“Winnie wants to take you out.”
I look up from the cutting board where I’m slicing strawberries into pieces small enough that the twins can’t choke on them. “Who’s Winnie?”
“Banks’s fiancée. She does yoga for the team. She’s, uh—” He reaches past me for a glass, his arm brushing mine, and I lose the thread for a second. “She’s great. You’ll like her.”
“You want me to go out with a stranger.”
“She’s not a stranger. She’s basically family at this point. Hockey family, anyway. And I thought it would be good for you to know someone here, in case you need anything while I’m on the road.”
He says this casually, like it’s just logistics. Like he’s handing me the spare key to the Lexus again. But I can see the underlying concern he won’t voice, that I’m in a city where I don’t know anyone, spending my days with two three-year-olds and my nights on his couch. Maybe Archer thinks I need a local girlfriend.
“When?” I ask.
“Saturday. Bree has the kids.”
I haven’t been out—actually out, adult-out, no-diaper-bag-out—since I got here. The thought of wearing real clothes and drinking wine at a table that doesn’t have Goldfish crackers ground into the surface is almost disorienting.
“Okay,” I say. “Sure.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Tell her I’m in.”
He nods. “Great. I’ll pass along your number.”
The wine bar is in the West Village, one of those narrow candlelit places with exposed brick, and a chalkboard menu. I’m wearing the one nice dress I packed—black, simple, the kind of thing that works for everything from job interviews to funerals to whatever this is.
Winnie is already at a table near the back when I walk in. She stands when she sees me, and the first thing I notice is that she’s warm. Not warm like polite. Warm like the sun—immediate, full-body, impossible to resist. She’s got honey-colored hair, curves, and a smile that makes me feel like we’ve already been friends for years.
“Sydney.” She pulls me into a hug before I can decide if we’re hugging people. “I’m so glad you came. Archer talks about you constantly.”
“He does?”
“Constantly. It’s actually a little embarrassing for him. Banks had to tell him to cool it during a team dinner because he kept bringing up ‘Syd said’ and ‘Syd thinks’ like you were his thesis advisor.”
I laugh and sit down, immediately feeling better about everything. She’s already ordered a bottle of red, which she pours without asking, and within five minutes I know three things about Winnie: she’s originally from the Midwest (Indiana), she’s been with Banks for about a year, and she haszero tolerance for bullshit, which she delivers with such cheerful warmth that you don’t realize you’ve been called out until it’s over.
“So,” she says, settling back with her glass, “tell me everything. How long have you and Archer known each other?”
“Oh gosh, forever. Since high school.”
She nods. “And you’re living in his house.”
“Temporarily, yeah. Just to help with the twins.”
“Mm-hm.” She sips her wine. “That’s a long time. You must know him better than anyone.”
“Probably. Yeah.”
“And you’ve never…” She lets the sentence trail off, one eyebrow raised, the question so casual it barely registers as one.
“No.” I say it quickly, too quickly. “We’re friends. We’ve always been friends.”
“Always?”
“Always.”
Except my brain—my unhelpful, traitorous, wine-loosened brain—chooses this exact moment to supply a memory I did not request.
