Page 56 of Dial F for Finance

Logan and I are in. I’m bringing repellent. This week’s mosquito numbers are upsetting.

Nora:

Is the movie family friendly? Because if no, we’ll have to see if the nanny is free.

I watch the yeses stack up, and my chest does the thing it always does when this chat goes off—that tight, over-full feeling, like a room where too many people are being kind to you at once.

I never asked to be in this chat. They’ve spent almost two years reading my no as fear, dragging me back in until being seen feels somewhere between a warm bath and a security breach.

I type what I always type—why am I back in this chat—and my thumb is over the send button when the next message lands.

Dominic:

Important question. What’s the movie? I refuse to cry in a public park for anything less than a classic.

And it happens before I can stop it: a flash of him, sideways on the hotel bed in the dark, arguing with the screen, my head on his bare chest⁠—

I miss him. One night after I stood on a sidewalk and told him to sign the papers, I’m missing him in a bus line in Queens, and I hate it. I hate it the way you hate a song you can’t stop humming.

I delete the unsent line, open the group settings, and put my thumb over Leave Group, which is generally how I handle these feelings when they arise—stuff them down, silence them, pretend they never happened at all.

A private text slides down over the screen before I can commit.

DO NOT ANSWER:

If you want to be there tonight and you’d rather I wasn’t, I’ll sit this one out. No questions, no sulking. They’re your people too, Jen.

I stare at it while the bus comes and goes.

Why would he do that? Why would he hand them over? The group he’s belonged to since before I existed to any of them—he’d skip a night with his best friends so I could sit on a blanket without navigating him, because . . . why? Because he thinks that wanting him to sign the annulment papers means I don’t want him around?

It couldn’t be further from the truth.

“Jesus, Dominic.”

I back out of the settings. I type into the group with my throat tight:

Me:

I’d love to, but I have a family thing this weekend. Raincheck?

Layla:

RAINCHECK. She said RAINCHECK. Screenshotted, notarized, framed. You’re coming to the next one, Jenna!

Me:

We’ll see . . .

The private thread buzzes again.

DO NOT ANSWER:

Family thing. You’re in Queens?

I type back a quick reply.

Me: