“Everything okay?” I ask.
She looks at Nina and then me. “Yeah. All good. I just need to cancel a reservation I made for tonight.”
“Oh, shoot. I completely forgot about that,” Nina says, fidgeting.
My eyes volley back and forth between my friends.
“Thursday wine night,” Lanie explains, avoiding my eyes, while she types a message into her phone.
Thursday wine night is something the three of us held as a standing date for years. Sometimes we’d see a movie. Other times, we’d just do a wine tasting and dinner. The only consistent part? Wine. Since the accident, we haven’t kept our weekly date.
I told Lanie over a week ago I wasn’t up for a birthday dinner, but it doesn’t surprise me she made reservations just in case. Inspecting my friends closely, it’s obvious they planned on something.
On a typical night in with the girls, yoga pants and oversized sweatshirts is the preferred dress code. But tonight, Lanie, the brown-haired beauty of our group, has on a pair of black Spanx leggings and a gray off-the-shoulder sweater. Not over the top, but nothing she’d typically wear to hang out here. Nina is still wearing the gray slacks and black V-neck shirt that she likely wore to school.
“Don’t cancel,” I say, picking at invisible lint. “You two can go.”
Nina shakes her head. “We’re not going to El Picante without you.”
They made reservations at my and Garrett’s favorite Mexican restaurant. It’s the one place sure to get me out of any slump bysimply placing bottomless tortilla chips, queso, and the largest mango margarita possible in front of me.
My lips form a thin line as I war with my yo-yo feelings. One part of me wants to remain in my pajamas, on this chair, sulking. The other part wants to live a little on the wild side, venturing out to do more damage to my waistline via shrimp fajitas—something I haven’t indulged in since the accident.
“I’m in.” I hardly get the words out before Lanie is popping up from the couch, as though she always knew this would be the outcome. She pulls something from her bag, chucking it at my head. I duck out of instinct.
“About time you come to your senses. You said you didn’t want to celebrate, but I brought this for you just in case.”
She turns away without another word and saunters through the arched doorway toward my kitchen with a bottle of wine she also pulled from her Mary Poppins bag.
I hold up what I now see is a white T-shirt that readsForty-liciousin sparkly fuchsia.
“Forty-licious? She’s got to be kidding.”
“You are,” she bellows from the kitchen.
The woman has catlike reflexes, hawk eyes, and the hearing of a moth—expert-level senses that I didn’t possess even in the height of my youth. Heck, I’m not sure anyone possesses such acute senses.
“You might as well put it on. We all know that you’ll wear it because you’re too nice,” Nina whispers, taking a seat on the arm of my chair and peering at the offending shirt with me.
We simultaneously tilt our heads and sigh. Nina speaks the truth.
“I poured the wine,” Lanie says, walking in with a stainless-steel tray carrying three wine glasses and the remainder of the bottle I didn’t finish earlier.
Lanie’s the youngest of our group, and the newest addition.Nina moved to the Midwest her freshman year and ended up attending my high school. I was one year older, but we met and bonded through cheerleading. She was quiet and always seemed a bit sad, mirroring me in ways that hurt my soul.
She was the family I never quite had. Being the only child of two workaholic attorneys, I was always an afterthought. Nina and I saved each other from toxic family dynamics.
After high school, we both went to the East Coast to attend the same college. Lanie joined our group much later, after we’d settled down in the quaint town of Knox Harbor.
She was the barista at our favorite mom-and-pop coffee shop and the yoga instructor at the only exercise facility in our small town. She’s the wild child of our little threesome and the one who’s always able to test boundaries.
“Drink up, witches. We ride at six.” She raises her glass, filled midway with red wine.
“Wait. That’s your birthday speech?” Nina glares into the side of Lanie’s head, annoyed. “We need a toast worthy of our best friend.” She raises her glass into the air. “To you, Alyssa. May your forties be full of health, happiness, laughter, and love. You deserve it.”
“Unlike Nina, I’ve never been good with words,” Lanie adds. “But I can’t agree with her more. You deserve every ounce of happiness this world possesses. And the largest damn margarita this side of Knox Harbor.”
I smile at my dear friends, grateful that they haven’t given up on me.
