Sweet Filthy Boy

And then, Please Mia. Say something.

This is when I break down for the second time, because from the time stamp I know he wrote it in his office, at work. I can imagine him staring at his phone, unable to concentrate or get anything done until I replied. But I didn’t. I curled up into a ball and fell asleep, needing to shut down as if I’d unplugged.

I pick up my phone again, and even though it’s seven in the morning, Lola answers on the first ring.

ONLY A LITTLE over an hour later I throw open the door and rush into a mass of arms and wild hair.

“Quit hogging her,” a voice says over Harlow’s shoulder and I feel another set of arms.

You’d never know it hasn’t even been two months from the way I start sobbing onto Lola’s shoulder, holding on to both of them as if they might float away.

“I missed you so much,” I say. “You’re never leaving. It’ll be small but we can make it work. I was in Europe. I can totally get with this now.”

We stumble into my tiny living room, a mess of laughter and tears, and I shut the door behind us.

I turn to find Harlow watching me, sizing me up.

“What?” I ask, looking down at my yoga capris and T-shirt. I realize I don’t look red-carpet ready, but her inspection feels a little unnecessary. “Ease up, Clinton Kelly. I’ve been unpacking and then sleeping.”

“You look different,” she says.

“Different?”

“Yeah. Sexier. Married life was good for you.”

I roll my eyes. “I assume you’re referring to my little muffin top. I have a new unhealthy relationship with pain au chocolat.”

“No,” she says, moving closer to examine my face. “You look . . . softer? But in a good way. Feminine. And I like the hair a little longer.”

“And the tan,” Lola adds, dropping onto the couch. “You do look good. Your rack, too.”

I laugh, squeezing into the seat next to her. “This is what France with no job and a patisserie around the corner will get you.”

We all fall silent and after what feels like an eternity of silence, I realize I’m the one who has to address the fact that I was in France, and now I’m here.

“I feel like a horrible human being for how I left.”

Lola pins me with her glare. “You are not.”

“You might disagree when I explain.”

Harlow’s hand is already raised in the air. “No need. We know what happened, no thanks to you, you withholding ass**le.”

Of course they’ve heard the entire story. More accurately, Lola heard it from Oliver who heard it from Finn who had the good luck of calling Ansel only an hour after he woke to find his wife and all her belongings gone. For a bunch of dudes, they’re awfully gossipy.

We catch each other up in the easy shorthand we’ve developed over the past nearly twenty years, and it’s so much easier to spill everything for the second time since I’ve been back.

“He f**ked up,” Harlow assures me once I get to the part where we’re headed together to the party. “Everyone knows it. Apparently Finn and Oliver have been telling him to fill you in about the situation for weeks now. Perry calls him all the time, texts him constantly, and calls Finn and Oliver to talk about it nonstop. Their breakup didn’t seem to surprise anyone but her, and even that seems to be up for debate. I guess Ansel was worried it would spook you and is counting the days until he can move back here. From everything I’ve heard, he’s completely head over heels in love with you.”

“But we all agree he should have told you,” Lola says. “It sounds like you were blindsided.”

“Yeah,” I say. “The first time he takes me to a party this nice girl started talking to me and then her face melted and she turned into a vengeance demon.” I lean my head on Lola’s shoulder. “And I knew he had a long-term girlfriend so I don’t know why it was such a leap to tell me it was Perry, and that he lived with her, and even that they were engaged. Maybe it would have been weird but it made it weirder that it was this big secret. Plus, six years with someone you don’t love that way? That seems insane.”

Lola falls quiet, and then hums. “I know.”

I hate the small twinge of disloyalty I feel when I criticize him this way. Ansel was shaped by his experience growing up in the strange, possessive, and betrayal-filled relationship his parents had. I’m sure loyalty and fidelity mean more to him than romantic love, or at least he thought they did. I wonder, too, how much of his time with Perry was about proving he’s not as fickle as his father. I’m sure staying married to me is at least somewhat about that—no matter how much it was my insistence in the first place. I need to decide if I’m okay with it being both about proving something to himself and loving me.

“How is he doing?” Harlow asks.

I shrug and distract myself by playing with the blunt ends of Lola’s hair. “Good,” I say. “Working.”

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

“Well, from the whole game of telephone, you guys probably know more than I do.” Deflecting, I ask, “How is Finn?”

Harlow shrugs. “I don’t know. Good, I guess.”

“What do you mean you don’t know? Didn’t you just see him?”

She laughs and makes tiny air quotes as she repeats the words see him under her breath. “I can assure you I did not go to Canada for Finn’s sparkling personality or conversation skills.”