No more letting the old imagination fly away like a rabid bat, inventing scenarios that clearly weren’t going to play out.
Work less and play more (find ways to play ASAP; maybe hire someone?).
A relationship, and pronto.
A baby. Soon.
Time to get a life, in other words.
Time to take action.
THERE WAS LITTLE Honor dreaded more than Family Meetings. In the past, subjects covered included Jack’s divorce, the care and feeding of Goggy and Pops, Faith’s wedding(s) and Dad’s terrifying girlfriend of last year.
Tonight, for the first time ever, the Family Meeting was about her.
In the three days since the catfight, Honor had done a lot of thinking. She’d always been the good one, not that her siblings were bad people. No, they were just more colorful. She was like that other kid in the story of the Prodigal Son. The one who never screwed up, who did his job.
And look where that had gotten her. Thirty-five, aging eggs, no man in her life, totally gobsmacked by her best friend, not to mention completely idiotic where Brogan was concerned. She lived with her father in her childhood home and worked a bazillion hours a week. For fun, she watched shows about tumor removal or the guy who had a foot growing out of his rib cage, courtesy of a malformed twin.
Her entire family had heard about the fight. She’d told her dad and Mrs. Johnson the morning after, not wanting them to hear it from anywhere else, and Dad had looked like someone had just eaten a live kitten while Mrs. J. muttered darkly and slammed the fridge. Faith came over and had been quite sympathetic, reminding Honor of her own public scene a few years ago, and leaving two cartons of Ben & Jerry’s in the freezer.
The family meeting would be more of the same.
Her in-box chimed.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Hey
Hi, Honor. Don’t know if you got my call the other day.
Oh, she had. She’d just opted not to return it.
You might be avoiding me.
Why, the man was a genius!
So here’s the thing. I’m so, so sorry, Honor. I really never meant for you to feel bad in any way, honest to God. When we talked a couple of months ago about getting married, I was sure you were cool with that. And then this thing with Dana... We both weren’t sure how to tell you about it, exactly, but we figured once you heard, you’d be happy about it.
She heard an unpleasant sound. Ah. Her teeth, grinding. Brogan. Was. Sostupid.
And obviously, that was really stupid.
Her jaw unlocked. Whatever else, Brogan always did have a way of reading her mind.
I feel like utter crap that I misread the situation so completely. Your friendship is incredibly important to me. You’re the only one I’ve kept in touch with since elementary school, you know? I’d kill to know that you and I can still be friends. If not, I understand. I’d be really sad, but I’d understand.
Hope you’re okay. Miss you.
Brogan
“Yeah, you should miss me,” she said, but her voice was shaking. Because let’s not fool ourselves here. She was going to forgive him. Even now, her heart felt floppy and huge in her chest.
Ah, dang it. That was the thing with Brogan. He never meant any harm. He wasn’t the type. With a sigh that made Spike yawn in sympathy, she started typing. May as well get it over.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Hey
Hey, you! Of course we’re still friends. Don’t be silly. I’m really embarrassed at how I acted, that’s all. But I’m fine. It was surprising, that’s all, and I guess
—here her typing slowed—
I had more invested in the idea of us than I realized.
A horrible thought occurred to her. That since the catfight, Dana had told Brogan about how wretched she’d been after the failed proposal. That he knew how much she loved him. But no. Dana wouldn’t do that. It would make Dana look bad if she admitted she knew how Honor felt.
But I do realize that “us” was just an idea and not anything more than two old friends hooking up once in a while.
Oh, hell, that wasn’t true. It felt horrible to be throwing her heart under the bus this way.
Anyway, I’m mostly just embarrassed. Not sure if you know this about me, but I generally don’t fight in bars. :)
Reduced to emoticons. She sighed, feeling her throat tighten.
You’re special to me, too, Brogan, and I’m glad you’re happy.
The eggs rolled their cataract-riddled eyes.
Please don’t give my girls-gone-wild moment another thought. In fact, I’d really appreciate it if we never talked about it again. :) I’ve got a crammed schedule for the next two weeks
—lying—
but maybe we can get together after that, okay? Take care.
Honor
It was better than the truth. I love you. I’ve spent two months trying to talk myself out of loving you. How could you not know? Even if you really didn’t see how I felt, Brogan, because you’re an obtuse male, Dana did, so now my best friend has stabbed me in the heart, and you’re marrying her.
Last night, Honor had stayed up till 3:00 a.m., looking up the term toxic friendship on Google and reading every article she could find on it.
Dana had a whole lotta ex–best friends. Honor had been treated to many a story about them, from Dana’s sister to her neighbor to her high school BFF. And while Honor recognized that Dana was temperamental and tended to see things in black-and-white, she always thought she could handle it. In the five years that they’d been friends, a few people had said something to Honor about Dana—Gerard Chartier from the firehouse commented once that he thought Honor could do better in the friend department than Dana, and Mrs. Johnson had said she didn’t trust her (but then again, Mrs. J. didn’t trust too many people).
Nope, Honor thought she could handle Dana’s big personality. And why would Dana fall out with her, after all? She was a great friend—available, sympathetic, a great listener. Their friendship was different. Honor would be exempt from the dramatics Dana described with such gusto.
Stupid. Apparently, she had no clue about women. Or men, for that matter.
But you know what? The days of ignoring red flags and waiting around for stuff to happen...those days were over.
“Hi, sweetheart,” Dad said at her door at six o’clock sharp. His gentle eyes were worried. “Everyone’s here.”
“Your father and I don’t want you to feel self-conscious,” Mrs. Johnson said, worming past Dad to administer simultaneous pats and scowls. “It’s just that we’re all very concerned about you, child. Very concerned. Deeply concerned.”
“Thanks.”