Page 20 of Friend Zoned

She grabs two bottles of water and hands me one. I make sure my finger touches hers. She moves so fast that I know she must be affected by my touch. She stares into my eyes, and I hold her gaze.

“We’re friends, right?” Friends. She wants to put me in the friend zone. I’ll retreat there for now if it will get her to open up.

“Sure,” I tell her. “Of course, we are.”

She points to a chair in the kitchen, and I sit. I watch, transfixed while she pours oil into a pan. “We met in college and had been together since I was twenty-one. We were married for three years.” She cringes at that. “He cheated on me with my friend.” I can feel my eyes bug out of my head. “Cliché, right? The friend whose shoulder I would cry on about the state of my marriage. She’s pregnant now. You want to know how I know?”

“Do tell.”

“He came to my job to tell me. He pretended he was there to soften the blow in case I run into them or hear it from someone else. Then, last week, he called to book a room at the hotel for her baby shower.”

I furrow my brows. I’m around nothing but men in my line of work. I know them. I know how they think. This doesn’t sound like a man who is over this woman. This man sounds petty and too arrogant to admit he screwed up.

“Sounds like he’s going out of his way to hurt you.” More like to get her attention. He’s doing a version of what Chastain said. He’s constantly getting in her space.

“Exactly. Only he can’t because I have no feelings left for him. I don’t even hate him. He just irritates me. Anyway, I was going to request vacation to avoid the shower, but I changed my mind. I don’t want to use any of my personal time in the middle of February. Most importantly, I don’t care. If he thinks this will bother me, he’s going to be disappointed. It’s like the less reaction I have, the more he tries to stick it to me. I don’t get it. Anyway, the cheating was only a symptom of our real problems.”

She starts to fill a serving bowl with rice, and another with chicken. My stomach growls. I can’t remember the last time a woman cooked me dinner.

“How is cheating only a symptom?”

“He thinks he’s better than me,” she says with her back to me. “He’s always looked down at me. His father worked on Wall Street, and I’m a child of first-generation immigrants. It took me years to figure out that he sees me as less than. He believed that I should have been happy to catch a guy like him. Like I married up, and he was slumming, and I should be honored to be with someone like him. He told me that in an argument once. He felt like he was owed forgiveness because he’s such a good catch, and I’m just mediocre. The fucking audacity of that guy.”

As I sip my water, I admire her backside. I watch, transfixed as she pulls out a small knife and slices the thick skin of a green thing. I assume that’s a plantain. She peels two in seconds and then grabs a yellow one. That one is much easier to peel. It’s more like a banana.

After slicing the first two, she puts them in the hot oil. I typically avoid fried food, but I’ll eat whatever she serves me tonight.

“He’s just taken so much from me, you know,” she says. “Camille, that’s his pregnant girlfriend.”

“Your former friend.”

“Right, but we were a trio. Me, Camille, and our other friend Leah. We were all in the hospitality program together at SUNY. That’s how we met. Turns out, Leah knew and never told me.”

I start to cough at that admission. She nods somberly.

“How did you find out about that?” I ask.

“I’ll give you one guess.”

“Quintin.”

“Bingo.” She grabs a wooden spoon and moves something around in the pan. “He told me Leah knew, and when I confronted my friend, she went on the defensive. She said it’s not her responsibility to fix my marriage. That was like a punch in the gut. I was already going through this divorce, and then I lose not one but both of my closest friends. It all sounds so messy, and I’ve never been messy. I’m kind of ashamed of the whole thing.”

I rise from the chair and go stand next to her. She’s on autopilot as she scoops out the food and puts it in a bowl lined with paper towels. Then she grabs this wooden contraption and squishes them. Right now, I’d like to put her ex-husband’s head in that thing.

“I don’t think you’re messy. Your friends and asshole ex are messy. What did you do wrong?” I ask her.

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing, and it took me a while to realize that. I still blamed myself. Maybe if I was a better wife. If I did certain things. Did I take him for granted? Things like that. Then the shame started. I felt so embarrassed by his actions when I had no control over them. I went from blaming myself to shame to the worst thing of all. I started to feel like a victim. No fucking way am I a victim.” She points the wooden thing at me, and I hold both hands up.

“No fucking way are you a victim.” She nods in agreement and I pick up one of the books from the table. “I guess this explains what you were reading at the wedding. And your choice of clothes.” She chuckles at that.

“I was protesting because I didn’t want to go. My mom pulled the mom card. She reminded me that she carried me for nine months and was in labor with me for twenty-seven hours.” She rolls her eyes to the ceiling. “Anyway, I’ve read about a dozen self-help books. I learned quite a bit. My first thought after finding out about Quintin’s deception was to never let another man in my life again. Like if you’re a man, don’t look at me, approach me, or talk to me.”

“That’s a bit extreme,” I say before I can think better of it.

She nods in agreement and says, “Then, he’d win, right? And why should I blame all men for the actions of one?”

“Right,” I agree quickly.

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