Page 2 of The Villa

Chess snorts now as she picks up the book. “Classic Deb,” she says, and then once again, she performs one of those magic acts of hers—pulling a pen out of that enormous bag, signing the book, signaling to the waiter, ordering a glass of wine, all as she scrawls her signature across the title page.

Sometimes I feel tired just watching her.

Handing the book to me, Chess leans back in her chair and pushes her hair away from her face.

She looks different these days, thinner and blonder, but I can still see the girl I met the first day of fourth grade at Johnson Elementary, just outside of Asheville. The girl with a splash of freckles across her nose, big eyes and wide cheekbones, who’d leaned forward and conspiratorially whispered, “I’m glad I’m sitting next to you.”

It’s funny how such a little thing can form a lifelong bond.

“So, how’s your writing going?” she asks as the waiter brings her wine. I’m sticking with iced tea, still on a handful of medications that I don’t want to mix with alcohol, and take a sip before answering her.

“It’s okay,” I finally say. “Been a little slow getting back into it after… everything.”

Everything.

It’s the only word that can sum up what a complete and utter shit show this past year has been for me, but it still comes nowhere close to touching it.

Career stalling out? Check.

Health suddenly terrible for no reason that any doctor can figure out? Check.

Husband deciding to leave after seven years of seemingly happy marriage?

Fuckingcheck.

It’s been over six months since Matt left, and I keepwaiting for all of it to hurt less, for it to be less messy, less… I don’t know. Clichéd. Humiliating. My mom actually asked me the other day if I was thinking about moving back in with them, and given the state of my finances—between a late book and an increasingly expensive divorce—I’d actually started considering it. Chess watches me now, her brows drawn together, and then she pulls her leg up, her heel on the edge of her chair, her arms wrapped around her knee, a position I’ve literally never seen anyone contort themselves into in a restaurant. I guess once you’ve pulled the same move on Oprah’s couch, you can do what you want.

I wave a hand. “Seriously, it’s fine,” I tell her. “The latest book is, like, epically late, but it’s book ten in the series, and book nine’s sales weren’t exactly setting the publishing world on fire, so I don’t think anyone’s all that concerned.” No one except for me, but that’s a different story.

Chess shrugs, the silver bangles on her wrist rattling. “People have no taste, then.A Deadly Digwas my favorite so far. That bit at the end on the beach where you’re, like, ‘Oh shit, the wife and the best friend did ittogether!’” She leans forward, beaming as she grabs my hand across the table. “So damn smart!”

Flopping back into her chair, she keeps smiling at me. “You were always so damn smart.”

Feeling almost absurdly pleased, I pick at another piece of bread. “You readA Deadly Dig?”

You write for long enough, you stop expecting anyone in your life to actually keep up with what you’re producing. My mom only got through book five of the Petal Bloom Mysteries,A Murderous Mishap.

Matt, my ex, never read any of them other than the firstone. It had really never occurred to me that Chess would even keep track of the titles, much less read them.

But that’s the magic of Chess. Just when you’re kind of over her shit, she does or says something genuinely kind, genuinely lovely, something that makes you feel like the sun is shining right on you.

“Of course, I did,” she says, picking the last piece of bread out of the basket. “You read mine, right?”

I have, more than once, but not for fun or because I genuinely enjoyed them. I think of lying in my bed, exhausted and nauseous, so sick and tired of being sick and tired, readingYour Best Selfand thenYou Got This!, shame pricking hot under my skin because I was looking for shit to dislike, looking for sentences to roll my eyes at. What kind of person hate-reads their best friend’s books?

“Obviously!” I tell her now, a little too bright, but she must not notice because she just smiles at me again.

“Good. I never would’ve written them without you.”

I blink at her. It’s the first time she’s ever said anything like that, and I have no idea what she means. By the time Chess launched herself as this weird combination of Taylor Swift, Glennon Doyle, and a girl boss Jesus, we weren’t talking all that much. I was wrapped up in my own writing, and Matt, while she was taking over the world.

“Oh yeah, I was very vital to your process, hanging out here in North Carolina,” I joke, but she shakes her head.

“No, you were! You were the one who actually got me to commit to writing, you know? You always took it so seriously with your little notebooks, blocking out those… what did you call it? You had a little timer for it.”

It’s called the Pomodoro technique, and I actually still useit, even though it’s not exactly doing me much good these days. I wave her off.

“I was just a nerd,” I tell her, and she reaches across the table to swat at my arm.

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