1. Britt

1

brITT

Monday, December 11

I wouldn't call myself the protagonist of this story. That sounds far too positive. More like the slightly-morally-gray main character. I've tried, I really have.

A year ago, Reese and I drank Baileys at this table, partaking in our annual best friend tradition of watching cheesy holiday rom-coms on Netflix, picking out the obvious plot holes and making fun of the performances from previously famous actors. I wrapped presents, overdoing it as usual for both my son, Jackson, and Reese's family, and she ordered last minute presents online. It was perfect.

But this year, it's just me watching movies, focusing even more on making things magical for Jackson. The holidays will be completely different without the tradition of sharing Christmas Eve with Reese's family.

And it's my own damn fault.

"Captain, don't you dare." I shake my head at the gray tuxedo cat who's waving his paw next to my glass of red wine. If he had eyebrows, he'd be raising them. If he could talk, he'd say something like, I'm in charge here, and don't you freaking forget it. I slowly stand and inch my hand closer.

He raises his paw higher, increasing the threat.

"Captain Underpants. I beg of you."

Usually, I prefer to not call this cat by the full name he was given two years ago by my son. Never trust a ten-year-old child to name your pets. Jackson named our other cat Vanilla Frappuccino, Frappy for short. Could be worse, but I suspect the poor animal is self conscious because he's mortified at being named after a Starbucks drink.

Captain Underpants has no such insecurities.

Captain opens his mouth for a soundless meow. I'd read cats only meow at humans, not each other. I meow back. We stare at each other, his paw still raised in the air, me giving him my most authoritative glare. I lunge for the wineglass. He leaps off the table, walking away with his tail straight up.

I let out an amused snort and sip deeply, letting the liquid warm my throat and belly.

Damn. I'm going to need a new pet sitter next month when I go away to pitch to one of the Silicon Valley venture capitalists with the tech start-up I'm currently hosting in the Idea Garage, the converted team space attached to my house. I haven't traveled since I screwed up my best friendship.

I breathe in through my nose and hold it for a second before letting the air slowly out of my mouth. Six months ago, I thought I was doing the right thing. It was my problem, not theirs—my inappropriate, unwelcome feelings for Reese's husband, Adrian.

I felt awful about it.

That was why I'd decided to take a break from spending so much time with them. We just needed some time apart. Especially after she'd confessed to me at a women's retreat that she was having marital problems.

But when I told her I needed space, she saw right through me, the betrayal immediately sinking in.

Losing pet sitters you can trust with your garage code is bad, but it's not even near the top of the list of things that suck about this situation. My stomach twists at the painful memory of running into Adrian at the high school musical a few weeks ago. I'd literally dropped to the floor and rolled behind a group of parents, as if I was on fire.

And Adrian saw me do it.

A buzz on the table distracts me from the humiliating memory. I search for my phone from among the piles of wrapped presents. The text might be from the PTO president about this Friday's holiday dance. The parent running the event is sick and I got an email a few hours ago begging someone to take over. I should have said, No thank you! Enough on my plate! But I feel bad enough for everything that's happened this year. I could use all the help I could get to return to some kind of karmic balance.

I really, really want Jackson to have a great time at the dance. A magical time, even. If that means I need to sacrifice this week to make sure of it, then I'll do it.

When I was a kid, the holidays were cold and boring. Half the time my parents were off traveling somewhere exotic, usually leaving me and my older brother with au pairs. It was lonely in our quiet house, knowing our friends' houses were full of holiday joy. And Jackson must miss Adrian and Reese's daughter, Chelsea. Middle school has been hard enough for him, but now, thanks to me, he's lost one of his best friends too.

Where the hell is my phone? Ah. I find it behind a wrapped stack of six identical portable phone chargers, tied with curled ribbon, ready to hand out to my team.

A text from my friend Laura lights up the screen.

Laura

Adrian's here at CrossFit. Asking about you. Again

I suck air in, my insides knotting at the thought of Adrian hanging out at the gym, the place where we spent so much time together. I still miss him and his boring stories about work as a financial advisor, or the wordless way we communicated through facial expressions, making fun of some beefcake working out next to us.

Scrolling up, I re-read the texts Laura sent me last week, where Adrian told her that his divorce was final.

I caused that divorce. First, showing up at Reese's doorstep. When that went badly, I headed to the airport to intercept Adrian. He'd looked delighted to see me at first, if not confused. I can still feel his arms wrapping around my waist after he dropped his bags. Letting me come closer than was appropriate. When I told him I needed space, that Reese was my best friend... his face changed. More confusion.

Then something else.

I didn't see reciprocated feelings, that was for sure. But I didn't want that. I was trying to avoid it by pushing them away. I should have just silently kept my feelings to myself, done what my parents did—locked them in a safe and forgot the code. The one fight I heard my parents have when I was a teenager—a whispered argument I eavesdropped on through our shared bedroom wall—was about my father cheating. My world shook—the floor felt like jelly beneath my knees. My father, so boring and unemotional, had had an affair? But they barely talked about it. Mom asked him if it had ended. He said yes. That was it.

I don't want to live like that. I don't want to be a home wrecker, either. I'd been on the receiving end of that kind of behavior before.

My ex-husband continued to work late hours in New York City long after we moved to the Jersey suburbs, and he spent those late nights and midnight takeouts with his coworker.

He should have seen it coming and stopped it. Only he didn't.

She fell for him, and then they started sleeping together.

And then he fell for her.

After our divorce, I swore I'd always be open and honest with myself and those around me. Even knowing all that, I'd screwed up and lost both my best friends at once.

And now I've successfully avoided Adrian and Reese for six months. Neither of them seems to mind. The empty pit of loneliness inside me contracts, longing for a ray of hope in Laura's text message.

Me

What'd he say?

Laura

Like last week, he asked if I'd seen you. This time, he asked how you are. If you ever work out anymore. It's the most he's ever said to me. And possibly the most awkward conversation I've had in my life

I swallow and close my eyes. Adrian was anything but awkward with me.

Me

What'd you tell him?

Laura

That you're doing just fine. What'd you want me to say?

Me

Nothing

Laura

Want me to go punch him in the nuts? Or maybe let my hand linger on his body while I ‘spot' him? I can pretend to be you from seven months ago. You two were always touching each other

Me

Were we?

Laura

Hello? Yes. Married or not, it was constant.

Oh, no. The inappropriate feelings? My fault. The divorce? Also, my fault. Confirmed.

When I reconnected with Adrian, my older brother's childhood friend, six years ago, I had no idea he and his wife would become our closest friends in town. It was innocent.

There was that one kiss Adrian and I shared after I graduated high school so long ago, before he got together with Reese. My brother had a party one night when my parents were away, and I ended up in a dark corner with Adrian, who had had a few drinks and was incredibly flirty. But my brother freaked out when he found out, and Adrian never crossed that line again, no matter how much I wanted him to.

It was ancient history.

I never did tell Reese about that kiss, and I assume Adrian didn't either. There was nothing to tell.

Reese and I were immediate besties. We had the same taste in clothes, loved the same movies, laughed at the same cheesy jokes, and were both obsessed with our cranky cats. She helped me through the divorce, immediately taking my side like a protective older sister.

But now she'll probably never talk to me again.

I miss both of them.

And I miss working out. I massage my biceps. Have they become softer? Shit. I need another way to stay in shape.

I get up and move to the long sectional couch, grabbing my laptop from the coffee table before settling in. The Idea Garage will be open this week, then shut for the last two weeks of the year. I bought this house because it had a one-car garage attached to the house, plus a giant garage next to it, which I converted to a working space complete with a kitchen, bathroom, large open area with multiple tables, plus a cozy loft with bean bags and two more small, mismatched tables I found at an estate sale.

I got lucky. Walking away from my divorce with some money, I'd used my corporate experience and the MBA I got when Jackson was young to invest in a few app startups, giving them my coaching and input. As it turns out, I have a knack for that kind of thing. So when we sold the first app—a corporate training video game—I officially started the Idea Garage, hosting one team at a time. My place is within easy access to New York City and offers meeting space, funding, and coaching, in exchange for a cut of the profits when the apps sell. I'm always trying to make it better. The team currently rents a house across town, but when something comes up around here, I'll buy it and convert it into team living quarters.

Do I spoil the twenty-something-year-old teams with gifts and affection, as well as strategic guidance and management? Yes. Yes, I do.

I settle down and Frappy, my giant white snowball of a cat, materializes out of nowhere and settles on my lap, so I balance my laptop on the arm of the couch. There are zero responses to the post I made on the parent message board an hour ago about an emergency school dance meeting tomorrow night at my house.

"Shit."

Frappy looks at me with her yellow eyes, unimpressed with my concern or obsession with making the holidays perfect.

I get that everyone is busy at this time of year, but I'm hoping a few parents will help finalize the details for Friday's event. I'm not sure what the chair was doing before she got sick, because the decorations are buried in some storage closet in the school basement, status unknown, the chaperone list isn't finalized (or even started, maybe?), and I know nothing about the catering. I need a handful of good volunteers.

Making the school dance amazing shouldn't be that hard. Maybe it won't solve the ache in my heart from losing Adrian and Reese, but it'll show Jackson that I would do anything for him.