Bianca shrugs, curled up in the corner of the black leather couch, one of the few pieces of furniture in the living room. “And then he smiled and said I should be hearing from them soon.”
Frankie lives in a little bungalow in Echo Park. She bought it – when she was named the Dodgers’ head of analytics and got a hefty signing bonus – mostly for its close proximity to the stadium, though its small size and charm are completely antithetical to everything about Bianca’s childhood best friend. Bianca’s always loved it because it somehow feels cozy in the vast urban sprawl that is Los Angeles.
Or it would, if Frankie hadn’t had the whole thing painted stark white, with muted accents and barely any furniture in case another team came calling with a better offer and she has to sell it fast.
Bianca would buy it off her in a second if she could afford it.
“Oh, you got the job. You so got the job,” Erik chimes in.
They’re all more than a couple of drinks in and hanging on her every word.
“We’ll see. There are a lot of good candidates.”
Frankie rolls her eyes, while pouring another gin and tonic. “Yeah, but you’re agreatcandidate.”
‘The best candidate,” Chloe chimes in from her perch on one of Frankie’s stools, imported to the living room from the never used kitchen. “The job is literally what you’ve been ranting at us about for almost a decade.”
Bianca smiles. Well, at least they’ve been listening when she talks about it. Though it’s possible some of it only sank in through sheer exposure.
“I think it’s smart,” Isobel says, taking a slow sip from her seltzer and cranberry juice before continuing. “It’s never a good idea to count your chickens. Besides, if you don’t get the job, then you can focus your energy on wedding planning.”
Chloe scoffs lightly. “Wedding planningandjob hunting, that’s not easier.”
“Or maybe you go hang out in Greece for the summer. Have the wedding there, on a beach in Mykonos or at the Acropolis.”
For half a second Bianca can picture it, even if it’s something that would never happen. She’s not even sure if getting married at the Acropolis is legal, and even if it was, the cost would be more than she’ll probably make in the course of her lifetime. But that doesn’t stop the vision in her head. Xavier in a perfectly tailored tuxedo standing in front of the ruins as she walks down the aisle in a silky white dress dipping low in the front, hugging her hips perfectly, smooth against her skin with every step she takes toward him and a future together.
Then she blinks and she’s back, shifting uncomfortably on the leather of Frankie’s couch where her friends are currently staring at her with knowing grins.
She’s only saved when her phone vibrates against the glass of Frankie’s coffee table, but she’s too slow and Lexi leans in and snatches it away. Then again, this is what she wanted, wasn’t it? That was the whole point of this afternoon’s texts, with – what did he call it? – extra flavor.
Her sister’s face spreads into a wicked smile as she reads the latest one, but then scrolls back. “Xavier would like to know if you want him to come pick you up or if you’re going to Uber home?”
“Uber,” Bianca tells her, but Lexi isn’t typing a response, she’s reading, her grin only growing as she does.
“That boy worships you,” her sister says as she hands the phone off to Erik who’d been making desperate noises and making grabby hands at it.
“Ugh,” he complains to Lexi, “do you remember when you had time to have sex or even send a sexy text message? I haven’t texted about anything except formula or diapers in months.”
“Playdates and kindergarten class-mom bullshit,” Lexi says and they clink their glasses together in commiseration.
“What did he say?” Frankie asks, leaning over Erik’s shoulder, and her eyebrows lift when he shows her. “And is he all talk or is he a man of his word?”
And there it is, her opening – she can regale all of them with tales of their fictional exploits, from the first spark of attraction years ago to it all finally spilling over in the last few months as the harsh reality of the impending separation was too much for them to stand, how they fell into bed together and fell in love not long after, how she wants to spend the rest of her life with him, but . . . fuck, she can’t.
She’s not even angry.
She’s just . . . tired.
Tired of not being understood by the people most important to her.
They just don’t get it and she’s not sure they ever will.
And she’s so tired of it, she can’t even call them out, not with those curious, eager grins being aimed at her and alcohol swimming in their veins and the lie suddenly weighing heavily on her shoulders.
Bianca twists her fingers in front of her lips, like she’s keeping a secret.
Groans fill the room.
