“No, seriously,” I say, not laughing, and the smile vanishes from Lauren’s face in a swift show of obedience. I rest my hands flat on the table, taking a moment to gather my thoughts. “I need to say that I’m indelibly touched by your support. Especially because I know the three of us have never been particularly close.” My expression is full of remorse. I let Brett turn me against you, and I see the error of my allegiance now—forgive me. “The last few months have been equal parts exhausting and exhilarating. I never thought I would open up about my past in this way, and I continue to be surprised not only by the people who have shown up for me, but by those who have not.”
I pause, and that’s when I notice that Jen’s nails are painted. Jen’s nails are painted and she has traded her heavy-framed Moscot Mensch glasses for contacts and very possibly, Jen has gotten a boob job. The sexier styling seems an obvious message to the person who broke her heart last season: This is what you’re missing. We have no idea who he is, if he even is a he. Jen refused to get into details at the reunion, telling us only that there had been someone “special” in the picture but insisting that it had ended, amicably, with agonized tears in her small eyes. In the three years I’ve known her, Jen has been notoriously tight-lipped about her love life, which infuriates Brett, perennial oversharer. But I always thought it wasn’t so much Jen holding back as Jen not having much to tell. I have wondered, more than a few times, if Jen might have been a virgin before this “special” person came along. There is something about her that is inherently untouchable but prepared to be, in case anyone comes along who is up to the task. The gruffness is an obvious defense mechanism, allowing her to reject you first.
Of course, the viewers would be surprised to hear me describe our resident earth goddess as gruff. Jen presents much differently on camera, speaking in spiritual platitudes and extolling the virtues of veganism and plant-based alchemy, a lifestyle that has turned into her livelihood. Packets of super-herbs and adaptogens sell for seventeen dollars in her downtown juice bars that are frequent props in the Instagram stories of Gwyneth Paltrow and Busy Philipps. Last year, she opened a vegan restaurant on the corner of Broome and Orchard that has so many beautiful people willing to wait an hour for her air-baked sweet potato fries that plans are in the works to open locations on the Upper West Side and in Venice, for a cookbook and a national delivery service. No matter, her mother wishes she were more like Brett.
Lauren tsks. “I cannot believe Brett still hasn’t reached out to you.”
Jen shoots me a look.
“What?” Lauren asks, noticing. Jen gets very busy, straightening her silverware and ignoring the question. “What?” Lauren repeats.
“I have not heard from Brett,” I say. “But I spoke to Lisa recently.” I exhale, like what I’m about to say won’t be easy for her to hear. “She told me they’re going in a different direction with the new Digger.”
“Okay . . . and?” Lauren looks as if there is a weight attached to her jaw, pulling everything in her expression down, down.
“They’re bringing in Brett’s sister and her niece to replace Hayley.”
Lauren looks like she might short-circuit. “Brett’s sister and Brett’s niece?”
I nod.
“But . . .” Lauren brings her fingers to her temples with a soft moan, as though processing this new information is a painful endeavor. “How old is the niece?”
“Twelve,” Jen says, stonily.
Lauren looks like she’s about to cry. She sits there, her face growing hot, her breathing short and frantic, waiting desperately for one of us to say something that’s going to make her feel better. “I don’t understand,” she says, finally. “She’s going to be a cast member?”
“She’s like a friend of the cast. It’s the sister who is the cast member.”
“And she has a twelve-year-old?” Lauren crows. “How old is she?”
“Our age,” I say.
“Thirty-one,” Jen clarifies, ruthlessly. I haven’t been thirty-one for a few years now.
“Is she married?” Lauren asks, eyes shut, like she can’t bear to look until she knows it’s safe.
“No,” I say. “Not married.” Lauren opens her eyes with a sad, resigned sigh. The news is not great, but it is tolerable. Lauren would probably like to be married with a baby and two ugly nannies, but our master and commander doesn’t want kids; henceforth, none of us are allowed to want them either. A few years ago I started to notice that mothers and not-mothers are equally fixated on childless women in their thirties, and in particular childless, married women in their thirties. How fun for me. It is a little like living in a swing state and being registered as an Independent. Both parties campaign fastidiously to get me on their side. The mothers make me promises like, I’m not that maternal either, but you love them when they are your own. The not-mothers rage against therapists and doctors who try to pathologize your reluctance for children. Neither party thinks they have anything in common with the other, which makes it all the more hilarious how much they do. It’s human nature to want your decisions validated. You feel better about yourself and your life when others make the same choices as you do. Luckily for me, I have no problem validating this particular decision of Jesse’s. Pathologize my contempt for kids all you want, I’ll never have them.
“But she doesn’t even live in the city,” I continue. “I heard they’re setting her up in Brett’s apartment and Brett’s going to move in with the new girlfriend.”
“Like it’s a storyline?”
“No, like . . . they’re going to make it look like the sister has always lived here. No one’s seen the apartment Brett is in right now so there won’t be any confusion.”
“Who is she?” Lauren demands. “Do you know her?”
“I’ve only met her here and there. But she basically handles all the day-to-day at SPOKE so that Brett can do the hard work of cohosting the fourth hour of the Today show when Hoda goes on vacation.”
There is a moment of bitter silence. None of us are over the fact that we weren’t asked to do it.
“Fine,” Lauren concedes. “I get the sister. I guess. But why are they making the niece a part of the show?”
“Well, now you’re asking the right question,” I tell her. A bread basket is delivered to the table and out of habit, everyone reaches for a piece. Rule number three of Goal Diggers, we eat carbs. We are emancipated from diets, and we exercise for health, not weight loss. Even if you starve yourself between takes like Lauren or suffer from orthorexia like Jen, you play your gourmandism for the cameras (or always, if you’re Brett and you found a way to commoditize your thunder thighs). Jesse thinks we have seen too many white, straight women hawking flat tummy tea on Instagram. Women who refuse to eat processed food are passé.
“The niece is black,” I say.
Lauren’s jaw goes slack. “Is the sister black?”
My mouth full, I shake my head no.
“Then what? The niece is adopted?”
I shake my head again, unable to elucidate while chewing. I’m the only one who actually took a piece of bread in the end. Jen and Lauren remembered the cameras weren’t around and returned their empty hands to their laps to be sniffed later.
“Stop making me dig, for Chrissakes!”