“Yes,Julian, I know when you’re referring to.” Nomi rakes her fingers into the hair at her temples. “Jesus.”
“I was very rude, and I shouldn’t have mentioned lasagna.” I adjust my glasses while Nomi closes her eyes, unwilling to look at me. “It’s not even true—nobody could ruin lasagna. Anyway, I’m sorry. Seeing you after all these years just… caught me off guard. And I’m sorry. Again.”
Surprisingly, I find that Iamsorry. Sorry that she still has this hold over me, that she can still, after all this time, get the better of me. Thateven now, as I apologize and try to make things right between us, she hates me so much she won’t even look at me.
Her eyes flip open, and in a forcibly calm voice, she says, “Thank you. I do not forgive you, though, because nowI’llnever be able to look at lasagna again. I appreciate you stitching up the right hole and everything, but I will be going now.”
Ugh.I knew I should’ve avoided her until I die! For once, Eric was wrong—just because my sad, pathetic body is still attracted to Nomi’s doesn’t mean we shoulddate. Preposterous. She is a stoner; I am a doctor. She breaks hearts, I fix them. I stand as she stands, then rush toward the door to open it for her, but she gets there first.
She pauses there. “I would appreciate never talking about this again.”
“Duly noted.” I trail after her down the hallway. “So, what are you opening next door, anyway?” I rush out, feeling strangely desperate to stretch the conversation. I don’t know why; this has been one of the most awkward exchanges of my life.
She spins on her heels, looking up at me with manufactured patience. “Let’s make something clear: we’re not friends. We’re not even acquaintances. You’re somebody I used to know, and we had averyunfortunate run-in a few days ago, that’s it. My business is exactly that—mybusiness—and I want you and your judgmental attitude to stay the hell out of it.”
And with that, she exits the clinic out into the jewel-skied evening, her curt, devastating words stirring up every one of my most antagonistic feelings.
“Call if there’s any vaginal swelling!” I yell after her on the bustling sidewalk, satisfied when a few heads turn to stare. “Or strange, troublesome discharge!”
Nowthat’show you violate HIPAA.
It’s a slow, emergency-free evening in Sparrow Nook with nothing to distract me from the unaccountable irritation I feel that Nomi’s opening amystery business next door. In the Strange Drugs pharmacy, too—what could it be? A gift shop? Seems unlike her, but it’s been fifteen years. Maybe she’s gotten into decorative tea towels. What do hot, formerly goth women in their thirties care about, anyway? Tarot readings? Supplements? Cats? Fuck if I know. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t consumed with curiosity. The idea of her starting her own business feels like a glimpse of the fish-netted Nomi of yore that tortured me with her determination to beat me in everything. God, I miss that Nomi. If only she hadn’t thrown it all away, we could’ve been… well.
We could’ve been everything. We were going to go to Yale together, and instead of endless studying alone, my life would’ve been endless studyingwith Nomi. Late nights and early mornings in the librarywith Nomi. Working and striving and accomplishing everything we dreamed of, together. The best with the best. It’s hard to look at the woman who starred in all my teenage dreams of the illustrious future we’d share after she abruptly and with zero explanation dropped out of school, out of my life, and the life she was building for herself, too. It was even harder to see her half-naked wearing nothing but a red-eyed Colonel Sanders shirt, still stuck in the town I thought we’d escape together.
But maybe there’s still some spark of that old Nomi left.
I quickly pull up the city council’s dinky website—the next meeting is one week from today. Veronica said Nomi couldn’t do any “business” before the next city council meeting, so she must be waiting on some kind of permission or licensure to be voted on next week.
With a satisfied grunt, I add the meeting to my calendar.
CHAPTER FIVE
NOMI
There’s only one benefit to throwing a party, and it’s that you should, intheory, know everyone there. No awkward introductions. No accidental run-ins with reviled exes. No small talk with strangers in the bathroom line. This one positive is so good, it’s almost worth all the negatives, which count in the dozens—from feeling personally responsible for everyone’s good time to the never-ending cleanup the next day.
And yet, when half the town shows up to your tiny house ready to get stoned, that one benefit flies out the window. It’s only eight p.m., and I’ve already met more people than I can possibly remember, all thanks to Eve. A few days ago, we vaped enough Orangutan Titties to put down a small horse and were watchingJeopardy!with Graham since he’s practicing to take the show’s qualifying test when she abruptly sat up from my floor like a possessed puppet.
“We should have a party!”
“Aparty?” I frowned at her. She’d had even more Titties than I had. “But… we’re in our thirties.”
“Come on, Nomi. For one night, we can pretend otherwise! It’d be a fundraiser, with proceeds benefiting the dispensary. A…pot luck!”
“How would people bringing dishes to share help the dispensary?”
“Oh my God, Nomi, quit being so literal!” Eve grabbed me by the arms and pulled me off the couch; she’s very strong when she’s stoned. “I’ll bake a full tasting menu for people to try, and we’ll gather donations at the door to enter. We’ll invite the whole town and get them to sign a—a letter of support or something. They’ll make the case to the city council for us, Nomi. It’s a win-win!”
And so, the Stranger Drugs Pot Luck was born. Word got around faster than we anticipated, and wider, too. There are hundreds of people here, milling about the tables on our bulb-lit front lawn, the mismatched menagerie of beach chairs in our backyard, and the air-conditioned tunnel of rooms between them. But plus side, the giant cannabis-leaf piñata I’m wearing slung over my body is already stuffed with donations, and Eve and Graham’s are nearly full, too. After I deposit the proceeds from my full piñata into Eve’s apartment, I resume my position on the front porch, welcoming guests, receiving donations, and keeping a hawk eye out for any council members. If they see the town’s enthusiastic support for our venture tonight, that’d do more for us than next week’s presentation ever could.
“Baaaaabe, looking hot!” Veronica D’Angelo-Bork calls as she sashays up our front walk like it’s a red carpet, and I’m fromE! Newswaiting to interview her. She appraises my yolky gold sundress and the length of leg exposed between its short hem and the tops of my favorite boots, a burnished bronze set of vintage Frye. “It’s giving 1970sCome Fuck MeBohemian Nashville.”
I huff. “I was going forCome Fund Me, but close enough.”
Veronica steps away to greet a client just as Gisella D’Angelo bustles up, an aging Italian beauty with a short, silver-streaked black bob and a huge smile, escorted by Dr. Appa, who’s on her arm and looking quite dashing as well in his sporty plaid blazer and matching bow tie.
I wonder if Julian knows his mom is banging his boss.
