One to Chase (One to Hold 7)

“Hard to believe, isn’t it?” I lift the tiny cup and take a sip. “We graduated high school, I moved to Cornell, then to Europe. What did you do?”

Her eyes barely flinch, and in fairness, my tone was much less aggressive than it looks on paper.

“The usual. Brown, volunteering at the Swearer Center, then home to succeed mother as president of the DAR.” Her eyes travel over my tanned shoulders as she sips her tea. “It’s our duty to be leaders in the community. Do something more with our lives than drift from scandal to scandal.”

Now I fight my reaction to her words. I’m surprised she went straight for the jugular so fast.

“Well, that’s very refreshing,” is all I say, reaching for my now-empty demitasse. I feel exposed, and I wished I’d brought a cardigan. “I’m surprised you’re still in the city and not Highland Park.”

“We grew up in the city. It’s where everyone lives, where our houses are.”

I’m not sure the common man would call them houses. More like palaces. A waiter appears at my side.

“Another espresso, miss?”

“I’ll have a martini, thanks. Dry, no ice, two olives.” Fuck you, Pill-butt.

A brief smile and the beige-suited server hastens away to fulfill my request. We’ve each already ordered eggs benedict. Just waiting for them to appear.

My gaze returns to Karen’s. “The old gang still around?”

“Bev got married, did you know?” She holds me in her probing gaze, and I silently note how her brown eyes are not warm. I’m not sure they’ve ever been warm.

Shaking my head, I slide my finger down the handle of my knife, contemplating my once-best friend and wondering how long it takes to mix a martini. “We lost touch after I left.”

She shakes her head, and exhales a sigh. “I shouldn’t wonder.”

Not sure what that means. “I do keep in touch with C.J.,” I continue. “Although, I’m surprised he didn’t tell me his sister got married.”

Actually, I’m not so surprised. Bev chose her side, and it wasn’t mine. Not that I blame her. I was a wreck back then.

“Perhaps he wasn’t sure of your reaction. I know how close you two were senior year.”

I have to give her credit. Karen has grown into a royal bitch since I’ve been gone. She wasn’t this bold in high school.

“We were close, I guess. We just had different... paths.” The waiter is back, placing the small tumbler of clear liquor and a spear of two olives in front of me. “Why would I be surprised?”

“She’s as gay as her brother now.” I watch as my opponent leans back in her chair, a haughty expression on her face, and I steel myself. “What’s more, she actually demonstrates. Can you imagine one of us marching in the streets? It’s absolutely demeaning.”

“I suppose she has some wild idea she deserves the same rights as everyone else.” I take a sip of my drink. Wow, gin still tastes like Christmas trees.

Karen shakes her head as our plates are put in front of us. “Bullshit. We don’t have rights. The middle class thinks it’s so grand to be us, but we have a system of rules to follow no one would covet. If she wanted equality, she should’ve left like you did.”

That comparison calls for a little more Christmas. I take a longer sip, and consider how Karen would spin it if I had gin for brunch instead of poached eggs and hollandaise. No, I owe it to Sylvia to choke down a few bites.

My nemesis doesn’t skip a beat. “You should have seen her wedding.”

Knife and fork in hand, she slices a small wedge of egg, Canadian bacon, and English muffin. I reluctantly follow suit.

Her bite is cleared before mine, and she continues. “Her partner Lorna was absolutely gorgeous in this backless tulle gown. Very Portia de Rossi. Bev was in the usual black pantsuit, but at least she wore a white chiffon blouse.”

Nodding, I stir the olives in my glass. “So you went to the wedding?”

Karen’s eyebrow arches. “Of course! She invited me. We’re old friends. I support her living her life, but she can’t be cramming her agenda down our throats, expecting anything to change.”

Silence falls over the table, and we face each other awkwardly. This was not how I’d expected our brunch to flow. Instead of ire, it’s turned depressingly philosophical.

I’d expected Karen to pick me apart, but she’s already categorized me. Now I’m learning how much I don’t know, and I’m feeling more the outsider than ever.