“Wait, before you go,” Meg says, making a stop sign with her hand. “We’ll take a large platter of all your pickles, deviled eggs, an order of fried chicken and French toast, and one deluxe French dip.”
“Are you pregnant again?” Rufus asks, sizing up Meg.
“Rufus, I just ordered enough alcohol to pickle all three of us. But, this was my go-to brunch when I was pregnant, and it is perfection, thank you very much.”
As soon as the server walks away, I stare down both my friends. “Start talking. And not about pickles. You hated Ryan? All this time?”
“No, no, we liked him,” Rufus says, his tone tactful. “He was a fabulous boyfriend. Capital F, capital B. Meg and I both appreciated the eye candy, especially that weekend at the Jersey Shore.”
“Remember his red bathing suit?” Meg makes a sizzling sound. She’s already flushed from the tequila.
“But,” Rufus says, “we’re . . . glad you’re not going to marry him.”
“Was it just me,” Meg says, “or was he always looking for reasons you should quit your job?”
I nod. I sigh. “He started working that angle on our second date.”
“And the religion thing?” Rufus says, untwining the wire around the prosecco cork. “You would really have deprived us of your legendary Passover seders?”
“You just like to make fun of my gefilte fish,” I say.
“That is not fish. It’s just not. Also? Ryan called me Randall every time I saw him,” Rufus says. “For three years.”
“He did not!” I gasp. “That is deeply un-presidential.”
“Yeah, I’m not voting for him,” Rufus says, and pops the cork on the bottle. “Opa!”
“So, what are we drinking to?” I ask as he fills my flute.
“To you not moving to D.C.,” Rufus says.
“To you never being fucking FLOTUS!” Meg says.
“I will drink to that,” I say and raise my glass. “No offense, Michelle.”
“No offense, Michelle,” they echo and drink, too.
We sip our Kate Mosses and watch the city waking up around us, the hot dog vendor setting up on the street corner, the stroller parades of the Upper West Side, the bike messengers banging on windows of careless Uber drivers. We’re quiet for a while, and it’s nice. I feel scaffolded by my friends.
Then the sun peeks out from behind a cloud, making the 1.5-carat diamond glint.
“What am I going to do about this ring?” I say, wanting to cry again.
“Does he want it back?” Rufus asks.
“Beats me, he won’t answer my calls or texts.”
“Ryan is so the kind of guy who will not take back the ring,” Meg says. “He’ll see it as some magnanimous gesture. Very gauche for a politician to take back a ring.”
I nod. “You’re right. It’s annoying.”
“Pawn it?” Rufus says. “Like, classy-pawn. I know a guy.”
“Of course you do,” Meg says.
I shake my head. “That feels wrong. But so does letting it fester in my jewelry box at home.”
“I hate to see platinum fester,” Meg says.
“You know what I mean. It feels like this . . . sparkling emblem of my three-year-long self-delusion, of my embarrassing inability to navigate the best course for my life.”
Rufus giggles. “You get so verbose when you are tipsy.” He tops off my prosecco glass. “Quick, what’s a four-syllable word for horny?”
We all sit silently with that for a moment.
“I’m stumped,” I say.
“Drink more,” Rufus urges.
“Lanie,” Meg says, “you’re a good navigator. I mean, look at you. You have this baller job, editing one of the most famous writers in the world.”
“Who also happens to be your literary idol,” Rufus adds, while I nod and muster my cheeriest fake smile.
“You have us, two of the dopest friends in all of New York,” Meg continues, “and you have this little thing called resilience. Don’t laugh, Rufus. I’m being sincere. I’ve seen it in you ever since you showed up at Peony at age baby-twenty-two. It means you’re not going to feel this way for long. It means you’ll bounce back stronger than ever. It means that, ultimately, you’ll get what you want. I can look at you and know you already know that. Tell me you know it?”
I shrug. “I guess. Maybe.”
“Someday soon, this ring is just going to be a ring, a piece of jewelry from a different era of your life. No more, no less.”
It’s hard to imagine a time when seeing this ring won’t make me want to hibernate in a cave of regret, but I might as well make it a goal.
As two servers appear to set down our bounty of brunch, I close the clamshell and put the ring into my purse, making room for better things, like thick-sliced, perfectly golden French toast topped with fried chicken.
“Have you told BD?” Rufus asks, tucking into the French dip.
Rufus and BD are g-chat friends; they first clicked years ago over their shared obsession with Apple events. It’s unfathomable to me how many rounds they can go debating whether the new generation of iPhone is worth the price increase.
“Not yet,” I say. “I want to get my head on straight about it first.”
“My nainai always loved it when I broke up with someone,” Meg says, a pickle in one hand, prosecco in the other. This is her natural state. “She called it ‘clearing the chaff.’ ”
“Okay, your nainai sounds terrifying,” Rufus says, “and BD is not going to say that to Lanie.” He looks at me. “But she is probably going to want you to get back into the saddle soon.”
I drown the thought of dating in more prosecco. “I don’t see how I can do that. Now that my Ninety-Nine Things list failed me, I have no idea where to start with someone new.”
Meg snorts. Rufus puts a hand over his mouth.
“What? What are you laughing at?” I say.
“It’s called chemistry,” Rufus says. “You just get on board with it. It’s really not that hard.”
“Says the man who has been patiently waiting for Brent from Pilates World to break up with his partner for . . . how many years now?” I ask.
“Because we have chemistry!” Rufus says.
Meg puts her hand over mine. “Listen, Lanie, I’m as type A as the next person at this table, but I think the message is to stop being type A about love. It’ll come, and when it does, you’ll know.”