Page 2 of How Freaking Romantic

“You did what ?”

Jillian gapes at me over the plastic take-out containers of tuna sashimi and California rolls spread across the cardboard boxes in the center of the room.

It was a bold move, ordering raw fish from a restaurant with a C rating from the city health commission.

But Sammy Sushi is also the only restaurant in a twenty-block radius that will deliver Bloody Marys in huge plastic cups before noon on a Sunday.

And after a long morning of packing and crying and then more packing, it was an easy choice.

To be fair, we weren’t going to cry. While Maggie and Travis sat in traffic this morning on their drive into the city, we had a long call about how we absolutely couldn’t cry.

Despite the divorce and how it had strained Jillian’s finances so much that she was being forced to move into a small studio in Queens, this apartment needed to stay neutral, a place still defined by the good memories we made there.

So we agreed to remain stoic and strong.

But then I met them outside Jillian and Josh’s building on Barrow Street in the West Village.

They parked their truck along the curb and the three of us walked up to where the front door was propped open.

Jillian was waiting for us at the top of the stairs, just outside their second-floor apartment.

Behind her, the door still displayed the welcome sign she painstakingly painted two years before, back when she was still smiling and saying that she and Josh were fine, really . Back when we believed it.

When Josh and Jillian found this place after we graduated Fordham seven years ago, it had seemed so sophisticated, so grown-up.

It was an address that equated some sort of unlocked achievement in our game of adulthood, a new center of gravity keeping us together after college.

Despite conflicting schedules and nonexistent funds, we would still congregate here on the weekends and on holidays, sure that it would be the foundation for a new era of memories.

Jillian stood in the doorway with a blank expression, her eyes bloodshot and puffy. And without saying anything, we knew that all aforementioned promises of not crying were null and void.

I turn to where Maggie is seated next to me now, cross-legged on the floor with her short black hair sticking out in every direction and Jillian’s golden retriever, Tex, curled up next to her. She’s given up on packing and is petting Tex with one hand and holding her plastic cup in the other.

“Is this spicy tuna or spicy salmon?” I ask her, motioning with my chopsticks to the congealed pink glob wrapped in rice between us. “All I taste is spicy.”

“Bea,” Jillian says, refusing to let me change the subject.

Her long blond hair is pulled back in a severe ponytail, her full lips pursed in a grim line.

Nothing about her appearance has ever been severe before.

From the moment I met her during an English literature class our sophomore year, she gave off the ethereal glow of a person created by Disney, as if she awoke every morning in slow motion, dressed with the help of field mice.

But now concealer barely covers the dark circles under her eyes, and the pink glow of her cheeks obviously comes from a compact.

“You need to tell me exactly what happened.”

I abandon the tuna and/or salmon and grab some edamame. “It was nothing. Josh’s lawyer is right in Midtown, so I stopped by on my way to class on Friday.”

Travis emerges from the hallway, his long unkempt brown hair hidden beneath a Mets cap.

“You don’t have class on Fridays,” he says, dropping the box by the front door and throwing me a look like he was a dad catching his kid in a lie.

Shit . He’s been back and forth to the truck so much, I forgot he was listening.

“I thought you were going to stay neutral,” I say, glaring at him.

“I am neutral,” he shouts over his shoulder as he heads down the hallway to the bedroom again.

“You’re doing a good job, sweetie,” Maggie calls after him, then takes a long pull from the straw in her drink. “Great lifting.”

Next to her, Tex yawns like he’s not as impressed.

“Okay,” Jillian says, releasing a long breath as she turns back to me. “You stopped by. And then what?”

I push a mess of curls away from my face and try to make my voice sound nonchalant. “I went to his office to discuss Josh’s latest request for spousal support.”

“Discuss?” she asks carefully.

“Well, I wanted to discuss. He wanted to be a dick.”

“Oh God.” Jillian groans.

“You were so upset, Jills, and Josh wasn’t picking up his phone—”

“You called Josh?” she cuts me off, eyes wide.

I barely hear her, distracted by the sudden realization that after five phone calls and three dozen text messages, Josh hadn’t even replied. “You know, I think that prick blocked my number.”

“I think he blocked your number when you publicly castrated him for making out with Theresa Bianco during spring break junior year,” Maggie says.

I consider this for a moment. “True.”

“This isn’t like when we broke up in college, Bea,” Jillian replies. “We’re adults now, and we’re getting divorced. There are motions and injunctions and arraignments—”

“There aren’t any arraignments in divorce proceedings,” I say, popping an edamame bean in my mouth.

Maggie leans back against a half-filled cardboard box and starts rubbing Tex’s belly. “You know, New York magazine did a profile on this Asher guy a few months ago. Called him one of the top divorce attorneys in the city,” she says. “His picture was… not horrible.”

My chopsticks hover above a California roll as I recall Nathan Asher.

Objectively, Maggie’s right. He’s not horrible.

The opposite of horrible, actually. Thick brown hair—the kind you know would be curly if he didn’t cut it this side of short—and a sharp jaw that his stubble had no hope of disguising.

His broad shoulders had been draped in what was no doubt an expensive suit, and his arrogant smile could probably charm even the most hardened judge in New York’s family court.

So no, not horrible. But in the same way a corpse flower isn’t horrible; it’s quite gorgeous, until you get too close and realize it smells like dog shit.

“They deliver New York magazine all the way upstate?” I ask, cocking my head to the side and hoping my sarcasm covers up the misdirection.

“The Hudson Valley is not upstate, you philistine,” Maggie replies. The statement is punctuated by a large slurp from her straw.

“I don’t think you’re using that word right, Mags.”

“Bea,” Jillian interrupts us, her voice strained. “I need to know exactly what you said to him.”

“Well…” I trail off as I try to remember.

There had been insults, but what exactly had I said?

The adrenaline must have blocked out my short-term memory, so all I can recall is how he looked at me, at first arrogant and smug but changing ever so slightly to betray a bit of surprise.

Maybe even offense. “I’m pretty sure I called him an asshole. I definitely called Josh one.”

“Oh my God.” Maggie cackles as Travis appears from the hallway with another box.

“It’s not like I jumped on top of the guy’s desk and attacked him or something,” I say, but then I pause, remembering. “I might have said I hoped he choked to death on some steak, though.”

“Jesus Christ,” Travis mutters as he drops the box next to the front door, startling Tex awake. “Jillian, you need to call your lawyer.”

My mouth falls open. “Hey! Neutral, remember?”

“I am, but come on, Bea,” he says. “You’re about to graduate from one of the best law schools in the country. You’re taking the bar in just a few months. Why did you think this was a good idea?”

To be honest, I didn’t think it was a good idea. I didn’t think at all. Objectively, I knew it was irrational, but there was nothing about this situation that instilled objectivity, and I didn’t want it to.

I’d known about the growing problems between Jillian and Josh for a while.

All of us had. But we also assumed they would work it out, the same way they had since college.

Then Jillian left to stay with her mother right before Thanksgiving.

Josh blindsided her by filing divorce papers the following week.

Suddenly, our once-tight group was being torn apart, but the details were in short supply.

The whats and whys of how their once happy union had deteriorated to a point where Jillian had to schedule time to pack up her things from her own home were drip fed over a quick coffee or obligatory weekend call.

A sidenote to our lives that were shooting off in different directions.

And that hurt so much that anger seemed a much more appealing option than common sense.

That’s the bit people always forget. Pain is anger’s neglectful parent.

“Josh’s lawyer doesn’t even know my name, Trav,” I say, throwing another edamame bean in my mouth.

“Yeah, but all he has to do is ask Josh about the crazy, curly-haired woman covered in freckles who stormed his office, and you’re screwed.”

“Oh, stop it.” Maggie waves her hand between the two of us like some drunken referee. “I don’t care how mad Josh is, he wouldn’t sell Bea out like that.”

I’m not willing to give Josh that much credit, but it’s not worth having that argument with Maggie again.

Travis shrugs. “All I’m saying is we shouldn’t get involved or we’ll just complicate things more. It’s the same reason we told you to stop sending Josh those anonymous STD notification texts, Bea.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lie, stabbing the last bit of an avocado roll with my chopstick.

“Regardless,” he says, his hands going to his hips. He’s in full dad-mode now. “You should know better.”

I roll my eyes. As much as he loves to dole out unsolicited advice these days, back in college, Travis had no idea what to do with his life and had a litany of majors to prove it.

After graduation, when he and Maggie finally started dating and she got her dream job at a hedge fund, his indecision became a full-blown crisis.

The struggle lasted a few years, until Maggie realized she in fact didn’t want to become a major player in the financial world and decided to take her life savings and buy a dilapidated bed-and-breakfast up in the Hudson Valley instead.

Suddenly, they not only had the perfect excuse to move in together, but Travis found his purpose.

Now his life is happily filled with drywall, paint tarps, and sanctimony.

“So, what am I supposed to do?” I ask him. “Josh didn’t even tell Jillian he was filing for divorce, and now he’s treating the whole thing like it’s a cash grab, and you want me to just ignore it?”

“Yes.” He says it like the answer is obvious. “Listen, I know why you’re pissed, Bea. Which is saying something, because you’re pissed ninety-nine percent of the time, and I usually never get it. But when push comes to shove, Josh hasn’t really done anything wrong here, and—”

Maggie whips her head around to glare at him. “Are you seriously taking Josh’s side right now?”

“I’m not on anybody’s side!” Travis groans, throwing his arms up. “I’m Switzerland!” With that, he turns back down the hall, stomping toward the bedroom. The dog gets up and follows him, his paws tapping against the hardwood floor.

“Is he okay?” Jillian asks.

Maggie raises her cup and takes another sip. “He’s fine.”

I want to make a snide comment, but then Jillian closes her eyes and sighs. The sound is heavy and sad.

“This is my fault,” she whispers, almost to herself. “I shouldn’t have said anything about the alimony.”

A pang of guilt hits my chest. It had been a late-night confession, one of those phone calls that rarely happened anymore: Jillian ringing after midnight, trying to pretend as if a call that late was still normal, like everything was okay.

And it had been for a few minutes, until I asked about the divorce.

The tears had come on so quickly I hadn’t heard them at first. Jillian was always good at that. Quiet crying.

I had stayed on the phone with her for more than an hour, listening to all the details about their financial disclosures and Josh’s petition for spousal support, and offering advice when I could.

By the time she hung up, I thought she was okay.

But now, with exhaustion and stress written across Jillian’s pale, drawn face, I know she’s not.

I lean forward and take her hand, squeezing it tightly. “Hey, I’m sorry. Seriously. But look on the bright side: in the history of New York divorce cases, this can’t be the worst thing that has ever happened.”

Maggie pauses, her straw hovering at her lips. “That’s a pretty big spectrum, don’t you think?”

I shoot her a withering glare.

“Okay,” Jillian says to herself, lifting her head and straightening her back. “This is manageable. I’ll call my lawyer tomorrow morning. That way she’ll be ready in case his attorney calls or if Josh decides to freak out about this and—”

“It’s fine, Jills, I promise,” I say, squeezing her hand one more time before releasing it and reaching for my chopsticks again. “We never have to talk about Nathan Asher again.”