith saw enough. She’s annoying but she’s not stupid. You fucked the waiter, Lauren? Seriously?”
“It’s a vacation.” She is surprised they’re discussing it at all, but not surprised by the tone in Sarah’s voice: disgust. She’s barely trying to conceal it. “It’s not a big deal.”
“Embarrassing, though, right?”
“Embarrassing for whom, Sarah? Am I embarrassed that Meredith, who is your friend, not mine, saw something, and gossiped to you about it like a prude? I don’t know. It’s her choice. But you know. It happens. I fucked a guy. If this were Afghanistan, you could stone me.”
“It’s just embarrassing. It’s just . . .” Sarah pauses, looks around the room as if willing the right word to appear. “It’s tacky. What about that temp? I thought you were interested in him.”
Lauren laughs. “The temp?” She can only barely conjure his face. “What does he have to do with anything?”
“You liked his shoes,” Sarah says, ridiculously.
“What can I say? I’m tacky. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry that this private thing that has nothing to do with you, and certainly nothing to do with Meredith, is so tacky. You know. I’m sorry that it makes you feel so embarrassed.”
“God, that is not an apology.” Sarah stands up. Her anger is unusual. She’s whispering, but it’s a loud whisper. “I am so sick of apologies that are like . . . I’m sorry that made you feel this way. That is not how you apologize. You’re not supposed to be sorry for having made me feel a certain way. You’re supposed to be sorry for doing the fucking stupid thing you did in the first place. So don’t try that, okay? You are better than that.”
“I see. I’m better than a bad apology but not so good, because, I’m still a tacky slut who . . . fucks the help. Is that accurate?”
“You know what? You can play it that way. That’s totally fine. It’s obviously not about the help, and you know it. It’s obviously not about being a slut, and you know it.”
“It’s about what, then? It’s about me being me, and not being you. This is what it’s about, Sarah. I am me, and you are you, and there was no difference there for, I don’t know, a decade? But now there is. And you get mad at me, for being me. And I get mad at you, for being you. Except you never actually get mad, you just get, morally superior. And smug. And I don’t know what else. And I get mad. And then we don’t talk and it’s a whole fucking thing.”
“What are you even talking about now?” Sarah is pacing the small area of the bedroom.
“I don’t know.” She doesn’t. But she does. Lauren means what she’s said and can’t totally believe that she’s said it. Sarah seems, on some level, to disapprove of almost everything she does. She’s still bringing up Gabe’s name, years after the fact. “Is this friendship or is this force of habit?”
“I don’t know what that means.” Sarah is still whispering.
Lauren looks at her. She’s more tired than angry.
Sarah shakes her head. “I don’t know what you’re saying.”
Lauren sighs. “I shouldn’t have . . .” She doesn’t know how to finish the sentence. She’s not sure what she’s apologizing for.