Page 122 of End Game

I put the first sweater back on.

The coffee shop windows are fogged along the bottom, with snowflakes created with that spray-on snow above the condensation. Inside, it smells like espresso and pastries. Alexis lifts a hand to wave at me from the table where her coat is draped over an empty chair and a laptop sits open in front of her, although she’s currently focused on her phone.

“Please tell me that’s work and not weddings,” I tease as I shrug out of my coat.

“Flowers,” she concedes, wrinkling her nose.

“Already violating the terms of our agreement.”

“I know.” She puts the phone facedown and stands to hug me. “You look good.”

“Less like I lost a fight with my mascara?”

“Considerably so, yes.”

I laugh, and some of the stupid tension between my shoulders loosens.

After I order at the counter, I settle across from her with my laptop bag and a coffee much larger than is reasonable.

She waits until I’m settled before asking, “How are you, though?”

The question is quiet, but she doesn’t lean forward like she’s waiting for me to break.

“Better. Still pissed off when I think about it. But better.” I run a finger along the seam of my cup. “Things at home are really good. There has been a lot of talking—with all of us—and I think it’s been helpful.”

“So good talking? Not everybody circling the same conversation?”

“Some of both, but we did have an actual family meeting.”

Her mouth twitches as she nods approvingly.

“But yes. Good talking. And thank you for the other night. Seriously.”

“I’m glad you wrote, and I’m glad I was available.”

The weight of that settles heavier than it should.

“So,” I say, and clear my throat, “tell me something that has nothing to do with my house.”

She grins. “I fell on my ass way too many times snowboarding.”

“Excellent. Start there.”

She tells me about a recent trip for Carter’s birthday. And I learn that four days in the mountains apparently isn’t enough time to forget you’re planning two weddings, but it is enough time for four men to become deeply invested in making you stop talking about them.

“To be fair,” she admits, “I liked the distraction.”

Smiling, I ask, “How many times did you talk about weddings?”

“Honestly, I didn’t keep count.”

“So, a completely reasonable number, I’m sure.”

We are not productive—not even a little.

Her laptop goes to sleep while we discuss the particular betrayal of jeans that fit perfectly standing up and try to kill you sitting down. Somehow we get onto holiday shopping, then terrible presents, then whether asking for a vacuum counts as permission for someone to give you one romantically.

“Since I asked for it, yes,” I decide. “If he hands me a vacuum because he has noticed I could be doing more around the house, I’m finding a creative use for the attachments.”