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I groan and flop back on my bed. “What the hell am I doing, Sara?”
My friend—one of my closest and longest and bestest (yes, I’m actually using the word bestest like a tween girl…probably because I feel like one, like a young girl getting ready to go on her first date)—stares over at me from the disorganized chaos of my closet. “You’re moving on, honey,” she says gently. “And”—a pause long enough that my heart begins to pound, begins to throw itself against my rib cage, “it’s about time.”
I clench my teeth together.
I barely resist shaking my head.
But I do…and then I manage to focus on more important things like, “Why are you so worried about what I’m going to wear?” I ask, shoving myself upright. “We’re literally going for a run and then the juice bar. Joggers and a tee are a requisite for that.”
Sara pauses, tiny former figure skating body outlined in the light of my closet.
Then she shakes her head and sighs.
Then she tosses some clothes in my direction. “At least wear that.”
I scowl at the tight black leggings, the strappy sports bra, the flowy tank to wear over the top. “Sara,” I warn.
“This is your first date in?—”
“Don’t,” I whisper.
She sighs, walks across the room in that graceful way of hers, then flops onto the bed next to me. “I know it hurts, honey.”
I turn my head away, slam my eyes closed.
“I don’t know why he did it. I don’t get it. Neither do Mike or Blane or any of the guys.” Another sigh. “But he did do it, babe.”
“I didn’t help,” I whisper, all of those insecurities welling up. “I-I—I’m not an easy woman to love?—”
The bed rocking is the only warning I get before Sara’s fingers are wrapping around my chin, sending my eyes shooting open. She yanks my face toward her, and she’s wearing a fierce expression I so rarely see now that all the rough and jagged edges of her have been soothed by years and years with her husband, Mike.
“You are so easy to love,” she says, fingers tightening when I start to look away again. “You are so fucking easy to love, honey.”
My vision is blurry and I’m barely hanging on.
Luckily, my bestie recognizes that.
She releases me, pops up off the bed. “So stop with that shit. Wear the clothes that will show off that gorgeous body of yours. Enjoy your run and your juice and a cute boy—or man. Let that be the first step to moving forward, babe. To allowing yourself to be happy.”
I inhale, holding the air in my lungs long enough for them to protest. Only then do I exhale, murmuring, “I am happy.”
My friend takes my hand, squeezes it lightly. “Well then, you’re allowed to be happier, okay?”
“I am?—”
Her cell rings, and she sighs, shaking her head. “That’s school’s ringtone. I need to get it.”
I start to sit up. “Of course you do,” I tell her.
Another squeeze of her hand. “You’ve got this, Banana.” And then she’s unlacing our fingers, reaching into her pocket, pulling out her cell. “Hello?”
Then she goes stiff, drops her chin to her chest. “Again?” she asks tone full of resignation. “Yeah,” she says a moment later. “I’ll be right there.” She hangs up, sighs, and shakes her head as she shoves her phone back into her pocket. “My kid is a bull in a china shop.”
“What happened?”
“He was playing Wall Ball”—this being a new playground game that all the kids at our local elementary school are obsessed with—“and he somehow ran himself into the wall instead of the ball.”
My lips twitch, something I try to push down, but something that Sara catches anyway.
