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“You should’ve seen me the day before the Christmas party. I was freaking out—”
“As you do.”
“As I do. But once Cassie talked some sense into me—I swear Parker didn’t recognize me when she got home and I wasn’t frantically cleaning anymore.”
“Cassie?”
Erin popped another piece of calamari into her mouth. “Hmm?”
“That was Parker’s friend, right?”
“Yeah.” She nodded. Breathed through her nose. “Yep.”
“So you needed some college kid to talk sense into you?” Rachel asked.
Reducing Cassie to “some college kid” made Erin bristle. Before she could figure out if it was possible to say something about it without being obvious, Rachel continued.
“No, yeah, that makes sense. You’re a disaster before that party.”
Erin rolled her eyes. “Thank you, I really appreciate you being kind to me on my birthday.”
“I’m paying for your lunch and your pedicure, bitch.”
Better not to address the college-kid comment. Besides, it was accurate, even if it did seem dismissive.
“Well, I was better, this year,” Erin said instead. “And it got me thinking about how much I’ve worried about people’s expectations. I’m ready to be done with that.”
“I’ve been trying to convince you to be done with that for as long as I’ve known you.”
“I know, I know, you’ve always been much smarter than me.”
“Nice of you to recognize it.”
Rachel wasn’t joking—not about how long she’d been trying to convince Erin to stop caring about what people thought. Erin couldn’t name a single time Rachel had bent to external expectations. She’d been proudly pansexual since before Erin knew what that meant, before most people knew—then again, maybe that was still the case, thinking about society at large. She’d seemed to always live as herself. She wasn’t hiding things away, burying things like Erin had spent so much time doing.
If Erin wasn’t worrying about what other people thought, why was she still not telling Rachel—or Carolyn, for that matter—about Cassie?
Well, like Carolyn always said: recovery was a journey, not a destination. And the thing with Cassie was over. There was no reason to talk about it.
Birthday lunch was good, but birthday pedicures were better.
Erin picked out a hot pink polish, too bright for January, but it wasn’t like anyone would be seeing her toes. It was a summer color. She was absolutely ready for summer. The last week in January in New Hampshire felt like an entire year away from summer, but Erin needed the reminder that the world wouldn’t always be gray and white slush.
The polish was called Hotter Than You. It made her think of Cassie—the confidence in the name, the fading streaks in her hair, her devilish tongue wetting her lips, the flesh between her thighs. Not what Erin needed to be thinking about right now, no matter how much Rachel would love to hear about it. Just because Erin knew every detail about Rachel’s sex life didn’t mean she was going to share her own.
Rachel picked a dark but bright purple and they climbed into adjacent spa chairs. Erin eased her feet into the water. It was the perfect temperature—almost scalding at first, but just right once her body adjusted. It bubbled around her aching feet.
Erin leaned back into her chair and turned on a massage program. Why did pedicure chairs always have massage settings that felt half like a massage and half like you were being punished? It dug in just under Erin’s scapula and she gasped.
“Have I told you lately that I love you?” she asked Rachel.
“Never often enough,” Rachel said. “But I’m pretty sure you’re the one who gets credit for inventing birthday pedicures.”
Erin relaxed further against the chair. “Wow, I’m brilliant.”
Rachel chuckled but didn’t reply. They’d talked themselves out at lunch—well, they could never talk themselves out, really. Hadn’t done it yet in twenty years of friendship. It was more that they knew how to be quiet together. Each other’s company was enough without talking. Erin didn’t open her eyes until the tech who would be painting her nails sat on a rolling stool near her feet and asked her to take one out of the water. Once she’d appropriately greeted him and confirmed she wanted her nails cut, she closed her eyes again. Quiet music played throughout the salon, and Erin didn’t think about anything except trying not to make any inappropriate noises as the massage chair dug into her muscles.
The nail tech was exfoliating her calves, which felt evenbetterthan the chair, when Erin’s phone buzzed beside her.
