Sabrina is refreshingly open. Molly appreciates that she was candid about her parents’ money. She knows for a fact that Meredith’s husband has a trust fund—that’s how the Duffys pay for the upkeep of their waterfront mansion and additional homes in Southampton and Aspen—but Meredith would never acknowledge this. She just waves her black Amex around town, acting like she’s earned the diamond tennis bracelet on her wrist, and the bimonthly visits to Dr. Jeffers that keep her face line-free, and every other material comfort that’s simply fallen into her lap.
Sabrina isn’t trying to be someone she’s not. She has a cartilage piercing on her upper ear and frown lines between her eyebrows and a devout yoga regimen. She possesses humility and self-awareness and a grounded sense of perspective. Sabrina seems serious about her career in fashion, but her interests extend beyond designer clothing lines. She often brings up politics and current events; she sends Molly great podcast recommendations and op-eds from the Sunday Review. Molly smiles at her with genuine appreciation and remarks that the meal is delicious.
“You think so?” Sabrina looks touched. “I never used to cook in the city, but I figure now that we have this big old kitchen, I ought to give it some use.”
Molly takes another sip of wine, feels it settle warmly below her collarbone. Sabrina is right—this doesn’t have to be awkward. Molly can ignore whatever strange thing is going on with her heart, and remember that she and Jake are older now, and happily married to other people, and yes, despite this surreal coincidence, maybe the four of them really will be great, great friends.
Chapter Eighteen
Sabrina
You must know by now, Molly, that my sleuthing skills are quite advanced. Once I knew your last name （thanks to Bhakti Yoga）， I found you on Facebook. Most of your settings seemed set to private, but your profile photo was of you and a girl with short, dark hair neatly brushing her shoulders. You’re standing on the beach wearing cover-ups and aviators; she’s smiling at the camera, and your face is turned in profile, your mouth open wide in laughter. Crucially, the girl in the picture was tagged. Liz Esposito.
As it so happened, the hedge fund where Elizabeth Esposito worked—thanks, LinkedIn—was located three blocks south of my own office in midtown.
One February evening, I followed her. I waited in the lobby of her building until she came down, recognizing her instantly in the silver Moncler puffer she sported in several of her Instagrams. I trailed her for four blocks, watching closely as she fiddled with her Spotify and checked her texts and eventually brushed through the revolving doors of the Equinox on East Forty-third Street. I watched through the big glass windows as she used her key card to sign it at the front desk, proceeding through the turnstile when the light flashed green.
An hour later, I became the newest member of Equinox. I already belonged to a gym downtown, near my apartment, but it didn’t matter. The need to find out if you and Jake were still together was primal and urgent, and Liz Esposito was my ticket to this golden nugget of information—I felt it in my bones.
The next evening, I didn’t bother waiting in the lobby of Liz’s office building. Instead, I perched on a chair in the spa-like locker room of Equinox and bided my time. I could just tell, from Liz’s small, sculpted legs and snappy stride, that she was the type of gym bunny who went every day.
I scrolled through Instagram and work emails until Liz arrived at quarter past five. I waited for her to change into gym clothes, and when she made her way upstairs toward the long row of treadmills overlooking Fifth Avenue, I followed her. Equinox was crowded, and Liz’s eyes had been glued to her phone since the moment she walked in—it’s not like she’d noticed me. It’s not like she thought anything at all when I hopped on the treadmill next to hers. She didn’t so much as glance my way.
We ran side by side, our legs in tandem on the speeding belts. Swoosh swoosh swoosh. Liz stared straight ahead, clearly in the zone as she maintained her seven-minute mile, a pace I was inspired to match. I suppose I was trying to tire myself out to make what happened next appear more natural. My legs did ache—I wasn’t used to running this fast. And when I let them give out—when I let myself pause just long enough so that I flew back, my feet skidding off the end of the treadmill, my ass smacking the floor with a thud—it was even more natural than I’d imagined. With my open Poland Spring bottle in one hand, I’d “accidentally” flung water on Liz. She noticed my fall immediately. She stopped her machine.