Page 11 of The Favorite Sister

“FDR was a mess,” I tell her, even though it wasn’t. Late is just another outside chair. Late is a muscle, flexing.

The waiter appears, one arm folded behind his back.

“The Monfalletto Barolo,” Lauren says, before he can greet us.

“Excellent choice,” he says, giving Lauren a little bow. She appraises his backside as he walks away.

“He’s not even cute,” Jen complains. Her brown eyes don’t narrow, they justarenarrow.Jen looks like the angry stepsister of a Disney princess, a TV critic once described her perfectly on Twitter.

“I don’t like the cute ones.” Lauren closes her lips around the toothpick in her drink, removing an olive with her front teeth. “You don’t have to worry aboutmearound your husband, Steph.”

“Nice,” Jen quips.

Lauren’s mouth pops open. “I said Vince istoogood-looking for me. It’s a compliment!” She reassures me, the tiniest bit of fear in her eyes. “It’s acompliment.”

I don’t smile but I do make a joke. “Where’s the option onSADIE for women who like uggos?” Lauren is the creator butno longerthe CEO of a dating website that is, depending on whom you’re speaking to, a bold challenge to the status quo or a rich girl’s vanity project. If you are told the latter, you’re speaking to Brett.

A clever phrase materializes. “Hots and nots,” I suggest, feeling funny when Lauren’s boisterous laugh stops the conversation at the table next to us. Funny was always Brett’s thing. Now, all it takes is the palest attempt at humor, a small miracle given the fact that I was at the end of the couch at the last reunion.

The waiter returns, holding three gorgeous air-blown wineglasses. I do not stop him before he can place one in front of me, and Lauren notices, elated. “She’s drinking!” she exclaims to Jen, with the momentous pride of a lesser woman who has just called up her family members to share thatthe baby is walking, something every baby ever has done since the dawn of time. I don’t drink much or like children. I have my reasons for both.

“Unlike you,” Jen says crisply to Lauren, “she has something to celebrate.”

That was not said with love, but Lauren giggles anyway.

The server appears again, splashing Lauren’s glass with a taste of the wine. He places the cork next to her fork for her consideration, a little blood-bottomed thumb.

“Excellent,” Lauren concludes, tossing the whole thing back without really seeming to taste it.

“That’s about all I can handle,” I tell the server with self-effacing cheer midway through his pour. He rights the bottle and wipes its neck with a white dinner napkin.

“To season four,” Lauren says, raising a glass. “And to the Oscar-Nominated Female fucking Director.”

“Keep your voice down, crazy woman,” I say, clinking Jen’s glass lightly and waiting for someone to wag their finger at me, only no one does. Rule number two ofGoal Diggers of New York City, no one is ever nuts, batshit, insane, sensitive, or emotional. No one overreacts. “Crazy” and its derivatives are words that have been used toshame women into compliance for centuries. The outside chair and a Chinese ducket on the word “crazy.” Toto, I’m not at the end of the reunion couch anymore, which is where they stick you right before they fire you.

I make eye contact with Jen first, then Lauren. “I just need to say something.”

“Speech.” Lauren thumps a fist on the table. “Speech.”

“No, seriously,” I say, not laughing, and the smile vanishes from Lauren’s face in a swift show of obedience. I rest my hands flat on the table, taking a moment to gather my thoughts. “I need to say that I’m indelibly touched by your support. Especially because I know the three of us have never been particularly close.” My expression is full of remorse.I let Brett turn me against you, and I see the error of my allegiance now—forgive me.“The last few months have been equal parts exhausting and exhilarating. I never thought I would open up about my past in this way, and I continue to be surprised not only by the people who have shown up for me, but by those who have not.”

I pause, and that’s when I notice that Jen’s nails are painted. Jen’s nails are painted and she has traded her heavy-framed Moscot Mensch glasses for contacts and very possibly, Jen has gotten a boob job. The sexier styling seems an obvious message to the person who broke her heart last season:This is what you’re missing. We have no idea who he is, if he evenisa he. Jen refused to get into details at the reunion, telling us only that there had been someone “special” in the picture but insisting that it had ended, amicably, with agonized tears in her small eyes. In the three years I’ve known her, Jen has been notoriously tight-lipped about her love life, which infuriates Brett, perennial oversharer. But I always thought it wasn’t so much Jen holding back as Jen not having much to tell. I have wondered, more than a few times, if Jen might have been a virgin before this “special” person came along. There is something about her that is inherently untouchable but prepared to be, in case anyone comes along who is up to the task. The gruffness is an obvious defense mechanism, allowing her to reject you first.

Of course, the viewers would be surprised to hear me describe our resident earth goddess as gruff. Jen presents much differently on camera, speaking in spiritual platitudes and extolling the virtues of veganism and plant-based alchemy, a lifestyle that has turned into her livelihood. Packets of super-herbs and adaptogens sell for seventeen dollars in her downtown juice bars that are frequent props in the Instagram stories of Gwyneth Paltrow and Busy Philipps. Last year, she opened a vegan restaurant on the corner of Broome and Orchard that has so many beautiful people willing to wait an hour for her air-baked sweet potato fries that plans are in the works to open locations on the Upper West Side and in Venice, for a cookbook and a national delivery service. No matter, her mother wishes she were more like Brett.

Laurentsks. “I cannot believe Brett still hasn’t reached out to you.”

Jen shoots me a look.

“What?” Lauren asks, noticing. Jen gets very busy, straightening her silverware and ignoring the question. “What?” Lauren repeats.

“I have not heard from Brett,” I say. “But I spoke to Lisa recently.” I exhale, like what I’m about to say won’t be easy for her to hear. “She told me they’re going in a different direction with the newDigger.”

“Okay... and?” Lauren looks as if there is a weight attached to her jaw, pulling everything in her expression down, down.

“They’re bringing in Brett’s sister and her niece to replace Hayley.”

Lauren looks like she might short-circuit. “Brett’s sisterandBrett’s niece?”