Page 8 of Strictly the Worst

Like Gina, she’s always on my side. Angela and I have been friends since we collided into each other – literally – on our first day at college. She was carrying an enormous cup of coffee, I was wearing a white blouse. It could have gone either way, but we both found it hysterically funny.

She’s been with me through thick and thin. She was the maid of honor at my wedding, she held me while I sobbed after I found out about my husband’s affair with his boss’ daughter.

“He’s not an asshole,” I say begrudgingly. “He’s just…” I sigh, trailing off. It’s hard to put into words. “I don’t know, he just gets all the breaks you know?”

“That’s because he’s a guy,” Angela says, passing me a glass of wine. “They always have it easy.”

“His dad and Roman are friends,” I say. And I hate this. I feel churlish not liking him. It’s really not like me.

“You think that’s why Roman gave him the project?”

“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “But everything just seems so easy for him. He charms everybody.”

“Except you,” Angela points out. “I think that middle one is best.”

“Which middle one?” I look at the chessboard pattern of green squares in front of us.

“That one.” She points to a square that is to the left of the middle.

“Isn’t it too grassy?” I ask her.

“I don’t know. I don’t even know what that means. Can something be too grassy?” She looks at me and we both laugh. “Does anybody look at a field and say ‘that’s beautiful, but it’s a little too… grassy for my tastes.’?”

I love the way she’s more sarcastic than anybody I’ve ever met.

“This is stupid,” I say. “I need to just choose a color.”

“Yes you do,” Angela agrees. “What about the one at the top? It’s more mossy.”

“How’s that different to grass?” I ask her, genuinely confused.

“Moss only grows on north facing areas,” she says, as though that explains it. If you hadn’t guessed, she studied environmental biology in college. But now she works in an investment bank.

“I’m going to buy the grassy one,” I tell her, making the decision because I want a room Zoe and I can relax in after work. Once it’s painted, I’d hoped to fully furnish it, but I may need to divert that budget to the kitchen.

I guess we’ll be sitting on boxes for a while longer.

“Maybe you’re just triggered,” she says. “Because he’s friends with the boss.”

I take a minute to realize we’re back on the subject of Lincoln Salinger again. And for a moment an image of him flashes through my mind. His tall, strong body, clad in a designer charcoal suit. His dark, perfectly styled hair. And that jawline that could launch a thousand crushes.

“Why would I be annoyed because he’s friends with Roman?” I ask her.

“It could be a trigger,” she says. “Jared is also friends with his boss.”

I try not to laugh at the way she spits out my ex-husband’s name. It’s like she can’t bear it to be on her tongue. “It’s his boss’ daughter who was the problem,” I say lightly. Because I’m over it.

“Yeah, well. It’s still hurtful, right? These guys who get over friendly with the boss. Then before you know it they’re tearing families apart.”

I can’t help it. I laugh again. And this is why I love Angela so much. She’s my biggest fan. My biggest protector.

“It’s just a bit of pop psychology.” Angela shrugs. “But I still don’t get why you don’t like him.”

“Maybe I’m a little envious of how much everybody likes him,” I muse.

“Everybody likes you.” Angela looks at me, and from her expression I can tell she’s being completely honest.

“No they don’t.” I shake my head. “I think we both know that.”

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