Page 33 of The Friends and Rivals Collection

ADULTING REWARD

Hazel

Rachel waits for me on the corner of a quiet street, a red silk scarf tied around her neck, gold-framed sunglasses covering her eyes. Her chestnut waves curl over her shoulders. She’s the picture of sophistication, and it’s been too long since I’ve seen her.

Picking up my pace, I walk toward her on the narrow sidewalks in ?le Saint-Louis.

The green shutters on the windows and iron lattice-work balconies give this Parisian neighborhood a quieter, back-in-time feel.

It’s an island in the middle of the Seine, and it’s as if the city slows down in this place.

She whips off the shades, flashing me a bright smile. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“You’re one to talk about fancy,” I say, pointing to the scarf. “You look très chic. I love it.”

She flicks her hair off her neck, bobbing a confident shoulder. “Divorce. It’s been good to me.”

That’s reassuring to hear, even though I know it hasn’t been easy. I wrap an arm around her, squeezing her, glad she’s doing better. “You mean it?”

I talk to her every week, text her often. But I haven’t seen her since I was in California visiting my friend Ellie and helping my sister host a party for the businesses on Rachel’s block in Venice Beach. Since then, she’s moved to San Francisco and expanded her jewelry shop there.

She nods crisply. “Yes,” she says, then gestures to the sidewalk, and we walk. “Mostly.”

I laugh, but it’s sympathetic. “Mostly is good.” I pause, then add, “It’s a lot.” The end of her marriage blindsided her in ways no one could have expected. The secrets her ex-husband was keeping were book-worthy—no, saga-worthy. Her ex is the poster child for shocking behavior from ex-husbands.

“It is, but what can you do except…” She pauses to finger the end of her scarf and lifts her chin, defying the gods of divorce. “…be fabulous.”

“Words to live by.” We pass a Mediterranean café; the scents of hummus and falafel drift from the open-front restaurant.

I’d love to go back there later, have a lingering meal, watch the people go by.

But right now, I’m exactly where I want to be.

“However, I think you’ve always been fabulous.

Now, are you taking me to this jewelry extravaganza? ”

She tosses her head back and laughs. “It’s hardly an extravaganza. More like an artists’ fair.”

“Even better,” I say as we walk past buildings that seem to tilt from age. I wonder about the love affairs these buildings have witnessed, the kisses they’ve seen under streetlamps and on rain-dappled corners. “So tell me how your new life is in San Francisco.”

She shakes her head. “Nope. Don’t distract me. You go first. I want to hear all about this trip with your…nemesis.”

Oh, shit. That’s right.

Everyone knows Axel and I are enemies.

Were .

But mere hours ago, we were under-the-table lovers. We aren’t even enemies who fuck. We’re not hate-banging. We’re just…

What are we?

I don’t know, but my stomach flips, and my brain gets loopy as I think about him. The clip of my heart speeds up, and I set a hand on my chest to settle it down.

“You said this time today would be your reward for adulting. Have you? Adulted?” Rachel adds, prompting me.

Right. I told her what TJ and I had decided the day I took off on this trip. That was five days ago.

Feels like a lifetime.

And I’m astonished by what I’m about to say. I haven’t told anyone the whole truth. “We’re not enemies anymore.”

I whisper like I’m testing the idea.

She stops outside a boho boutique that peddles purses and scarves, and tilts her head my way. “You’re not? That’s good. Right?”

“It is good.”

A smile spreads on her face, a proud-friend smile. I feel lucky to be its recipient. “So you two worked through some of your issues? Put them behind you?” she asks.

Ha. Something like that.

For a few silent seconds, I feel trapped in a lie. Because I could shrug, smile, say something vague.

But I desperately want to tell a friend about this strange and weirdly wonderful thing that’s happening to me. “We did, and we’ve also been spending our nights together.”

I offer a what can you do smile. Rachel’s expression shifts like the gears of a sports car, from shock, to are you serious , then to tell me everything . “You. Are?”

I feel a little incredulous myself. “We are. Who would have thought?”

“I need details. Time, place, position, etc. Also, number of orgasms, and possibly how high your fever is.”

I crack up as we stroll leisurely past cafés and ice cream shops toward the fair. “Number of Os? Too high to count.”

“I hate you,” she mutters. “From your wine write-offs to your hot sex. Hey, can you write off sex now because you write romance?”

I grin, like I’m imbibing this whole damn beautiful blue-sky day. “I can write off sex toys, I can write off dates, I can write off anything and everything. Every single thing I do is research.”

She shakes her head, annoyed, but not really. “This is not fair. You’re getting laid and saving money.” We turn down a street where a bustling fair full of tents and vendors awaits us. Rachel slows her pace again, setting a hand on my arm. “Wait. Is this more than sex?”

That’s the question, isn’t it? “I don’t know. Sometimes it feels like it is. Which is hard to wrap my head around. But the thing is,” I say, my heart an anchor now, weighing me down, “we decided to write together again. So I can’t let any of these sex feelings distract me from our new partnership.”

She hums thoughtfully. “That’s a lot too,” she adds, using my words.

“I guess we both have things going on.” Something nags at me. “Hey, are we failing the Bechdel test?”

“The one that says women shouldn’t talk only about men?”

“Yup.”

“But we’re not talking about men. We’re talking about what we want in life. Our hopes and dreams.”

I chew on that as we near the fair. Lilting French music drifts from a tent, and it’s surely about love and longing.

“We are.” Writing isn’t just my daily reality. It’s still my hope. It’s still my dream.

Writing romance has helped me make sense of a messy world. It’s my heart and soul. It’s how I’ve found a way through the storm of emotions inside me, the leftover feelings from being raised by a controlling, angry man who wanted to put women in their place.

My feelings, too, about how my mother handled things then and how she handled them better later on.

I’ve poured those complicated feelings into all of my books.

My books I write alone.

The ones I write with Axel.

My stories have given me this life, this freedom, this chance to write off wine, to travel to Paris, and to live on my own terms.

Independently from anyone else.

From any controlling man.

As we wander through the fair, focusing on jewelry, studying pretty baubles and bling for Rachel, she asks me more about the tour.

I tell her about the Book Besties—their big hearts, their goals, their careers, and their passions.

“Most of all, they’re so supportive, even though they hardly see each other. ”

“Like us,” she says, with a happy but vulnerable look. One I return in kind—I’m grateful to have a friend like her.

“Just like us.”

We talk more about Rachel’s business, then it’s time to go. I catch the Metro so I won’t be late for our evening signing, and as the train rumbles along, my mind drifts to another friendship—the one I’m rekindling with Axel.

I replay earlier this afternoon with him, then I imagine later tonight.

I badly want to see him again, and I fear my feelings are only getting messier and a lot less friendly.