store circa 1993. I stuttered at first, trying to figure out where to begin, before accidentally launching into my history with Lance and Carmen. My hope was to disarm her, to sort of say, “Look I’m just like you—except engaged to the man you thought you were going to marry.” On some level, it worked. I could see Baz wanting to hate me but at the same time being compelled to open up. Jason cut her off cold turkey, and I was like a crack dealer who had shown up at the end of her ninety-day rehab—just too hard to say no to.
She wasn’t stupid. If, as I told her, Jason knew about our coffee date, he would no doubt be hearing about what was discussed. Baz regaled me with stories of her relationship with Jason, and I was riveted. The man she described was in no way the guy sitting at home, folding my laundry. She made him out to be a controlling, self-involved douche. Some of her tales had me cracking up, laughing, like the one about him not letting her put a hot pink pillow she liked on his sofa because it wasn’t his taste. Others had me staring openmouthed in disbelief, like the one about him throwing a tantrum in Madrid because he was pissed at her for getting food poisoning. It wasn’t like he ever beat her or did anything outrageous enough to warrant arrest. It was just obvious that he wasn’t into her.
I left Baz that night caring about her more than ever. I tried to soothe her pain by saying things like, “Well, you both were young and he obviously had some shit to work out.” And, “If it makes you feel any better, he is nothing like that anymore.”
When I got home that night, I was sort of secretly pissed at Jason. He hurt my friend Baz. After dinner, I started asking questions.
“So, did you really leave Baz in Madrid one night because you were mad at her for getting food poisoning?”
“Did my sister say that?”
“Yeah,” I lied.
“Come on, Jenny, really?” he laughed. “Do you know me at all?”
At this point, I wasn’t sure I did. Baz seemed so cogent in her retelling, I didn’t know what to believe.
“Baz was completely psychosomatic,” said Jason. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to be with someone who is constantly ordering a wheelchair everywhere they go because they feel faint? Also, I told you I don’t want to talk about her. Ever.” He walked out of the room, slightly offended.
Just then my phone beeped with a text. It was from Baz.
“I had such a nice time today,” she wrote back. “Let’s definitely do something again.”
By the tone of the text, it was clear Baz now wanted something from me. I wasn’t naïve enough to believe it was just friendship. I’m not a fucking idiot. I was a gateway drug to her actual addiction: Jason. Through me she could not only find out what her ex’s new life was like, but she could also work through her anger by telling me all the things she lacked the balls to tell him. If I were her, I’d have done the same thing.
As I was reading the text, Jason passed by. “Who’s that?” he asked.
“Your sister.”
“Tell her to stop talking shit,” he said without stopping to make eye contact.
My heart was racing. Thinking fast, I shifted my cell settings into “shady bitch mode.” I couldn’t risk Jason picking up my phone and seeing a barrage of texts from the one person on the planet he didn’t want me talking to. I already had her number listed under the pseudonym Professor Plum. But if he looked at the actual digits, he’d know it was Baz. My affair was no longer one-sided. I knew I was playing with fire, but my addiction to the attention outweighed all logic. I needed more .
* * *
Baz and I agreed to hike Runyon Canyon together the following week. Somewhere near the dog piss-covered park benches, my guilt became unbearable. I finally confessed to Baz that Jason knew nothing about us hanging out. I needed to talk to someone, and though she was the problem, she was also my closest confidante besides
She wasn’t stupid. If, as I told her, Jason knew about our coffee date, he would no doubt be hearing about what was discussed. Baz regaled me with stories of her relationship with Jason, and I was riveted. The man she described was in no way the guy sitting at home, folding my laundry. She made him out to be a controlling, self-involved douche. Some of her tales had me cracking up, laughing, like the one about him not letting her put a hot pink pillow she liked on his sofa because it wasn’t his taste. Others had me staring openmouthed in disbelief, like the one about him throwing a tantrum in Madrid because he was pissed at her for getting food poisoning. It wasn’t like he ever beat her or did anything outrageous enough to warrant arrest. It was just obvious that he wasn’t into her.
I left Baz that night caring about her more than ever. I tried to soothe her pain by saying things like, “Well, you both were young and he obviously had some shit to work out.” And, “If it makes you feel any better, he is nothing like that anymore.”
When I got home that night, I was sort of secretly pissed at Jason. He hurt my friend Baz. After dinner, I started asking questions.
“So, did you really leave Baz in Madrid one night because you were mad at her for getting food poisoning?”
“Did my sister say that?”
“Yeah,” I lied.
“Come on, Jenny, really?” he laughed. “Do you know me at all?”
At this point, I wasn’t sure I did. Baz seemed so cogent in her retelling, I didn’t know what to believe.
“Baz was completely psychosomatic,” said Jason. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to be with someone who is constantly ordering a wheelchair everywhere they go because they feel faint? Also, I told you I don’t want to talk about her. Ever.” He walked out of the room, slightly offended.
Just then my phone beeped with a text. It was from Baz.
“I had such a nice time today,” she wrote back. “Let’s definitely do something again.”
By the tone of the text, it was clear Baz now wanted something from me. I wasn’t naïve enough to believe it was just friendship. I’m not a fucking idiot. I was a gateway drug to her actual addiction: Jason. Through me she could not only find out what her ex’s new life was like, but she could also work through her anger by telling me all the things she lacked the balls to tell him. If I were her, I’d have done the same thing.
As I was reading the text, Jason passed by. “Who’s that?” he asked.
“Your sister.”
“Tell her to stop talking shit,” he said without stopping to make eye contact.
My heart was racing. Thinking fast, I shifted my cell settings into “shady bitch mode.” I couldn’t risk Jason picking up my phone and seeing a barrage of texts from the one person on the planet he didn’t want me talking to. I already had her number listed under the pseudonym Professor Plum. But if he looked at the actual digits, he’d know it was Baz. My affair was no longer one-sided. I knew I was playing with fire, but my addiction to the attention outweighed all logic. I needed more .
* * *
Baz and I agreed to hike Runyon Canyon together the following week. Somewhere near the dog piss-covered park benches, my guilt became unbearable. I finally confessed to Baz that Jason knew nothing about us hanging out. I needed to talk to someone, and though she was the problem, she was also my closest confidante besides
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