Part 1 (1/2)

Best Friends Forever.

Jennifer Weiner.

For Susan Abrams Krevsky-my BFF.

”I can't say that I'm sorry for the things that we done.

At least for a little while sir me and her we had us some fun”

-FROM ”NEBRASKA” BY BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN.

PART ONE.

Reunion.

ONE.

Dan Swansea came awake in the darkness, not knowing for a minute who he was or where. He lifted one hand to his head and groaned when it came away sticky with blood. Slowly (or at least it felt that way), things returned to him. His name. That he was outside in a parking lot, on his back in the gravel, and he was freezing. Also, except for his shoes and socks, he was naked.

He sat up, his stomach roiling as a wave of pain swept through him, and wiped his head again, flicking drops of blood onto the gravel. He'd followed a girl out here. A girl-her name was on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn't quite get it. A high school girl, an old cla.s.smate, with flas.h.i.+ng white teeth and red soles on her shoes. Come to my car, she'd whispered. It's warm. They'd kissed for a while, with the girl backed against the driver's-side door, her mouth fiery underneath his, their breath steaming in the blackness, until she pushed him away. Take off your clothes, she'd said. I want to see you. It's freezing! he'd protested, but his hands were already working at the b.u.t.tons of his s.h.i.+rt and the clasp of his belt, because it was cold but she was hot, and he wasn't pa.s.sing this up. No way. He'd squirmed out of his clothes, kicking his pants off over his shoes, dropping each garment in a pile on the gravel, and when he looked up, naked and s.h.i.+vering in the cold, one hand cupping his c.o.c.k, she was pointing something at him. His heart stopped-a gun?-but almost before he'd thought the word, he saw that it wasn't a gun but a cell phone.

The flash was brilliant, blinding him as she snapped a picture. Hey! he shouted. What the f.u.c.k?

See how you like it, she'd snarled. See how you like it when they're laughing at you.

He'd lunged for her, trying to s.n.a.t.c.h the phone. What is your problem?

What's my problem? she'd answered, dancing backward on her red-soled shoes. You're my problem. You ruined my life!

She dived into the car, slamming the door before he could grab the handle. The engine roared to life. He'd jumped in front of her, thinking she'd stop, but judging from the cuts on his side and the terrible sick throbbing in his head, maybe she hadn't.

He groaned again, pushed himself upright, and peered at the country club, which was empty and locked. Through the darkness, he could see the tennis courts off to one side, the golf course behind the building, the sheds and outbuildings underneath a stand of pine trees a discreet distance from the club proper. Clothes first, he decided, and stumbled painfully toward the nearest building. Clothes first... and then revenge.

TWO.

Looking back, the knock on the door should have scared me. It should at least have come as a surprise. My house-the same one I grew up in-is set at the farthest curve of a cul-de-sac in Pleasant Ridge, Illinois, a Chicago suburb of fourteen thousand souls with quiet streets, neatly kept lawns, and well-regarded public schools. There are rarely pedestrians or pa.s.s-ersby on Crescent Drive. Most weeks, the only signs of life after ten p.m. are the flash of headlights on my bedroom wall on the nights that my next-door neighbor Mrs. Ba.s.s has her Shakespeare Society meeting. I live alone, and I'm generally asleep by ten-thirty. But even so. When I heard the knock, my heartbeat didn't quicken; my palms did not sweat. At some level underneath conscious thought, a place down in my cells where, the scientists tell us, memories reside, I'd been waiting years for that knock, waiting for the feel of my feet moving across the floor and my hand on the cool bra.s.s k.n.o.b.

I pulled open the door and felt my eyes get big and my breath catch in my chest. There was my old best friend, Valerie Adler, whom I hadn't spoken to since I was seventeen and hadn't seen in person since high school ended, standing underneath the porch light; Valerie with her heart-shaped face and Cupid's-bow lips and lashes heavy and dark as moth's wings. She stood with her hands clasped at her waist, as if in prayer. There was something dark staining the sleeve of her belted trench coat.

For a minute, we stood in the cold, in the cone of light, staring at each other, and the thought that rose to my mind had the warmth of suns.h.i.+ne and the sweet density of honey. My friend, I thought as I looked at Val. My friend has come back to me.

I opened my mouth-to say what, I wasn't sure-but it was Val who spoke first. ”Addie,” she said. Her teeth were gleaming, perfect and even; her voice was the same as I remembered from all those years ago, husky, confiding, an I've-got-a-secret kind of voice that she currently deployed to great effect, delivering the weather on the nightly newscasts on Chicago's third-rated TV station. She'd been hired six months ago, to great fanfare and a number of billboards along the interstate announcing her new gig. (”Look who just blew into town!” the billboards read, underneath a picture of Val, all windswept hair and crimson, smiling lips.) ”Listen. Something... something really bad happened,” she said. ”Can you help me? Please?”

I kept my mouth shut. Val rocked back on high heels that seemed no thicker than pins, gulping as she raked both hands through her hair, then brought them to waist level and began twisting her belt. Had I known she had that haircut, that b.u.t.tercup-yellow color, that shoulder-length style, with layers that curled into ringlets in the rain, when I'd given my hairdresser the go-ahead? I made a point of not watching her station, but maybe I'd caught a glimpse of her as I changed channels or the billboards had made an impression, because somehow here I was, in flannel pajamas and thick wool socks, with my ex-best-friend's hair on my head.

”Look at you,” she said, her voice low and full of wonder. ”Look at you,” said Valerie. ”You got thin.”

”Come in, Val,” I said. If time was a dimension, and not a straight line, if you could look down through it like you were looking through water and it could ripple and s.h.i.+ft, I was already opening the door. This had all already happened, the way it always did; the way it always would.

THREE.

I led Valerie into the kitchen, listening to the drumbeat of her heels on the hardwood floor behind me. She wriggled out of her coat and used her fingertips to hang it over the back of a chair, then looked me up and down. ”You weren't at the reunion,” she said.

”I had a date,” I answered.

She raised her eyebrows. I turned away, filling the kettle at the sink, then setting it on the burner and flicking on the gas, unwilling to say more.

My night had not started out well. On the dating website's advice, I'd met the guy, my sixth blind date in as many weeks, at the restaurant (”Do NOT invite a stranger to your house!” the website had scolded. ”Always meet in public, always carry a cell phone, car keys, and/or enough money for transportation, and always let a friend know where you are!”) I'd gotten the first parts of it right, driving my own car, with my cell phone charged and enough money to cover the bill in my wallet, but I hadn't been able to fulfill the last part, on account of being, at the moment, friendless (friend-free?), so instead, I'd printed out a note in eighteen-point bold type and taped it to my fridge: I WENT TO MEET MATTHEW SHARP ON FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 23. IF ANYTHING HAPPENED TO ME, IT'S PROBABLY HIS FAULT. I'd added my date's telephone number, the name and address of the restaurant, and a photocopy of my insurance card. I'd thought for a minute, then added, P.S.: I WOULD LIKE A MILITARY FUNERAL...because, really, who wouldn't? Buglers playing taps equals guaranteed tears.

”Addie?” the man by the hostess stand said. ”I'm Matthew Sharp.” He was on time, and tall, as promised. This was a refres.h.i.+ng change: the five guys I'd previously met were not, in general, as promised. Matthew Sharp was neatly dressed in a tweed sports coat, a dark-blue b.u.t.ton-down s.h.i.+rt, pressed pants, and loafers. His breath, as he leaned close to shake my hand, smelled like cinnamon, and a mustache bristled over his lip. Okay, I thought. I can work with this. True, the mustache was an unpleasant surprise, and his hairline had receded since he'd posed for his online picture, but who was I to complain?

”Nice to meet you,” I said, and slipped my black wool coat off my shoulders.

”Thanks for coming.” He looked me up and down, his eyes lingering briefly on my body before flicking back to my face. He didn't look appalled, nor did he appear to be edging toward the door. That was good. I'd dressed in what had become my date uniform: a black skirt that came to precisely the center of my knees (not short enough to be s.l.u.tty, not long enough to be dowdy), a blouse of dark-red silk, black hose, black boots with low heels, in case he'd been lying about his height or, less likely but still possible, in case I needed to run. ”Our table's ready. Would you like a drink at the bar first?”

”No thanks.” The website recommended only a single gla.s.s of wine. I'd keep my wits about me and not give him any reason to think I had a drinking problem.

The hostess took our coats and handed Matthew a ticket. ”After you,” he said as I tucked my scarf and hat into my purse and shook out my hair. My calves had finally gotten skinny enough for me to zip my knee-high boots to the very top. I'd gone to my hairdresser that morning, planning on nothing more than a trim, but, buoyed by Paul's repeated use of the word ”amazing!” and the way he'd actually gotten teary when he'd seen me, I'd allowed myself to be talked into six hours' and five hundred dollars' worth of cut, color, and chemicals, and left with a layered bob that Paul swore made me look sixteen from certain angles, honey-blond highlights, and conditioner with a French-sounding name, guaranteed to leave my hair frizz-free and s.h.i.+ny for the next four months.

I asked for a gla.s.s of Chardonnay, Caesar salad, and broiled sole, sauce on the side. Matthew ordered Cabernet, calamari to start with, then a steak.

”How was your holiday?” he asked.

”It was nice,” I told him. ”Very quiet. I spent the day with family.” This was true. I'd taken the full Thanksgiving dinner-b.u.t.ternut squash soup, roast turkey, chestnut stuffing, sweet potatoes under a blanket of caramelized marshmallow, the obligatory pumpkin pie-to my brother, Jon, at his a.s.sisted-living facility on the South Side. We'd eaten sitting on the floor of his small, overheated room, our backs against his single bed, watching Stars.h.i.+p Troopers, which was his favorite. I'd left by three and been back home by four. There, I'd made myself a cup of tea, added a slug of whiskey, and left a dish of chopped turkey and gravy out for the little black cat that frequents my back door. I'd spent the evening sitting in the living room, one hand on my belly, looking at the s.h.i.+fting grays and lavenders of the sky, until the moon came up.

”How about you?”

Matthew told me he'd had dinner with his parents, his sister, and her husband and kids. He'd cooked the turkey, rubbing b.u.t.ter and sage under the skin and slow-roasting it over a bed of onions. He said he loved to cook, and I said I did, too. I told him about my adventures in guacamole. He told me about the shows he watched on the Food Network and the hot new restaurant in Chicago he was dying to try.

The waiter slid our plates in front of us. Matthew tucked a tentacle into his mouth. ”How's your salad?” he asked. A bit of fried breading was stuck in his mustache, and I had to fight an impulse to reach over and brush it away.

”It's great.” It was overdressed, each leaf oily and dripping, but that was okay-a bad salad was a perfectly reasonable trade-off for, finally, thank you G.o.d, a decent date. I chewed a mouthful into lettuce-flavored paste, and we smiled at each other.

”Tell me about your job,” Matthew said.