Page 22 of One on One
Kat freezes in the middle of turning the page of her menu. “Oh,” she says knowingly. “Is it chemtrails?”
“What? No.”
“Is he a crypto bro? A Cowboys fan? Oh, is he really into green juice?”
“No, no, and no, but thanks for playing,” I say. “It’s about…someone else.” I turn to the sandwich options.
Kat’s eyebrows hit the ceiling. “Coach Fuckwaffle?”
I nod wordlessly, not looking up, and Mom makes a sympathetic noise. “Ben doesn’t know, does he?”
“No,” I say. “And he never will.”
Cassie and Ericstop by my place before Kat and I go out. My apartment is exactly as beige and run-down as you’d expect based on the cheap rent and grainy video tour I took before signing the lease. I outfitted most of it with flat-pack basics and a hodgepodge of hand-me-down furniture Mom was thrilled to give away.
Cassie lies on the couch, ensconced in a fleece blanket, pretending she’s not falling asleep. Eric sprawls on the floor. The TV is on in the background so we can follow the scores of tonight’s games.
I lug my floor-length mirror out to the living room so I can do my makeup. While I sit on an ottoman, tapping iridescent powder onto the tops of my cheekbones with my ring finger, Kat hovers over my shoulder, curling my hair and her own balayaged surfer-girl waves between sips of whiskey and Coke.
“I keep writing ‘generous gift,’ ” Eric says, biting a pen. “What’s a polite way to describe cash without using the word ‘cash’?” He’s got a pile of cards next to him and a list of names.
I blend my powder. “Why can’t you reuse ‘generous gift’? Do you think people are going to compare thank-you notes?”
“I’m trying to make them unique and heartfelt! But I’m struggling for material.”
“Let me see.” I stretch to grab a card from the pile. “ ‘Dear Jackie, Thank you for attending our wedding. We greatly appreciate your generous gift and are so glad we got to celebrate with you. I have fond memories of the king-size candy bars you used to give out on Halloween.’ ”
Kat laughs. “That’s the best you can do? Who’s Jackie?”
“My parents’ neighbor. The only other relevant memory I have is about the tight leggings her ex-husband used to wear when he power-walked around the neighborhood.”
“Super relevant and a great visual,” I say. “You should’ve gone with that one.”
“I should’ve kept them short,” he moans. “But it’s too late now.”
I pick up an eyeliner pencil. “Cassie, you’re awfully quiet on this one.”
“I don’t care what they say as long as they get done.” Her voice is gritty with fatigue. She’s in the middle of a big case at work, something about predatory lending. There’s a saying lawyers have about their work, according to Cassie:It’s like a pie-eating contest where the prize is more pie.Cassie is neck-deep in pie these days. “I did the shower thank-yous,” she adds. “I cede all control here.”
Kat pats her back pocket but comes up empty. “Hey, what time is it?”
I tap the screen of my phone, balanced on my knee. “Nine thirty.”
“Good, plenty of time.”
“Why do people wait so late to go out?” Cassie asks. “Youcan have just as much fun at eight as you can at eleven. I think it’s becauseotherpeople wait so late to go out. What if everyone agreed to go out three hours earlier? If the cool people sign up for that, everyone else will follow, and they’ll all be better rested.”
I look at her in the mirror. She’s got the blanket tucked under her heels and pulled up to her chin. “Broker the treaty, Cass. I’m sure there’s a Nobel Prize in it for you.”
Kat ruffles her hand through a section of curls. “Speaking on behalf of cool people everywhere—”
“Didn’t know they hired outsiders,” Eric interjects with so much glee he practically high-fives himself.
“—if we had to go out at eight, we wouldn’t have time to sit around with our friends beforehand, and that’s the best part.”
“If you went out at eight, maybe I’d go with you,” Cassie says. This is obviously false, and the rest of us laugh.
Eric sits up on his elbows. “How about this sick fuck?” On the TV is a news report with a photo of a sneaker company executive recently outed as a serial sexual harasser. A journalist with red lipstick and glasses—Lily Sachdev, according to the chyron—discusses the story. It’s muted because of the music, but the story has been all over the news, so it’s easy to get the gist. A ghostly, anxious voice continues to sing a pop song from Kat’s portable speaker, and we stare at the TV.
