We took her car, of course. That red head turner was way more fun a ride than my steady old sedan. We left after lunch, the windows down and music up. The three-hour drive gave us plenty of time to catch up and reminisce.
That three-hour drive was the last time Diana and I had been really, truly friends.
Diana’s beach house was small, no more than a cottage, really, but it was only a mile from the sand, and that was better than anything I’d ever have. The first order of business upon arrival was always wine. Always Briar White. She loved it enough to stock up on it by the case when she came to the beach, because the stores at home didn’t carry it. It wasn’t my favorite, but when you have a wealthy, generous friend who’s willing to supply the beach and booze, what kind of dumb bitch complains?
So, we drank. We got drunk. We made nachos. We smoked cigarettes.
We talked.
“I’m so glad you moved back home,” she said. Her words were the tiniest bit sloshy. “But I know you hate it there. I’m sorry, Val.”
“As soon as I get back on my feet, I’ll be moving back to the city. Or somewhere else. Anywhere else.”
I think we both knew it wasn’t likely I’d be back on my feet any time soon. I’d been sending out resumés for months, with no bites. Without a new job, there was no way I could afford to move.
Diana waved a hand around the interior of the living room. Vaulted ceiling. Creamy paint. Comfortable furniture and tasteful art. “I love this house, Val.”
“I love this house too.” I refilled both our glasses.
“Does it make me a bad person? To love this house more than I love my husband?” She didn’t wait for me to answer, but drank a long drink and kept going. “Although this house is easier to live with than he is. I love his mother, but she really made a mess of her son.”
We both drank then. Drained our glasses and refilled them. We moved outside to the front porch, and we lit up again.
“It’s like she never let him grow up,” Diana said then in a low voice. “I get it, you know? Harriett’s always been there for me ever since I met her. More than my mother ever was. So, I get it. He likes being taken care of and catered to. He’s grown to feel entitled to it. But oh my god, whatever makes him mommy’s little boy does not make him, in any way, shape, or form, a good husband.”
I’d heard the stories over the years. Jonathan was clueless, selfish, self-centered. He expected to be coddled. He was indecisive while also being stubborn. Arrogant, too rough in bed, patronizing. Never wrong. Incapable of apologizing. He sounded like every guy I’d ever fallen for, if I was going to be honest with myself.
I might be jealous of my friend’s beauty and the privileged life she led, but still … she was my best friend. I hated seeing her so unhappy.
“It’s easier to divorce a mama’s boy than it is to change him.” The words rose to my lips without me knowing quite where they came from.
Diana was silent for a moment. “I can’t just divorce him. We have a prenup. We leave the marriage with whatever we came into it with, and for me that is definitely not this house—or the one in Pennsylvania either. His mother gave him both before I even met him. He’ll keep them both, and we’ll have to split everything else. Unless one of us cheats and the other has proof. If he does, he loses … well, just about everything.”
“Does kissing count?” I asked. “Or does he actually have to put his dick in someone else?”
She laughed but didn’t answer.
And I confessed.
“Jonathan kissed me. At Christmas,” I told her. “I … I kissed him back.”
Diana swallowed the last of her wine. “People get giddy at parties. They do dumb things. Christmas is a terrible time.”
“There was nothing else,” I said. “I promise.”
For a long time, we sat in silence while we drank our wine. My heart was pounding—I remember that. Diana and I … we’d been through a lot. More than even the best of friends could usually say. We were each other’s ride or die. We’d carried each other’s secrets and scars. A few seconds of drunken Christmas party stupidity shouldn’t have ruined that … but you never know what will bring things to an end.
“But if there was something else,” she said finally, “if there was, then I could get rid of him. Couldn’t I?”
* * *
She never reminded me that I owed her. She didn’t have to. I could never forget what Diana had done when we were sixteen. What she’d done for me when I could not.
It wasn’t the kiss that destroyed our friendship, one that had, I can say without hesitation, saved both our lives.
It was Diana who did that with what she asked me to do.
It was me who agreed.
We both did it, but I’m the one who’s now left broken by it while she gets to pretend it never happened.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Diana
“Happy Turkey Day!” Harriett’s voice rises, high and shrill.
She clasps her hands together, her eyes lit with the sort of manic holiday fervor I’ve never been able to match. My holidays are Memorial Day and the Fourth of July. Beach holidays. Labor Day too, but that’s a sad one because it means summer’s over.
Jonathan lifts his glass. “Happy Turkey Day.”
I don’t lift mine, only because I can get away with pretending it would hurt too much. I don’t feel like toasting, especially not under this pretense that we are a happy family. I slowly sip a glass of my favorite chardonnay.
“Harriett, you’ve outdone yourself,” I tell her with genuine appreciation.
It’s the right thing to say. Harriett has indeed outdone herself. She’s been fluttering around my kitchen for hours, probably at least since five or six AM. Dinner’s on the table precisely at noon. That’s the Richmond family tradition. A golden turkey. Homemade gravy. Mashed potatoes. Corn, green bean casserole. The works. I pluck a dinner roll from the basket and tear open the softness to spread it with softened butter.
“You really didn’t have to do all this,” I say after a bite. “So much work.”
“It was really no effort,” Harriett says, seated at the head of the table. “I’m more than happy to cook for my kids. And you might scold me, Jonathan, for not listening, but I do.”
Jonathan has his own little vegan spread. Mushroom gravy. Potatoes mashed with margarine and soy milk. Harriett has even put together a tofurky type of thing, sliced tofu with soy sauce and other seasonings to mimic a real bird. Basically, Harriett cooked twice the meal to accommodate her son, and he’s barely acknowledged her efforts.
“I just meant that we could all have eaten the vegan meal. You didn’t have to go to all the effort of making double. That’s all.” I give my husband what I hope is a significant look, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
We eat. Her food is amazing, as always. She and Jonathan keep the conversation going, mostly gossip about family members he hasn’t seen in years. I concentrate on my meal. In past years, we’ve had guests for dinner. A few of Jonathan’s local cousins. Sometimes, people from work.
Val.
Not every year. Thanksgiving is the day her mom went into the hospital and never left. It’s a rough time for her, and she often travels during it. Exotic places. Bali. Prague. Where is she traveling this year? I think as I watch my husband shovel food into his face like it’s his job. I won’t ever know. We aren’t friends anymore.