She eyeballs me. “Well, you’re in a good mood. I suppose you saw MK, huh?”
That’s none of your fucking business, Melanda. “I thought we’d start with a deep dive into friendship narratives.”
“If you’re so obsessed with Mary Kay why didn’t you kidnap her?”
“I didn’t ‘kidnap’ you. You’re not a child. Now come on. Friendship movies. Romy and Michele Beaches. Let’s dive in.”
I don’t want to be Melanda’s Dr. Fucking Nicky but you know what, Mary Kay? I do want your friend to cop to her sins. It’s only now that I realize just how much she hurt us. If you had a real best friend, you would have told me about your husband several weeks ago and her phone buzzes. It’s you: I did it. I told him. Calling you now ahahahha
You are a woman of your word and Melanda’s phone is ringing and I send you to voicemail—what fucking choice do I have?—and now Melanda’s gloating, smoothing the wrinkles in her sweatpants. “Uh-oh,” she says. “I’d say someone has a big problem.”
“Yeah, you own a library of movies about female friendship but you’re not a friend.”
“Oh please,” she says. “Most women our age love Beaches and Romy and Michele. But I’ll tell you what is unusual. Me sending MK to voicemail. Gimme the phone.”
“No.”
“Suit yourself. And FYI…” Is she this patronizing with her students? “My movies are just bedtime stories I turn on after I pop a Xanax, sweetie.”
Her phone buzzes. It’s you: Can you talk? I promise I’ll be fast! Or set a time for later?
I know you don’t mean to hurt me, Mary Kay, but for fuck’s sake TAKE A FUCKING HINT. I write back: Sorry I am insane busy lol will call you later!
You don’t write back—you’re mad—and Melanda says that I’m playing with fire and I hate her, Mary Kay. I hate her for being right. I pop a hole in my mouth—so help me God if this woman makes me get love handles—and I ask her if she’s the Hillary Whitney or the C. C. Bloom—and she sighs. “I know you work the ‘loner’ angle pretty hard, but here’s a heads-up about friends. When I go out of town, MK waters my plants. We talk, Joe. We talk a lot.”
FUCK MY LIFE. “Are you the Hillary Whitney or the C. C. Bloom?”
“When I need to talk, she picks up. And when she needs to talk, I pick up.”
You text again, as if you’re on her side, not mine—You okay? Can I do anything?—and I wish you weren’t so kind but I know you have an ulterior motive—you want to talk about me—and Melanda snaps her fingers at me. “Just let me talk to her.”
“You know that’s not an option.”
“Be real, sweetie. I’m a single woman. MK is a mom. She checks up on me. One time, my phone died when I was out with this guy… She has the code to my place. She was at my condo that night.”
Why do you have to be such a good damn friend, Mary Kay? “Let’s focus on you, Melanda.”
My voice is shaky—how could it not be?—and there’s a crack in my cloud of smug.
Melanda eyes me. “Do you want to go to prison.”
I may not know what to do about Melanda, but I am not going to prison and you are not going to Melanda’s fucking condo and you text again—Sorry to be a stage nine clinger but I really need to talk—and I know, Mary Kay. I get it. But Melanda is FUCKING BUSY RIGHT NOW and she sprawls out on the futon and lectures me in her singsong tone about how all women are C. C. Bloom and Hillary Whitney and all women are Romy and Michele and I need you to not want to talk to her so I have no choice, Mary Kay. I have to be mean. Well, Melanda has to be mean.
Sweetie I am so happy you told him but I’m one person trying to take care of myself and I just… lol you can tell me about your side-piece boyfriend when I get settled into my hotel okay?
You’re so mad that you don’t respond for a full minute and you’re so benevolent that when you do respond you’re kind: I get it. I will water your plants tonight. Is the code the same?
I prefer keys to codes and you’re antsy. You don’t really care about her plants but you want to hide out in her condo and think about me and pretend that you’re single and Melanda grins. “Even for her, this is a lot of texting.” She sits up on the futon. “What’s your plan, Joe?”
I DON’T FUCKING KNOW and you text her again—Let me know if the code changed, love you—and I love you so I nip this in the fucking bud: Lol same code but no need to worry about the plants. I tossed them a couple days ago. Would LOVE if you could scoop up mail next week tho xoxo.
You give Melanda a thumbs-up but I know you, Mary Kay. You won’t wait a week and what the fuck am I gonna do about her?
“It’s not as easy as you thought, is it, sweetie?”
“Do you cry when Hillary Whitney dies in Beaches?”
“You didn’t realize that real best friends talk every day. And I do not mean text. I mean talk. As in out loud.”
“You’re happy for C. C. Bloom when she gets custody of that little girl, aren’t you? You always wanted something like that to happen to you, so that you could have Nomi all to yourself.”
“Honey, enough about the movies. You’re in trouble. MK will go to the police if I don’t call her back. I mean yes, your little Minnesota story is cute, absolutely, but if I did fly to Minneapolis, I’d call her from the airport to bitch about a loud ‘businessman’ and I’d call her from the hotel to bitch about the sheets. You don’t know how it is with sisters.”
“You’re not her sister.”
She huffs. “Fine. You won’t be the first overzealous man to dig his own grave.”
You see the best in people—always a dangerous approach to life—and this why we’re a good team, Mary Kay. I see the worst. I tell Melanda that I don’t care if I go to prison. I tell her that she’s the one behind bars, that her whole life is a loveless fucking lie. She rolls over—I’m getting to her—and I tell her that I am here to protect you from her and that no matter what happens, I have all the evidence. I know that she resents you and I tell her that she’s neither a feminist nor a sister and that you’re not gonna be her prisoner anymore.
And now she sits up and looks at me. “So Phil and I went out in high school.”
It’s so sad, how puffed up she gets by mentioning ancient high school history. “Ah,” I say. “So Mary Kay stole your boyfriend. No wonder it’s so toxic between you two.”
“Hardly,” she says. “I only tell you because obviously, I never moved on. Phil is… well, he’s a rock star…” Mick Jagger is a rock star. Phil DiMarco is a rocker. “And honey…” She puts her hand on her chest. “It’s sad that you think that she’d ever leave him for you.”
“Tell me the code to your condo.”
She grins. “Ah,” she says. “I got to you, didn’t I?”
“I’ll get in there one way or another, Melanda.”
“I know,” she says. “You’ll get into my condo. But you’ll never get between MK and Phil…” She smirks again. Vicious as an eighth-grade queen bee. “It’s so cute. You swagger in here because she finally told you about Phil. You break into my phone… you think you know us… I don’t know your deal, but you’ve obviously seen Beaches and Romy and Michele. You know that best friends talk about everything.”