Page 72 of The Best Part of Breaking Up

“Given how little I gave you to work with, I was surprised,” I admit, making her point. “I’ll think about it, okay? But it’s really up to Teddy’s publicist.”

“I’ll send over the contract,” she says. “Just in case.”

I disconnect the call as we turn into Meg’s neighborhood.

“You’re basically famous,” Kamille says.

“I’m not famous,” I argue. “Plus, aren’t the only famous people your generation knows about TikTok famous? Doing choreographed dances and whatnot? You know I don’t dance.”

“I mean, you’re not, like, TikTok famous. You’re more like… meme famous.”

Apparently there’s a hierarchy. Who knew?

“Am I at least as famous as those cats that jump over stacked toilet paper rolls?” I question.

She thinks for a moment. “I haven’t seen that, but probably not.”

At this, I can only laugh. I’d rather be a cat, right about now. Instead, I’m watching Meg demonstrate how to roll out puff pastry dough as if she actually expects us to be able to duplicate her efforts. Once we’ve thoroughly made a mess of our strudels, which look like pre-K art projects next to her blog-worthy ones, we stick everything in the oven and head out onto the back porch to watch Kamille chase around Meg’s chiweenies with a tennis ball. The second I sink into the outdoor chair, I rub my eyes.

“You okay?” she asks knowingly.

“Long week,” I offer.

As vague as I’m trying to be, I have to acknowledge that I told her about Quentin in a moment of weakness. One minute I’m grabbing my usual to-go coffee, and the next I’m muttering, “Oh, by the way, I made out with my co-counsel. But it’s totally not a big deal. In case you were wondering.”

I don’t know why I told her. I mean, besides the fact that she’s my best friend. But besties or not, it’s not a given that you spill something like this. Honestly, I’d probably prefer no one knew. I’d prefer I didn’t even know. But since I can’t simply forget about it, I guess it makes sense to have someone to share the burden. Until she starts looking at me like this.

“Have you talked to him?”

“Beyond trial prep?” I ask. “No, not really.”

She audibly sighs, so thoroughly disappointed I can feel it gnawing at my insides.

“What?” I defend. “There’s nothing to say, Meg. We were never going to be anything.”

“I mean, not with that attitude,” she argues. “Didn’t you like kissing him?”

That is a whole-hearted emphatic yes. I’ve never liked kissing anyone as much as him. That alone is thoroughly unsettling.

“Who doesn’t like kissing?” I say. “Oh, but also – in case you forget – he’s probably banging his stepmother.”

She winces. “Okay. Fine. But I mean… are you sure?”

“Am I sure he’s sleeping with her? I mean, I didn’t follow him and peek through the bedroom window or anything, but all signs point to yes. You know me. I don’t do –”

“Complicated,” she nods. “I know. I just…”

“Just what?”

“I want you to be happy, Heidi.”

“I will be,” I say, steeling myself with certainty. “As soon as I earn this partnership, when we’re sipping margaritas in Mexico –”

“I was thinking more like espresso in Paris.”

“When we’re sipping espresso in Paris,” I amend. “Then, I promise, I’ll be ridiculously fucking happy.”

“And until then? After that?”

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