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Aren’t they?
“Fights like this,” Shari goes on, “can sometimes make couples stronger. They’re almost always a good thing. Getting things out in the open can only make things better. Chaz says—”
“What?” I ask, snapping back into the present at the mention of Chaz’s name. “What did Chaz say? I can’t believe he called you. Since when are you and Chaz so chummy all of a sudden?”
“You know Chaz and I always stayed friends,” Shari says. “I love him… as a pal. I always will. And he adores you, you know. He always has. He was worried about you. He says you ran out of the middle of a restaurant and jumped into some limo—”
“Ava Geck’s,” I say.
Ava, in the living room, looks up and calls, “Seriously, you have to watch this part. This is where Tippy comes in and starts shaving his legs! With pudding!”
I head obediently back into the living room. “Really,” I say into the phone. “I was fine. I just got so mad at Luke. You know? He said the shittiest thing to me, and right in front of Chaz’s new girlfriend, Valencia. Who’s perfect by the way. You should see her, no cellulite whatsoever and tan all over. Plus, she’s got a Ph.D. She called me solipsistic.”
“She called you what?”
I try again. “Solipsistic.”
“She said that?”
“Right in front of me,” I say, nodding vigorously, even though Shari can’t see me. “Why? What does it mean?”
“Um. I’m not sure,” Shari says. I can tell she’s lying. “Look, just call me back after you’re done talking to Gran. Pat and I are having a Fourth of July barbecue next week, and we want you to come.”
“Really?” I’m touched. “Shari, I’d love to.”
“Great. It’s going to be fantastic. We’ve got the back garden to ourselves, you know, for the barbecue, and then we’ve also got roof rights, so everyone can go upstairs after nightfall and watch the fireworks. We’ve got a great view.”
“Oh, Shari, it sounds perfect. Can I bring anything?”
“Just your lovely self. Chaz is bringing a strawberry rhubarb pie, and maybe a blueberry pie too, if he can wing it—”
“Wait.” I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “You invited Chaz?”
“Of course I invited Chaz,” Shari says. “You don’t think I’d let him be alone on Fourth of July—or go off with that horrible Valencia—do you?”
“No,” I say, thinking that there was no way, if Luke had been in town, she would have invited me to her place. Not if she thought there was a chance I’d bring him. Not in a million years. “I just didn’t know you guys were that tight.”
“Hey, I didn’t break up with the guy because I don’t like him anymore,” Shari reminds me. “I broke up with him because I fell in love with someone else. He’s a great guy. I just hope he finds somebody who can appreciate him, you know? He’s got a lot to offer.”
“I think he already found somebody,” I say gloomily. I don’t mention the loop-de-loop my heart gave earlier in the evening when I saw him. I still haven’t figured that part out. I’m not sure I want to, either.
“I mean somebody nice,” Shari says. “Not vile cellulite-free philosophy department skanks. Don’t tell him this, but there’s a cute new girl in my office I’m hoping to set him up with at my party. I specifically told him to come stag so I could fix them up together. I think they’ll get along great. She loves college basketball too. I don’t think she cares about baseball caps. And I know she’s never used the word ‘solipsistic’ in conversation.”
I feel as if Shari’s just shoved a steak knife through my heart. Really. My best friend. I can barely breathe, in fact, I’m so wounded.
“Is she pretty?” I hear myself wheeze. It’s surprisingly hard to talk with a steak knife in your chest.
“What?” Shari asks. “Did you just ask me if she’s pretty?”
“No,” I say quickly. “I said is she witty. Because you know Chaz likes only witty girls. Because he’s so… smart.”
Oh. God. What’s wrong with me? How can I even be worried about this? I’m possibly—okay, probably—breaking up with my long-term fiancé, the man of my dreams, right now. Why am I even giving a moment’s thought to the fact that Shari is setting up Chaz with some girl from her office?
I’m engaged to Chaz’s best friend. Even if we are on a break.
“That’s great,” I say with forced enthusiasm.
“I know. Anyway, so we’ll see you on the Fourth, around seven?”
“I’ll be there,” I say, and after Shari asks me one more time if I’m okay, and I assure her that I think I am, even though I’m pretty sure I’m not, we say our good-byes, and I hang up.
“Oh shit,” I say, remembering Gran when I hear her breathing.
“Yeah.” Her cranky voice fills my ear. “Still here. Remember me? The grandma?”
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “That was Shari.”
“Of course it was,” Gran says in a bored voice. “You still haven’t answered my question. Why haven’t you shtupped him?”
“I did answer your question,” I say. “Because I’m engaged to his best friend. And where did you learn a word like ‘shtup’?”
“TV,” Gran says, sounding wounded. “Where else? And what should it matter who you’re engaged to? When it’s right, it’s right. And with that one, it’s right.”
“Gran,” I say tiredly. “How do you even know?”
“Because I’ve been alive a lot longer than you have. Now, what are you going to do about it?”
“Nothing, Gran,” I say. “He has a new girlfriend. She’s really pretty and smart. Her name is Valencia.”
“Isn’t that a type of orange?”
“Gran. You know what I mean. She’s perfect for him.”
“So?” Gran sounds offended. “And you’re not?”
“No, Gran,” I say miserably. “I’m not. I’m just… I… I—”
I don’t know how to go on, really, or what more there is to say. I find myself, for one of the first times in my life, at a loss for words. How can I explain to her just why it is that Valencia is so perfect for Chaz—for any guy, really—whereas I, on the other hand, am not? So not.
Gran, however, comes to my rescue.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she says. “I know. You’re engaged. I heard. Engaged isn’t married, you know. Engaged isn’t dead. Listen, I gotta go. My show’s coming on. I’ve seen it before. I’ve seen them all before. But that’s one of the good things about getting old. I can’t remember how a single one of these goddamned episodes turns out. I’ll talk to you later.”
She hangs up. I do the same and turn around to find Ava looking up at me with a wounded expression on her face.
“You’re going somewhere on the Fourth of July?” she asks sadly.
It takes me a minute to register what she’s saying. Then I shake my head.
“Just to a barbecue,” I say. “At my best friend’s house. In Brooklyn.” When Ava continues to look stricken, I add, “Ava… you can come, if you want to. But… won’t you have other plans? I mean, the Fourth of July isn’t for another week. You’ll probably have gotten a better invitation by then.” And, please God, you won’t still be staying at my place.
“I don’t know,” Ava says. “Maybe. Chaz is going to be there?”
“Yes,” I say slowly, wondering what she’s getting at.
“I kind of have been wanting to see this guy,” Ava says. “You talk about him so much. Maybe I’ll just stop by. Oh, there he is!” She points a French-manicured finger at the screen.
And I have the privilege of gazing, for the first time, at DJ Tippycat.
He is surprisingly normal looking—a bit on the short side, slightly balding, and wearing a shirt with the word “Wonderbread” written on it. In fact, if Shari were here, she’d accuse him of being a nebbish.
“Wow,” I say. “He’s… that’s… ”
“I know,” Ava says with a sigh. “Isn’t he hot?”
And I realize that there really is no accounting for taste. At least when it comes to DJs. And, I’m pretty sure, princes.
And philosophy Ph.D. candidates.