being planned for my best friend.
But in regards to the present conversation, that certainly wasn't a viable explanation for my strange behavior. "I'm sorry," I said, trying to shake myself from my daze. "I guess I'm just in shock. Congratulations!"
Sophie's confused frown slowly turned into another beaming smile as I leaned over to hug her.
"Fabulous, honey. Well done. Way to latch on the ol' ball and chain," John commended her.
"Thanks," Sophie said, turning to each one of us, her silly lovesick grin as prominent as ever.
I admit it was wonderful to see her so happy. But something wouldn't allow me to be happy for her. And it ate me up inside. I wanted to jump up and down and squeal with delight the way Zoë had... and even John. After all, I was her best friend. We'd been best friends since the third grade. If anyone should have been involved in some type of celebratory jumping ritual, it was me. But it felt like there were weights in my shoes and bricks on my shoulders cementing me down to the ground. Forcing me to resort to a time-perfected, skillful performance of forged emotions. Just like every other day of my life. Playing the role of the flight attendant, the lonely businesswoman, the raging sorority girl, the irresistible computer geek, the merciless temptress. And now, apparently... the overjoyed, congratulatory best friend as well.
But the problem was, that was something I never thought I'd ever have to fake.
Even though my friends didn't know what I really did on all those business trips, I still felt like I could be myself around them. I still felt like they were the only ones who really knew me.
A few lies here and there. A handful of harmless cover-ups to explain why my housekeeper cleans out my suitcase with disinfectant, or why I can never talk on my business cell phone when they're around. But I've never had to act like someone else.
I've never had to fake it with them.
The server soon approached the table, and as I watched Sophie place her usual eggs Benedict order, I realized that something had changed.
In all of us. Our group would never be the same again.
Sophie was engaged. She was going to get married. And she had the ring to prove it. Everything would change from here on out. She would move in with him. They would buy a house together. And suddenly it would be "we" want you to come over for a BBQ; "we'd" love it if you could meet us for drinks; "we" haven't agreed on a day-care for the baby yet.
But as much as I wanted to believe it, I knew that a fear of change wasn't the real reason I couldn't be happy for her. It was something else. Something much darker. And I certainly wasn't about to let that show through and cast a shadow on everyone's joyful brunch.
So as soon as the server disappeared, I painted a happy, best-friend smile on my face, and with anticipation in my voice I successfully helped Zoë cover all the required, post–engagement announcement questions.
AN HOUR later I said good-bye to Zoë and John as the valet attendants drove up to the curb in Zoë's car, and then watched as she handed over her parking stub and tip before driving away. Sophie and I stood silently, waiting for our turn to repeat the familiar Los Angeles parking routine.
I stared down at my feet, trying desperately to avoid acknowledging the silence that had, for the first time in twenty years, turned awkward. I reached into my bag and pulled out a five-dollar bill, ready to tip the valet as soon as he appeared with my Range Rover.
And when I couldn't take the silence any longer, I decided to break the ice. "So when do I finally get to meet this nice Jewish boy of yours?" I said in a rich New York accent, mimicking Sophie's overbearing grandmother just as we'd been doing since elementary school.
Normally that's when Sophie would either laugh hysterically at what she calls my "goya Jewish accent" or break into a well-practiced grandmother imitation of her own.
But not today. Instead she blurted
But in regards to the present conversation, that certainly wasn't a viable explanation for my strange behavior. "I'm sorry," I said, trying to shake myself from my daze. "I guess I'm just in shock. Congratulations!"
Sophie's confused frown slowly turned into another beaming smile as I leaned over to hug her.
"Fabulous, honey. Well done. Way to latch on the ol' ball and chain," John commended her.
"Thanks," Sophie said, turning to each one of us, her silly lovesick grin as prominent as ever.
I admit it was wonderful to see her so happy. But something wouldn't allow me to be happy for her. And it ate me up inside. I wanted to jump up and down and squeal with delight the way Zoë had... and even John. After all, I was her best friend. We'd been best friends since the third grade. If anyone should have been involved in some type of celebratory jumping ritual, it was me. But it felt like there were weights in my shoes and bricks on my shoulders cementing me down to the ground. Forcing me to resort to a time-perfected, skillful performance of forged emotions. Just like every other day of my life. Playing the role of the flight attendant, the lonely businesswoman, the raging sorority girl, the irresistible computer geek, the merciless temptress. And now, apparently... the overjoyed, congratulatory best friend as well.
But the problem was, that was something I never thought I'd ever have to fake.
Even though my friends didn't know what I really did on all those business trips, I still felt like I could be myself around them. I still felt like they were the only ones who really knew me.
A few lies here and there. A handful of harmless cover-ups to explain why my housekeeper cleans out my suitcase with disinfectant, or why I can never talk on my business cell phone when they're around. But I've never had to act like someone else.
I've never had to fake it with them.
The server soon approached the table, and as I watched Sophie place her usual eggs Benedict order, I realized that something had changed.
In all of us. Our group would never be the same again.
Sophie was engaged. She was going to get married. And she had the ring to prove it. Everything would change from here on out. She would move in with him. They would buy a house together. And suddenly it would be "we" want you to come over for a BBQ; "we'd" love it if you could meet us for drinks; "we" haven't agreed on a day-care for the baby yet.
But as much as I wanted to believe it, I knew that a fear of change wasn't the real reason I couldn't be happy for her. It was something else. Something much darker. And I certainly wasn't about to let that show through and cast a shadow on everyone's joyful brunch.
So as soon as the server disappeared, I painted a happy, best-friend smile on my face, and with anticipation in my voice I successfully helped Zoë cover all the required, post–engagement announcement questions.
AN HOUR later I said good-bye to Zoë and John as the valet attendants drove up to the curb in Zoë's car, and then watched as she handed over her parking stub and tip before driving away. Sophie and I stood silently, waiting for our turn to repeat the familiar Los Angeles parking routine.
I stared down at my feet, trying desperately to avoid acknowledging the silence that had, for the first time in twenty years, turned awkward. I reached into my bag and pulled out a five-dollar bill, ready to tip the valet as soon as he appeared with my Range Rover.
And when I couldn't take the silence any longer, I decided to break the ice. "So when do I finally get to meet this nice Jewish boy of yours?" I said in a rich New York accent, mimicking Sophie's overbearing grandmother just as we'd been doing since elementary school.
Normally that's when Sophie would either laugh hysterically at what she calls my "goya Jewish accent" or break into a well-practiced grandmother imitation of her own.
But not today. Instead she blurted
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