As it turns out, I don’t have to say anything. My friends take one look at my face—puffy; my hair—greasy; and my freshly resized engagement ring—very much not on my finger—and they know.
“Fuuuuuuuuck, Lanie,” Rufus says, planting a kiss on my head as he sinks into the chair next to me.
“We need a bottle of prosecco,” Meg calls to the nearest waiter. “And three shots of tequila.”
“Damn, mama,” Rufus says to her. “Are we going clubbing after this? Because I’ll need to change.”
“It’s called the Kate Moss,” Meg says. “You take the shot and sip the bubbles, and it helps, okay?”
“I never argue with Kate Moss,” Rufus says, obliging. He takes off his sunglasses and sets them on the table next to his keys, his phone, his sunscreen, and his thirty-dollar lip balm. Meg and I bought him a man bag last Christmas in an attempt to limit the amount of real estate he always takes up on restaurant tables, but he’s set in his ways.
“So, what happened?” Meg silences her phone. She does this only for very significant conversations. It makes me feel a grateful swell of love for her.
“We were out last night,” I say, my stomach knotting at the memory. “We were having a good time. Like we always do. But then, I don’t know, suddenly it became clear that whenever we talk about getting married, it’s like the word has two different meanings. One for Ryan, one for me. And when I pushed on that a little, the whole thing just fell apart.” I snatch a tissue and blow my nose.
Meg frowns at me, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. “First of all, weddings are the devil. Planning one is enough to drive the happiest couple bananas. Tommy and I barely made it down the aisle after a feud over our table runners.”
“The fuck is a table runner?” Rufus says.
“Don’t ask,” Meg replies. “I’m still mad we went with maroon. The point is, it’s a lot.”
“I guess,” I say, “but our disconnect was less about the wedding, and more about the marriage. We didn’t want the same life. We tried to ignore that for a long time. Stupidly long. Because . . . because . . .”
“Because he was Ninety-Nine Things?” Meg offers.
I drop my head on the table. Over the years, my friends have ribbed me about my list. But lovingly, acceptingly. If Meg and Rufus had any idea what an imposter Noa Callaway is, they’d pity me for real.
“I’m such a fool,” I moan.
“Lanie,” Rufus says, “plenty of people stay in worse relationships for way more pathetic reasons.”
“True,” Meg says. “Do you remember Mary, my assistant two assistants ago? And those really long lunch breaks she used to take?”
“She was always very sweaty in the afternoons,” Rufus says.
“Well, I found out it was because her boyfriend refused to let her dog out, so she had to run home to Tribeca. Every. Single. Day. He worked from home! But she didn’t want to leave him because his apartment was rent-controlled.”
“Well, my cousin,” Rufus says, leaning in and lowering his voice like he always does when he talks about his family, even though they all live on the West Coast, “is dating this dude who makes her call him ‘the Terminator’ during sex. And she stays because he put her on his gym membership!”
“That’s kind of hot?” Meg says, as if trying to imagine it.
“You have a problem,” Rufus says to her.
“It has a name,” Meg says, closing her eyes. “Dry Spell.”
“Meg, you and Tommy are allowed to have sex,” I say. “Even though you’re married.”
She groans and leans back in her chair. “Married sex requires so much imagination, it’s exhausting.”
“Like . . . you start doing it in imaginative places?” I ask. “Fire escape, that kind of thing?”
“No, like I imagine Tommy is my friend’s ex-fiancé, and he’s calling me the Terminator.”
Despite myself, I laugh, and Meg and Rufus cheer at the sound of it.
“Our point is,” Rufus says, “you and Ryan are both boneable, successful, decent people. Stone-cold catches. It makes sense that you tried to make it work.”
I run my finger over the ring in the box on the table. When the jeweler called this morning to schedule the pickup, I’d laughed so manically into the phone that I definitely freaked him out. I’d swung by the shop on my way to brunch, a now-or-never feeling in my heart. The jeweler had asked me to try it on before I left, but I knew if I did that, I would have started weeping. Which I didn’t want to do, not until I was safely and anonymously walking through Central Park.
I know the ring probably fits perfectly. It’s beautiful and tragic. I can’t bring myself to take it out of the box.
“We would have been really unhappy,” I say to Meg and Rufus. It helps to say it aloud.
“Eh, happiness is overrated,” Meg says. “The first few years of parenting is like watching the man you used to want to fuck twenty-four/seven be slow-motion Frankensteined into a pastiche of every quality you loathe—”
“Meg,” Rufus says, giving her a look. “We are here to instill hope, remember? That there’s something better out there?”
“I’m just doing my due diligence,” Meg says. “In case the two of them get back together—”
“We won’t get back together,” I say.
“You sure?” Rufus says.
“Real sure?” Meg asks.
“I’m sure.” I stare at them. “What?”
Rufus lets out a low whistle and makes eyes at Meg. “Well, then, we can move into the honesty portion of the brunch.”
“What the hell have you been doing until now?” I demand.
Just then, our server appears with an ice bucket of prosecco and a tray of shots. She’s peppy and ponytailed, and before she even sets the drinks down, all of us reach for the tequila and take it in a gulp. I gag a little, and also wish I had another.
“Ohmigod, who just got engaged?” the server asks, bright as the glaring sun. She glances around at the three of us, trying to make sense of the dynamic. “That ring is gorgeous. I want one just like it someday!”
“Take it,” I growl at her.
She flinches, glances at Rufus as she fiddles with the foil on the prosecco. “Is she okay?”
“Leave us,” Rufus whispers and eases the bottle out of the server’s hand.