So, no speech. She thought maybe Meredith would be unable to resist clanking fork against flute (Meredith was the kind of girl who always had to drink champagne; it’s curious how we consider it so ladylike to drink something that makes you burp) and tell some long-winded, discomfiting tale about how she and Dan were the ones meant to end up together. But no: She seemed occupied. Her date that night, and for the wedding, too, Jamie, a coworker of Dan’s, arranged by Sarah out of some sense of obligation that only Sarah seemed to live with, held her attention nicely. Lauren got a good look at Jamie. He had a very young face, was clearly younger than they were, but a bald spot he had tried to atone for by wearing the rest of his hair longish. The desired effect had not been achieved, but Meredith seemed happy.
It had been fun. Lauren had suspected it might not be, and she had been wrong. Leaving, she’d taken Sarah by both hands, hugged her, told her just that.
“I was wrong,” she’d said. “It was fun.”
And Sarah had understood. Rob had fun, too, much more fun than Lauren, mostly because he’d spent much of the night getting hammered with Dan’s lesbian sister. Lauren has no idea what they might have talked about—Rob was barely coherent on the cab ride back to her place, and this morning, when she left, garment bag slung over a shoulder, tote bag with (she hopes) everything she’ll need, Rob was still asleep, snoring loudly, which didn’t bother her, because she was awake. Nor was she bothered by the proprietary way he commanded the bed, the long, white bulk of him at an angle, taking up as much space as one person possibly could, the rise of his ass, whiter still than the rest of him, the sight of her pillow, the one she slept on, tucked between his hairy legs, his clothes abandoned on the floor the moment they stepped into the apartment, his funny blue-and-red underwear atop the pile. If he’s awake now, he’s probably thrown up. She’s glad she missed that. She puts the eggs and toast onto a plate, one of the lime-green ceramic plates, from the shelf by the door. She’ll take the food upstairs, maybe duck out for a coffee run. There’s still plenty of time.
Lauren climbs the steps, balancing the plate carefully. There’s a general air of hubbub in the house. On the stairs, she passes the cleaning lady and her minions—giving the powder room the once-over, aligning picture frames, straightening the rugs, which were beaten and then vacuumed only hours before. On the landing, where the staircase makes its turn, a place that’s no particular place, Lulu has set a rattan plant stand, topped with two battered coffee-table volumes (Berthe Morisot, Kenneth Noland), on top of those, a clay bowl, bought in India, within that, a beaded necklace, from Haiti, the beads made of old paper, wound around itself in a complicated process by the women at a crafts cooperative supported by a nonprofit she and Huck have long given money to. In this tiny space, so much life, and that doesn’t include the pictures on the wall, of Sarah, mostly, though you’ll spot Huck arm in arm with Reagan, and a picture of Lulu with Mimi Fari?a and Bob Dylan. The disordered detritus of their very well ordered lives. As a girl, Lauren found all this stuff enchanting; part of her still does. Her parents had stuff, but not nearly so much, not nearly so interesting: a couple of brass elephants you might be able to persuade someone were souvenirs from India but which were almost certainly found at T.J. Maxx, stacks of thick military thrillers, piled here and there throughout the house, family photographs, those awkward tableaux—fresh haircuts and best sweaters, the photo studio’s logo embossed tastefully in one corner.
She wonders if it were her wedding, at her mother’s house, would her mother have paid for a cleaning lady—visions of sensible Bella Brooks, running the rented shampooer over the mauve nap of the living room, warning them all to stay out of there until it dried. It feels cruel to think of this now. Were Bella a different sort of person, she might have forged a friendship with Lulu (as Amina’s mother had, years ago, an early playdate). She might have been invited herself, today, though who knows what she would have worn, who knows what she would have made of the wedding registry.
Lauren suddenly feels ill. She’s noticed this more lately: the delayed onset hangover. Her stomach tightens, churns: Why Mexican? What had she been thinking? She nudges the door all the way open with her shoulder, goes back into the room, sets the plate on the desk, which had been meant as a place where Sarah could do her homework, though it was almost never used as such.
“Who’s hungry?”
“Ugh,” Sarah says.
“You’re welcome,” she says.
“Trust me, eat,” Danielle says. “You will be glad you did.”
Sarah picks up the egg and takes a tentative bite. Lauren sits back down on the bed. Still not hungry, she does, though, have a very specific craving and is glad she’s come prepared. She picks her tote bag up from its slump on the floor. “I bought these. Don’t shame me.” She reaches in the bag, produces a pack of cigarettes.
“Camels,” Sarah says.
“Ultra Lights,” Lauren says. “They’re practically healthy. A drag won’t kill you.”
Danielle laughs. “I’m looking the other way, okay?”