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I wipe the expression clean off my face. “I wasn’t grinning.”
“Like hell you weren’t. Who texted you?”
“Does it ever get exhausting for you? Being all up in everyone else’s business?”
She leans off the sofa, swiping at my phone. “Tell me or I’m going to have to see for myself.”
“Brie moved here this week. I ran into her a couple of days ago and we had coffee. She was texting me a book recommendation.”
I’m met with crickets.
“It’s completely innocent,” I add before she has a chance to insert her opinion.
“Brie as in … Grant’s Brie?”
I nod.
“Jesus, Cainan. What the hell is wrong with you?” She rises from the sofa and strides the length of her living room. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”
“Of course not.”
She gathers her messy hair into an even messier bun, securing it with the hair tie from her wrist. “Your supposed dream girl met you, dumped your best friend a week later, then moved to your city a week after that …”
“I know how it sounds, but it’s not like that. At all.”
“It better not be. You can’t do that to Grant. I know he’s a douche sometimes, but he’s your best friend.”
Spending time with Brie was so natural—as if we belonged together. The conversation was never stilted or awkward. Her eyes never left mine for a moment, intense and curious as she gazed at me through a frame of dark lashes and latched onto my every word like she was hungry for more.
And then there was the disappointment in her voice that she tried to hide when I told her I had to go. I didn’t show it, but I felt the same.
I didn’t want to leave.
I wanted to cancel the meeting, tell one of the junior partners to cover for me, and spend the rest of the day just the two of us.
I opt not to share those particulars with my sister.
“I would never.” Which is why I also don’t bother sharing with Claire the fact that I knew Brie’s favorite authors before she even told me. And I knew because of the dream. The dream Claire insists was nothing more than mental gibberish. “I’d never do that to him.”
And I mean it.
I can’t. And I won’t.
27
Brie
“Have a good weekend, Brie!” Denise, our front desk manager, bids me farewell Friday afternoon. A group of ladies from accounting and HR follow her in a small herd toward the elevator. I overheard them talking about getting drinks later. Paulina, the other actuary, invited me to her daughter’s ballet recital at some private fundraiser, though I think she was simply being nice because I told her I didn’t have much planned for the weekend.
I’ve been here two weeks, and it’s no easier to make new friends here than it was back home. Everyone has their cliques. Everyone has to be one-hundred percent sure they can trust you before they let you into their inner circle. And I get it. I’m not offended. It just means I’ll be spending another quiet weekend in the confines of Maya’s beautiful apartment.
Except for tonight.
Tonight I’m seeing Chicago on Broadway. It’s just about the touristiest thing a non-New Yorker can do, and I have zero shame about it. I’ve seen the movie about a dozen times, and I saw the show four times when it came through Phoenix a decade ago, but I’ve never seen it here.
I check my email for my ticket confirmation code before shutting down my computer and locking up Maya’s office. I’m halfway to the elevator when Grant calls.
“Hey,” I answer, but only because I ignored his last two calls. Ever since I moved here, he’s been calling and texting daily. I think it makes him anxious, me being so far away. It’s like he’s convinced I’m going to meet someone else and get swept off my feet. Never mind that it’s an irrelevant fear. Regardless of what may or may not happen while I’m here, it changes nothing back home with him.
We’re friends. It’s all we’ll ever be.
I stop at Atlantis on my way home and grab a coffee. The show isn’t for another couple of hours, and the whirlwind week I’ve had is catching up with me.
Being here is unexpectedly bittersweet. Two weeks ago, Cainan and I sat at the table in the back and had coffee. Two days later, I texted him about The Alchemist.
He read the text, but never responded.
Radio silence.
Maybe it’s a loyalty thing. Perhaps he felt guilty afterward for hanging out with his best friend’s ex? Maybe he thinks he’s doing the right thing?
“What are you up to tonight?” Grant asks as I leave the coffee shop.
“Just catching a show later.” I try to keep our conversations vague, short, and neutral at all times. I don’t want to give him false hope. I don’t want to foster any kind of conversational intimacy.
