Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 56071 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 280(@200wpm)___ 224(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56071 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 280(@200wpm)___ 224(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
“Kaaaate!” I squeal, running to my best friend.
Kate catches my eye and her smile matches mine. It has been too long, way too long, since we’ve seen each other. She drops her bag and opens her arms, crushing me in an enormous hug. It feels so good to be held, and with a little sadness, I realize it’s been months since I felt this kind of intimacy with anyone other than my mother.
“Holy shit, Kate! You look amazing,” I tell her, taking in her impeccable travel outfit that’s a far cry from my usual of sweats and a tank top. She’s wearing a pencil skirt (how does one sit for sit for almost seven hours in a skirt like that and avoid a single wrinkle?), a chic white blouse with a red pussy collar, and red heels that I immediately identify as the jacquard Prada shoes I’d been ogling in Elle the other day. How is this is my best friend? “Did you just step off an eight-hour flight or the Paris runway?” I ask. “And please don’t be too sad when those shoes stay here with me in New York.”
“You’ll need to pry them off my cold, lifeless feet,” she says, handing her suitcase to the driver and sliding into the backseat.
“Never underestimate a girl with expensive taste and limited funds, Kate,” I warn, but I can’t hold a straight face and I break out laughing and grab her for another hug.
We settle in the back seat next to each other for the traficky ride back to the city. “Seriously, Kate, how are you? The restaurant business clearly agrees with you.”
“I have been working my ass off, but it’s worth it. The restaurant started turning a profit in its second month and we’ve had a few really great write ups. I don’t want to jinx myself, but I think we could be in the Michelin Red Guide by next year. I knew hard work would pay off, and I’m passionate, Weaver, really passionate about this restaurant, but I’m still stunned. It’s crazy!”
“Wow, talk about a meteoric rise!” I can feel my eyes getting misty. “I wouldn’t choose just anyone to be my best friend. I knew you were going places, honey. Remember when we met? In that cramped dorm kitchen, when you offered me half of your salted caramel cake that you microwaved in an old mug.”
Kate laughs at the memory and I feel the laugh on my lips slipping into an ugly cry. Oh man, I can feel it coming, my friend, and this is not the time or the place for about a thousand emotions to explode in a crying fit. Actually, I’m sure the Lyft driver has seen worse. Waaaay worse. I am proud of her. I am also slightly jealous. Hard work. Passion. I mean, I’m technically working hard, toward my dream, but not in the same way she is. Passion, well check for that. There is lots of passion in my work, but not directed to the hotel industry, directed at more, well, passionate things. I look at her. I look at me. I feel that familiar floor dropping out from under me feeling.
I’m squeezing my eyes shut and rubbing them with balled up fists. Pull it together, Weaver. Pull it together! I take a few deep breaths and open my eyes. Kate is looking at me with concern, and a touch of bemusement.
“What the fuck, Weaver? Are you okay?” she asks, as the smile fades from her face and turns into a look of concern.
“Yeah,” I say, forcing out a little laugh to lighten up the mood. “I’m just feeling really overwhelmed to finally see you, and I guess I’m a little sleep deprived too.”
As we zip down the parkway, Kate tells me all about life in Paris and the challenges of running her restaurant. We gossip about old friends and catch each other up on the comings and goings of our families. As the car slows down in traffic on the Queensboro Bridge, Kate shifts in her seat nervously.
“Look, Weaver,” she says, “I really want to spend every available minute here with you, but it’s been a long flight, and despite how I look– damn good, we’ve established that– I’m wrecked. I just feel like I’ll be more fun if I slept at my aunt’s instead of on our old futon mattress from college at your place. And you don’t want me taking up all your space. You may remember that I’m a terrible roommate.”
“That’s ridiculous. That futon’s history. And you were never a truly terrible roommate, just a little…fussy, let’s say. I have plenty of room for you, too. You won’t be in my way at all,” I say.
And then I realize Kate has no idea that I’ve moved. The last time she saw me, before she moved to Paris, I’d been staying in a fourth-floor walkup in a rather unsavory part of the city. I could reach my kitchen sink from bed, it was that tight. The only way that apartment could accommodate her was if she slept on top of me.