Page 3 of Prime Time Romance

Lainey: Totally meant to do this earlier, but you know how it is—crazy week! You guys have to come over tonight. We have something special to celebrate!!! (6 party hat emojis)

I read Lainey’s message twice, trying to dissect any other possible meanings.

Two Sundays ago at our weekly meetup, I casually mentioned that my thirtieth birthday was coming up, but we were on our third pitcher of bottomless mimosas, and it was unclear if anyone was paying attention or if they were just bobbing their heads to the Tiesto track blaring through the speaker system.

When I dropped a hopeful “Maybe we can all hang out and celebrate,” I wasn’t sure if anything would pan out. But maybe I was wrong.

Ashley K: Always down for a party but may have to meet up a little later. Got a thing.

Ashley T: Catch up bitches! I’ve been drinking since 3. Summer Fridays!!!!

Me: I’m in. Just need to go home and change my shoes. Be there in an hour.

Lainey: Boo Brynn! Just come now. Your feet will be fine. We need you!!!

I stand, wiggling my toes to see if my feet can take another few hours of pain in my stilettos.

Me: Okay fine. On my way. We’re just hanging out, right?

Lainey’s answer is three party hats and an eggplant emoji.

—

Exactly three seconds after stepping into Lainey’s apartment, I notice that there are dicks everywhere.

They’re taped to the walls, morphed into plastic straws in glasses, and even strung into necklaces adorning every woman crammed into Lainey’s compact kitchen as she pours cheap prosecco into red Solo cups.

It’s not my first choice for party decor, especially since it’s been a minute since I’ve seen an actual dick in the flesh, but it’s also not completely off-brand for a Lainey-led celebration.

I glance over at the island again, only now realizing that I actually don’t recognize any of the women crowded around it. Wondering if maybe I missed a text on the Uber ride over, I slide my phone out of my purse to check the group chat.

Ashley K: My thing turned into a different thing. Can’t make it. Sorry!!!

Ashley T: I’m drunk. Going to Poutini’s. Gonna eat my weight in cheese curds!

Lainey: Boo! You guys suck. Brynn, you’re still coming, right?

I don’t answer the last text since Lainey is standing three feet in front of me. She holds out a red Solo cup, beckoning me with the incline of her head. “Come, babe. Meet my marketing bitches.”

They widen their circle to let me in, and it feels like a rite of passage. It’s almost as if the universe is conspiring with my mother. See, Brynn? You should be out making new friends. Look how much fun it is.

“Girls.” Lainey’s voice takes on a falsetto tone. “This is Brynn. She’s the one I was telling you about.”

Four girls turn their eyes to me and smile.

To be very honest, in the last few weeks, I’ve started to wonder if Lainey and I even work as friends. Don’t get me wrong, she’s fun and outgoing—the kind of friend I feel like I should have. But our conversations don’t expand too far beyond weekend plans, food, or her latest dating disaster story. I even thought at one point that she might have mixed me up in her phone with a different Brynn and just kept forgetting to correct her mistake. But as her arm links through mine, a part of me wonders if maybe all this angst about our friendship is just my anxious brain overanalyzing things.

“Brynn, you have to meet Zoe.” Lainey points at a woman with long dark hair. “She just got engaged over the weekend. Our beautiful blushing bride.”

Lainey leaves me to put her arm around Zoe, but it’s me that’s left a deep shade of pink as I’m suddenly hit with the realization that we’re most definitely not celebrating my birthday. Not even close.

“I am so jealous,” says Lainey, letting go of Zoe to give her a light shove. “You are going to look so hot as a bride. I freaking love a good wedding. Aren’t they the best?” Lainey turns, her question very much aimed at me.

“The best,” I echo, proud that it doesn’t sound too forced.

The entire first year after Matt and I split, I dodged every conversation about weddings, marriage, or babies. My wound was still too raw. And though I genuinely wanted to find joy for my co-workers who were stressing out about seating arrangements and what toaster to add to their wedding registries, I was struggling to divide up my assets and fighting Matt for a Vitamix that we got from his aunt Mary, but he never once used. It all felt too hard.

But when Zoe dives into a story about her fiancé and then turns to me and says, “He is like my perfect soulmate,” I smile, and it’s genuine. The only semi-negative thought in my head is a note of what different places we are in mentally. I’m happy that she’s all optimism and glowy happiness as she thrusts out her hand, wiggling her fingers to show off her beautiful princess-cut diamond ring. I think I’m just sad that I’m a little jaded because I’ve seen how quickly marital bliss can become marital monotony, and then, one day, “I don’t think we work anymore.”