Irene exercised so she could maintain the diet of a teenage boy under no supervision. She was the only middle-aged woman Luna had ever met who ate doughnuts and pizza on a regular basis.
While on occasion Luna might join Irene for a run, most of the times Irene dropped by, she’d end up in Luna’s kitchen drinking coffee for an hour. She’d hit the pavement after that.
“Am I interrupting something?” Irene asked.
“No. Come in,” Luna said. “Coffee is almost done.”
Irene followed Luna into the kitchen. Luna’s phone rang. She showed Irene the caller ID. Leo Whitman.
“Ignore him,” said Irene.
“He’ll just keep calling,” Luna said. “One minute.”
Luna answered the call. “Hi, Leo. I told you ten. Yes, it’s still ten. Okay. I’ll see you then.”
Luna silenced her phone and placed it screen down on the counter.
“You’re still helping him?” Irene asked.
“I’m vetting résumés and arranging interviews. He swore he’d hire someone this week.”
“Remember,” said Irene, “he’s really good at asking for things and he doesn’t know when to stop. You have to have boundaries with Leo.”
“I know,” Luna said.
“Thank you,” Irene said.
Irene knew the only reason Luna was helping him out was so that she didn’t have to.
“What’s new?” Luna said as she removed two mugs from the cupboard.
“I’ve been listening to this podcast about Bigfoot,” Irene said as she opened the refrigerator, checked the inventory, and closed it.
“You’ve mentioned it,” Luna said. “You want toast?”
“Nah. If you want to survive a Bigfoot attack, offer it food and don’t cry.”
“What happens if I cry?” Luna asked.
“It’ll punch you in the face,” Irene said, smiling. “I think that’s my favorite Bigfoot fact.”
“Sure you want to call that a fact, when the existence of Bigfoot is already in question?” Luna said.
“The punching thing may be bullshit. But there is a Bigfoot or Sasquatch, whatever you want to call it.”
“Okay,” Luna said. “You’re the expert.”
The coffee maker beeped. Luna removed the full carafe and aimed at Irene’s mug.
“Owen’s got a side piece,” Irene blurted out.
Luna poured half a cup of coffee onto the counter before sharpening her aim and filling the mug.
“What?” Luna said.
Irene grabbed a sponge and cleaned up the spill. Luna wiped down the mug and slid it over to Irene.
“I shouldn’t have said it that way. I sound like a misogynist. Owen has a paramour. I think. No. I know. He has one.”
“？‘Paramour,’？” Luna repeated, thinking what a polite word for a wife to use. “Why do you think that?”
“Because now he tells me where he’s going and when he’s returning.”
While this was indeed out of character for Owen, Luna felt confident that her best friend wasn’t hiding a mistress from her. Maybe from Irene. Not from Luna.
“I promise you, he isn’t,” Luna said.
“How do you know? Would he tell you?”
“I think so,” Luna said.
For almost two decades, Owen had been the one person to whom she’d confessed all her sins. It never occurred to her that he didn’t do the same. So she stalled—sipping her coffee and wiping a smudge of jam on the counter with her sleeve—and bluffed her way through the rest of the conversation.
“I don’t know what to say here, Irene. Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah.”
The first yeah had no conviction; the second one was solid. In fact, Irene seemed a little too okay to Luna. Okay in the way someone who is making big changes is okay. They’re okay because they have a plan.
“What are you going to do about it?” Luna asked.
Luna tried to picture life without Irene. What would it look like?
“I’m not ready to say,” Irene said.
Both women understood why Irene wasn’t answering the question. Luna and Irene were good friends, maybe great friends, but Luna’s primary allegiance was to Owen.
“I understand,” Luna said.
“I better go,” Irene said as she left her mug in the sink. “Is there any chance you can keep this conversation between us?”
“Of course,” Luna said.
They both knew she was lying.