“DICK…,” she belts out, and because god is an asshole, my AirPod falls out of my ear so Saroya, an aspirationally gutsy law clerk who Juuls on Zoom calls, is within earshot. Struggling with my AirPod, I mouth, “Client. Sorry,” to Saroya, who doesn’t seem to buy it but also doesn’t really care.
Laurellovescalling Rich “Dick.” When things were good, it was a playful nickname between in-laws. When things got bad, it was an accusation. Not lobbed against him but at me. I was the reason she’d spent years following a bland and nondescript white man on Instagram who posted ill-lit photos of food with captions like “hump day treat *drooling emoji*.” An account I still follow because taking the affirmative step to unfollow suggests that unexpectedly scrolling past a picture of a dim hand pie would be too painful.
What’s more humiliating is at some point in the last fourteen months itactually wastoo painful and I had to mute him.
I shake away thoughts of my ex with Laurel’s “DICK” battle cry ringing in my ears.
“I hate you,” I say through a sigh.
“You love me,” she responds in her normal, self-assuredway. Everyone loves Laurel, and no one knows that better than her. “And I deserve a little fun after the SAT course from hell. I swear, at least two parents think I’m one of those Lori Loughlin Varsity Blues college-prep tutors. Easton’s mom asked again if I’d be dyeing my hair to appear more discreet when ‘assisting’ her son on exam day. She kept winking when she said ‘assist.’ You know, to avoid self-incrimination in case I was wearing a wire.”
I nod. “As one does.”
Laurel is that particular brand of inspiring high school English teacher lit majors aspire to be after watching the first half ofDead Poets Society. An embodiment of that aloof, chaotic energy seventeen-year-olds find intoxicating, she was voted Teacher of the Year so many times that her school instituted a policy of rotating eligibility. My sister, Laurel Beekman, is the FDR of Williamson Academy, and if I could purchase a bumper sticker to this effect, I’d slap it on my Prius in a second.
In the summer, she teaches SAT prep courses until her will to live outweighs her desire to pay her bills. That window seems to get smaller every summer. This year, she’s made it to late June.
I hear the crumple of a convenience store bag on Laurel’s end. “Obviously I wear a wire.” I’m looking at my computer monitor, but I hear the unmistakable sound of Laurel biting into what I’m 90 percent sure is a gas station pastry. The girl’s weak for shelf-stable bear claws. “But only for the benefit of my future biographers,” she informs me between bites. “And to aid the police investigation when I’m tragically murdered by a serial killer, obviously.”
“Stop falling asleep to murder podcasts,” I demand, pulling up my work email on my desktop. “It’s not good for you.”
“Speaking of my gruesome murder…I have something to tell you, and I don’t want you to kill me.” I inwardly shudder—I don’t possess the mental fortitude to be braced for a murderous revelation before I’ve finished my second beverage of the morning.
“What a windup,” I say simply to lighten the mood, but then she doesn’t say anything. She lets her pause swell into something stiff and surprisingly heavy.
She wouldn’t be confessing something truly awful, would she? Not over FaceTime while she’s perched on the hood of her car and I’m at work, fully visible to all my coworkers. With all we’ve been through together, she wouldn’t do that to me. Would she?
“I’m actually headed up north…to see Petey.”
That makes me sit up straight in my roller chair.
Petey.One of our oldest friends and Laurel’s most stubborn situationship manages a hockey summer camp so far north that it’s practically Canada. He must be between sessions. She must be looking to backslide.
Laurel’s relationship with Petey is recognizable to anyone who went through a messy phase in their twenties. In college, they were combustible. Innocuous conversations about pizza toppings would erupt into incomprehensible, relationship-ending fights. She broke up with him so many times that she stopped telling friends when they reconciled, as absolutely no person with a functioning cerebral cortex could pretend it was anything other than a terrible idea to get back together with the guy she’d dumped twice on a single three-hour Mississippi River cruise.
I love Petey, I do. I’ve known him as long as I’ve known Ethan. He coaches youth hockey and always asks how mygrandparents are doing and bought a truck because he genuinely enjoys helping his friends move. Petey on his own? An absolute sweetheart who’s seemingly unburdened by the stressors of life and responsibility. But LaurelandPetey?Together?Total trainwreck.
“You didn’t tell me you guys were in touch. Was the last time you saw him at my wedding?”
“A few times after,” she says, obfuscating. “We picked things up after everything happened with you and Rich. We were just talking, but still, I didn’t want to…Oh, no. Your nostril got all sad,” she says, because apparently she’s still watching me on FaceTime. “If you’re not okay today, I can…I’ll figure something out.”
“I’m fine,” I groan, though the words are more of a reflex than an honest assessment of my well-being. But this whole scheme is classic Laurel, and if she wants a foolhardy and misguided case of sexual déjà vu, far be it from me to stand in her way. “We’ve drawn out this divorce so long, I’ve basically forgotten Rich existed. Today will be just any other day.”
“Really? I’m so relieved. I’ve been dreading telling you about the proposal.”
“He proposed?” My voice cracks. Three sets of heads belonging to paralegals swing in my direction. I put on my best wobbly smile.Nothing to see here.
“Of course not. He won’t evendateme without a real commitment on my end,” she says, correcting me. “Iam. I’m driving up today to propose.”
Dread clenches my gut. After my divorce and our parents’ shitshow of a marriage, how could she even contemplate getting married? And to Peter Eriksson-Thao? A man withMicrosoft Clippy tattooed on his inner bicep? This has to be a mistake.
I swivel my chair toward the window for the illusion of privacy. “This all feels a little…impulsive. What if you—”
“Look,” Laurel commands. “The timing, it’s…bad—I’m sorry—but it has to be now. It has to be today. Or I might lose him for good.”
“See?That.” I point my finger at her nose on-screen. “Thatis what I’m talking about. That’s panic talking. You’re not thinking clearly.”
“I’ve never been more clearheaded in my life.” She laughs. She actually has the audacity to laugh in a moment like this. “He leaves for his camping trip tomorrow, and I can’t let two whole weeks go by without telling him I want to spend the rest of my life with him. He needs a gesture. It has to be big, and it has to be a real commitment this time.” Her voice is resolute. I’m not talking her out of this on FaceTime, that’s for sure. “But if youreallyneed me today…”
