AS PART OF my virtual cleanse, I’ve been putting my phone in a drawer for several hours a day. When I retrieve it—after work, after writing, or after stewing on the state of Burnt Orchid’s reviews instead of writing—I’m usually too exhausted to respond to casual messages. I’ve been a delinquent friend, I know that. But I’ve felt fragile and shaky, unnerved by the hate directed my way.
Part of being a friend is understanding that sometimes life gets in the way. My social circle gets that having a debut novel out in the world is distracting and time consuming; that coming up with a sophomore book idea is daunting and difficult. My close friends know the ugliness I’ve been going through. They will wait for me.
My outline is finally coming together. I’ve decided to resurrect a short story I’d workshopped in my writers’ group. It’s about a couple who find each other in their forties and build a beautiful life together. But the husband has a past love who haunts him, a woman now happily married with two children. When the woman’s husband dies suddenly, he reaches out to support her. The widow, broken and lonely, is desperate for his companionship. They both know it’s too soon, it’s a rebound, but old feelings rekindle, and a dangerous love triangle develops.
I’m eager to dig into the characters, to explore the complex emotions at play, to delve into the what-ifs that we all face. And the best part of this concept is no kids. Well, the widow has children, but they’re young and won’t feature prominently. There’s no way I can be accused of exploiting anyone. But now I need to step away and pay attention to my real life. As part of moving forward, I’m going to nurture my friendships. Starting with the most important one: Martha.
We’ve traded a few texts, exchanged a couple of voice memos, but we haven’t had nearly the engagement we usually do. It’s my fault, but if anyone can understand how busy I’ve been, it’s Martha. Owning a café is the equivalent of two full-time jobs, and she has the social life of a Real Housewife. Felix plays guitar in a jazz band, and Martha regularly goes to his gigs. She’s far too busy to miss me… except she’d told Liza that she does. On my way to surprise her at her coffee shop, I picked up a bouquet of flowers.
Martha’s café is called Sophia’s, which may sound confusing, but it’s named after the residential street it is nestled on. The city has a few of these funky little coffee shops sprinkled between houses like Easter eggs. Each one is a destination, drawing customers from across town as well as serving the locals. At Sophia’s, Martha’s baking is the draw. I purposely skipped breakfast, excited to indulge in a buttery pain aux raisins.
I park on a tree-lined side street near Sophia’s. It’s a sunny Saturday morning, and the area is alive with cyclists, young families with strollers, and post-run joggers drenched in sweat. They spread across the outdoor tables, nibbling on my friend’s pastries, sipping her fancy coffees. My stomach growls as I near the café, passing a cluster of bikes locked to a stand. A familiar tinkle of laughter stops me, and I turn toward it. It’s Rhea, from my writers’ group, unlocking her bike. She’s with a woman I don’t recognize.
“Rhea,” I say before I think it through. She didn’t attend my book launch party. She hasn’t reached out to congratulate me on my publication. Rhea had been the most successful writer in our collective until Burnt Orchid sold. She might be struggling to be happy for my success. It’s not an unfamiliar feeling.
She looks up and her face darkens, but she composes herself quickly, arranges her features into a placid expression. “Camryn,” she says flatly, a word not a name. The greeting is not quite hostile, but it’s entirely without warmth. Damn my big mouth. My ego can’t take any more animosity.
“How are you?” I ask, tentatively closing the gap between us.
“Great. You?”
“Umm… busy,” I say. “How’s your writing going?”
“Good. Still in the writers’ group. Still slogging away on my unmarketable literary fiction.”
It’s a dig. I once gave Rhea a manuscript note that suggested she might want to dial back the purple prose and get to the meat of her story. It was not well received. But I don’t react to the comment. Instead I smile. “Say hi to everyone. I miss you guys.”
“Will do.” Is she seriously going to get on her bike without even asking me about Burnt Orchid? Even if she’s jealous, that’s incredibly rude.
“Book doing well?” It’s the bare minimum, but it’s something.
“Hard to say,” I admit. “The sales numbers don’t mean much to me.”
“Getting a publishing deal is impressive, even if no one buys the book.”
“Thanks…?”
Rhea puts her helmet on, fastens the buckle under her chin as she speaks. “We’ve got to go.” She doesn’t introduce me to her friend. “Take care.”
I watch her ride off, feeling strangely guilty.
Though Martha has a staff of attractive hipsters, she spends a lot of time behind the counter. She and Felix, with their warm good looks and gregarious personalities, are a draw themselves. I spot my friend plating baked goods for eager customers, but Felix is nowhere in sight. When Martha spots me, she smiles, holds up a finger.
When there’s a lull, she hurries around the counter. “Hey, stranger.”
“These are for you.” I hold out the cloud of pale-pink peonies. “To make up for being such a bad friend.”
“You’re famous now, I get it.” She takes the bouquet. “I’ve missed you.” She hugs me then, which isn’t the norm for us. We adore each other, but normally we see each other with such regularity that physical affection feels unnecessary, over-the-top. When Martha pulls away, her eyes are misty.
“Are you okay?”
Her face crumples, and she shakes her head. “Let’s go in the back.”
The office is an overstuffed multipurpose space. At one end, the heavy antique desk is cluttered with paperwork, the surrounding walls lined with shelves holding dry ingredients. Martha grabs a tissue from the box teetering on a stack of cookbooks and blows her nose.
“I didn’t mean to fall apart. I just haven’t had anyone I can talk to.”
Guilt sticks me in the ribs. Martha has a ton of friends, but I’m her confidante. I’m the one who should be there when things are tough. But I’m here now. “What’s going on?”
“It’s Felix.” There’s an edge to her voice now. “Something’s going on with him, but I don’t know what. He’s cut me off, physically and emotionally. He won’t talk to me. He’s avoiding me.”
I’m shocked. My friends have an incredibly harmonious relationship, especially considering the amount of time they spend together. “Have you asked him outright?”
“Of course I have, Cam. I’ve asked him if there’s someone else. If he wants out of the business or the relationship. If he’s sick or there’s something wrong with his family. He won’t say. He’s completely shut down.”
“Do you want me to try?” Even as I say it, I know it would be pointless. Felix and I are friendly, but we’re not close. And I’m so firmly allied with Martha. If he’s keeping something from her, he’s not going to open up to me.
“I don’t think there’s much point, do you?”
“What about Theo?” I suggest. Felix and Theo have gone bouldering together at a climbing gym a couple of times, and more recently went on a kayak sojourn. They seem to have an easy male camaraderie between them. “He might be able to get something out of him.”
“I doubt it,” Martha says, all traces of her tears gone. “But I guess it’s worth a try. I can’t go on like this much longer.” I see the determined set of her jaw, and I know she means it. Felix and Martha have a home together, a business, a history. A split would blow up their entire world. But my friend will not be mistreated. She won’t allow it.
I reach for her arm, squeeze it. “Try not to worry. Theo will try to find out what’s going on.”
“I have to get back to work,” she says, giving me a wan smile. “I’m sure it will all work out.”
“Of course it will.”
But neither of us is as confident as we sound.