Margot Hunt - Best Friends Forever

“Hey, Mom, can we get fries?” Liam asked.

“Only if there’s something resembling dinner on the same plate,” I said. “Do they have hamburgers?”

I got out my credit card while Liam tapped at the screen. He frowned. “It’s not working.”

“Maybe you’re tapping it too much,” I said. “Give it a chance.”

“It’s really slow,” the woman sitting next to us said. “It takes forever to place your order.”

“Did you get it to work?” I asked.

“Yes, finally. And not a moment too soon,” she said as a waiter arrived, bearing a single martini on a tray.

I looked at the drink and smiled—I loved martinis, and a drink seemed like the perfect antidote for the too-bright, too-crowded airport terminal.

The woman, I noticed then, seemed incongruously glamorous to the disheveled mass of weary travelers. I guessed that she was a bit older than I was, probably in her mid to late forties. She was very thin and had shiny dark hair cut into an angled chin-length bob. I’d always coveted a sleek bob, but it was a style I’d never be able to tame my wavy hair into. Her eyes were a startling bright blue, and her face was made up of interesting, strong lines—a long nose, full lips, square jaw. Her features were too angular to be truly pretty, but she was a very striking woman.

“A vodka martini, straight up, with a twist?” the waiter asked, setting the drink in front of her.

“Perfect,” the woman said, trying to give him a five-dollar bill.

The waiter raised his hands. “All tips have to be done electronically.”

The woman crinkled her nose. “Really? I didn’t know.” She tried to hand him the bill again. “Please, take it. I didn’t add one on my total, and I already checked out.”

The waiter shrugged and turned away.

The woman looked at me with a smile. “I guess I’ll have to order another one and double the tip.”

I looked at her drink again, this time covetously. “I’m jealous. That looks delicious. I wish I could have one.”

“You can,” she said. “Just tap the martini picture on your screen once it stops freezing up. And voilà! A drink magically appears.”

“I can’t,” I said, glancing over at Liam and Bridget. The screen was cooperating with them now, and they were entertaining themselves by ordering far more food than they would eat. I would need to delete half their selections before I swiped my credit card. “I’m here with my kids.”

“I’ve been there. Traveling with children should come with hazardous duty pay,” the woman said. “Trust me, you need a martini even more than I do.”

I hesitated. A drink sounded wonderful, but I was on my own with the children. We had spent the New Year with my parents in Syracuse. Todd had begged off the trip, claiming he had too much work to do. Although when I’d spoken to him the day before, he’d sounded deeply hungover from whatever party he’d been to on New Year’s Eve. It was not the first or the last time I would wonder how unfairly the parental burden fell. Men could get away with bacchanalian nights out, while their wives usually couldn’t unless it was preplanned under the pink polka-dotted banner of a Girls’ Night Out. In any event, on New Year’s Eve, my straitlaced academic parents had gone to bed early, as was their custom. I’d spent the night watching the ball drop at Times Square on television while my children—who’d insisted they were old enough to stay awake—slumbered heavily on the couch.

I decided this woman was right. I did deserve a martini.

Besides, Liam and Bridget were old enough that I didn’t have to monitor them like toddlers. And once we reached the airport in Florida, Todd would be there to drive us home.

“Are you on the flight to West Palm?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said. “If there ever is a flight to West Palm, that is. I’m starting to worry that we’ll be stuck here all night.”

“I’m on the same flight. And we’re not going anywhere anytime soon. Here, let me order you a drink,” she offered.

“No,” I demurred. “I can order one through my screen.”

“I don’t know, Mom,” Liam said dubiously. “It’s freezing up again.”

“I insist,” the woman said. “And you’d be doing me a favor, because now I can tip the waiter. How do you like your martini?”

“You really don’t have to buy me a drink,” I protested weakly.

She smiled, displaying two rows of very straight, very white teeth. “If you don’t tell me, I’ll have to guess, and I’ll probably get it wrong. That would be a tragedy.”

I laughed. “I like my vodka martinis straight up and very dirty,” I said.

She began tapping at her touch screen. It seemed to be working better than the one my children were using.

“Done and done,” she said.

“That’s very kind,” I said. “Thank you.”

“I’m Kat.” She extended a hand.

I shook it. “Alice.”

“Do you live in West Palm?”

“Close. I live in Jupiter.”

“Me, too!” Kat exclaimed. “Small world.”

“We’re practically neighbors,” I said.

Later I learned that Kat actually lived on Jupiter Island, which boasted the highest per capita income and highest median home sale price anywhere in the country. Higher than Manhattan. Higher than Marin County. It was where mega-rich sports stars lived. We weren’t anywhere close to being neighbors.

“And these are your children?” Kat inquired.

I introduced Liam and Bridget, who were, thankfully, very polite. Bridget even remembered to extend a hand, which Kat shook solemnly. Then there was a flurry of activity as the touch screen finally started working properly. I was able to edit the children’s dinner orders and swipe my credit card. By the time I turned my attention back to Kat, the waiter had appeared with my martini. He held out the tray and, with a flourish, neatly set the martini in front of Kat. She slid it over to me.

“Thank you,” I said to the waiter. Turning to Kat, I said, “And thank you.”

“Cheers,” Kat said, raising her glass to mine.

I took a sip of my drink. It was delicious and cold. A blue cheese–stuffed olive speared through the middle with a bamboo pick bobbed inside. I fished the olive out and bit into it.

“How long have you lived in Jupiter?” Kat asked.

“Eight years,” I said. I nodded at Bridget. “We moved there from Miami when my daughter was a baby.”

“Miami to Jupiter. That’s a big change.”

“It was. But a good change. I wanted to take some time off work while my children were little. And then my husband got an excellent offer to join an architectural firm in West Palm, so it all seemed, well, serendipitous.”

This was the Facebook version of our life, the one we liked to put on display, in which we appeared smart and in control of our lives. It left out the grittier details, like the real reason I’d left my job. And how every time I thought about the career I had left behind—probably so far behind by now I would never be able to get back to it—the pain of failure still cut deeply. That although it was true Todd had gotten a decent job offer from S+K Architects in downtown West Palm Beach, the job was not all he’d initially hoped it would be. Eight years later, he still hadn’t made partner or even received the large bonuses they’d hinted at when they hired him. The Florida real estate market had rebounded somewhat since the 2008 crash, but it had never gotten back to where it was in the early 2000s. Anyway, the partners at S+K had an inflated sense of the sort of projects their firm attracted. Most of their work was residential, with a few small but decent office building contracts. No one was hiring them to design the airports or shopping malls or museums Todd had once dreamed of. We had reached our late thirties with our marriage and family intact, but with most of the hopes and dreams of our younger selves in tatters. Life had not turned out as either of us had expected.