Page 50 of Intoxicating Pursuit
Reconnecting
T he pasta from Nonna’s Bistro was warm and fragrant, the cannolis and Italian confections looked like the perfect birthday treat, and I had a couple bottles of Tina’s favorite wine ready to go.
Her boys were with their dad for the night, and after the miserable mess with Marco, I couldn’t wait to catch up with my friend, finally.
It promised to be a sweet end to an otherwise horrible day.
Plus, we could both commiserate over the crazy twists and turns of the last month.
Fred nearly tackled me in wriggling ecstasy when I arrived, the smell of both dinner and Aunt Sammy at the same time proving entirely too much for his golden retriever brain.
He followed us to the kitchen, his whole body wagging, and jumped all over me the instant I set our food down.
I gave him a proper scratch behind the ears and a good all over body rub, my heart lifting with each blond, shaggy ruffle of fur.
“I’ll just wait my turn.” Tina leaned against the counter, looking almost relaxed.
Her shoulders were at ease, and her bob of curly black hair framed a mellow smile.
I gave Fred one last nuzzle then wrapped my friend up in a warm hug and kissed the top of her head.
“Happy birthday, Tina. The day you were born is definitely worth a celebration.”
I squeezed her hard, and Fred joined right in. We cracked up as he climbed into our embrace, clawing his way up our bodies, trying to reach our faces with his pink, lapping tongue. He clearly intended to be part of the pack tonight.
Amidst the joy and laughter though, a pang of regret squeezed my chest. Tina should have felt wrapped up in love for the last month.
And where had I left her? Alone with Fred?
“Tina, I’m sorry I’ve been so distracted.
” I had promised myself the evening would be focused on lifting Tina up, not asking for forgiveness, but the words simply slipped out.
She stepped out of the hug, sending Fred’s front paws skittering back to the kitchen floor.
“Oh, stop it, Sammy. You’ve called. You’ve texted.
Heck, you made the boys their favorite cookies.
” She blew out a breath. “Look, I’m the one who got all self-absorbed.
I curled up in a ball to feel sorry for myself, then had the nerve to get angry when it turned out you have your own life. I’m the guilty party here.”
“You haven’t done anything wrong. You’re allowed to feel whatever you feel.”
“Thanks, Sammy.” She wandered to the counter, sniffed in bliss at the Nonna’s bistro bag, and waggled her eyebrows at me. “Well, I think what I feel right now is hungry. Can we eat?”
“Oh, heck yes.”
We dragged all the food out, opened the wine, and settled in at the kitchen table, where Tina had set out cloth napkins and mismatched silverware—my favorite kind. Fred flopped on our feet, ever hopeful for morsels of food or affection.
Over platefuls of linguini, Tina filled me in on the drama with Andrew and how the boys were handling it.
They were too young to understand what was happening, which resulted in heartbreaking questions and the odd reality of Tina having to break the news repeatedly that they, as a family, were moving in a new direction.
But from what she shared with me, it sounded like she was managing an impressive balancing act of just enough information, in words they could understand.
As usual, her approach to challenges was full of sensible strength and kindness.
When she had fully vented, we pronounced a moratorium on any further mention of the miserable cretin named Andrew, who didn’t deserve her and certainly shouldn’t be allowed to ruin her birthday dinner.
We sipped cabernet and gobbled forkfuls of pasta while I gave Tina the scoop on the soap opera surrounding Ian, Marco, and Forbidden Brews.
My impending professional divorce wasn’t half as traumatic as her marital one, but it still involved division of property, taking on your former partner’s workload, and, in general, trying to figure out how to move on solo.
It was surprisingly cathartic to talk through it all—maybe for both of us—because the conversation unfolded with ease despite the painful topic.
We both wondered what would become of Marco and if there was any way to help him and Ian.
It had taken a full intervention to bring Marco around last time, and with both him and Ian in trouble now, I wasn’t sure how to begin.
We would have to figure it out eventually though.
No matter how mad I was about the business, Marco and Ian were my adopted family, and we would have to find a way to drag them back from the edge.
Eventually, Tina couldn’t stand it any longer, and she demanded a change of topic, claiming that if her birthday dinner didn’t include an exhaustive “debriefing” of the entire Gabriel Walker escapade, I was fired as best friend.
After keeping everything pent up for weeks, I was more than happy to oblige. It’s practically a pact among women not to let anyone suffer alone or miss out on living vicariously through each other’s thrills—and I’d been badly in violation of it.
I recounted meeting him in the forest, our time at the rooftop bar, the trip to Creekside, and the adventure in Oregon.
She asked endless questions, digging in for all the juicy details, and I, of course, gave her most of them.
I denied her request to set up an official “Gabe Walker” harem, laughed at how moon-eyed she was over the whole thing, and reminded her that it was super-important to Gabe that we keep things quiet.
Tina promised to be an information vault, and I think in reality, she preferred that these secrets remained ours—something for the two of us to share.
Well, three if we counted Fred, who seemed content to listen for hours as long as we occasionally dropped cannoli crumbs.
By the end of dessert and after the first bottle of wine, we still hadn’t solved the world’s problems, so we opened another bottle and tried harder, laughing and crying until it was well past bedtime.
My home was only a couple blocks away, and when we were finally sated, I gave Tina the biggest hug ever and stumbled home. I tucked myself into my own bed, thankful for a full belly, a warm heart, and my hall of fame best friend.
I conked out hard and slept deeply.