“What does that mean?” Gabe says, glancing at Davi, who already knew because we talked on the phone last week andwho reserves his enthusiasm for things like final products. “What do you need to do? When do we get it?”
“We’ve barely started recipe development,” I tell him. “It’s still very early.”
“Will you put the pistachio mint cookies in there?” Davi asks, interest apparently piqued.
“You have that recipe,” I answer, picking up my wineglass and taking a sip.
“Yes, but I’d like it in cookbook form, please.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“If you’re taking requests, that white bean thing you used to make for us in college should absolutely be in there,” Gabe says.
“There’ll be a riff on something like that,” I say. I shake my head, rushing forward before things get too out of hand. “It’s seriously still so early, but yeah, the cookbook is happening.”
“We knew her when,” Gabe says, forming a marquee with his hands.
“Please, we knewthemwhen,” Davi says. “Everett had award season by the balls last year.”
“Gross,” Laurel says. Davi shrugs.
I realize I haven’t looked at Everett since Laurel mentioned the cookbook. I could feel his eyes on the side of my face as I talked, and I knew, or suspected, why. It was a reminder, the first of many I was afraid of coming up this week. Of what used to be. He was one of the first people I told I actually wanted to write a cookbook. Telling him, telling anyone, made it real. But that doesn’t matter now. I look across the table at him, jaw set.
“I don’t think I ever congratulated you,” I say. “On the win.” I am pointedly leaving out the seven nominations and two other wins thatCooney, the ode to the coming-of-age, science fiction greats of the eighties, garnered last year. Suddenly Everett’s name was everywhere, because winner of bestdirector is one thing, but a young, hot, and eligible best director is another entirely.
“Thank you,” Everett says, eyes locked on to mine across the table. “Congratulations on the cookbook.”
The moment lasts just a breath too long, spreading unease through me. I set my wineglass down, clap my hands together. “Enough about that,” I say. “What about everyone else?” It feels strange to have to ask, a poke at a sore spot in me, but I school my expression into something neutral.
“The twins are starting preschool in the fall,” Gabe says, looking almost teary. “I can’t believe it.”
“I am up for a promotion,” Davi says.
“No work this week,” Laurel says, leveling him with an accusatory stare.
“Remind me what you were doing in your room this afternoon?” Davi asks. Laurel tosses what’s left of her crust in his direction, but he dodges it, laughing. “I’m also officially the legal counsel to a musician who cannot be named but whose name you absolutely all know and give so many shits about.”
“Tell us,” Gabe says. “I promise we won’t tell anyone.”
“You’ll tell Mia,” I say, pointing an accusatory fork at him.
“You always tell your spouse,” Gabe counters before looking back at Davi. “Mia won’t tell anybody.”
“I’m not at liberty to say,” Davi says, holding up his glass. “But this artist may or may not be on your workout playlist, Gabe.”
“That narrows it down to roughly two thousand people,” Gabe, who has famously never made a new workout playlist and instead just keeps adding and adding and adding to the existing one, mutters.
“I’m doing a campaign with Alaska Airlines starting this summer,” Laurel says from her spot at the head of the table.She tips her wineglass toward Everett. “Maybethey’lladd more flights between Dubrovnik and Los Angeles.”
We go around the table like this, the talking that Laurel wanted us to postpone until now, a circle of updates that we never used to need but that are now essential for all of us to truly be caught up on one another’s lives. It’s obvious when it comes to something either I or Everett don’t know, and it quickly emerges that it’s not just the three groups that exist among us, but four. Laurel, Davi, and Gabe are their own. I try not to let it bother me. We each have our own, unique relationships with each other. But I want us to feel cohesive again. Right now, it seems more like we’re just round-robin-ing our life updates.
“Mia and I are thinking about a different house,” Gabe says. “The four of us are starting to outgrow the space where we are now. But we love that house.”
“It’s a great house,” Everett says. I add it to my mental list of Things to Keep Track Of. He’s been there. I haven’t.
“See, this is another reason I don’t want kids,” Davi says. “Who can afford to level up their real estate every time they pop out another gremlin?”
“Maybe an entertainment lawyer representing someone we allgive so many shits about?” I tease.
