Page 95 of Someone Just Like You

Esther, who sat next to me on a wicker loveseat, used her hand to shield her face from the sun. “Jerry brings out the little boy in him.”

I chuckled. “So true.” It was a warm Sunday in June, and Esther and Jerry had come over from the city to our house for the day. The guys’ idea of unwinding was running around the backyard with the kids, getting their heart rates up, while Esther and I took the opportunity to chill on the patio, nursing glasses of wine and catching up. “I should be glad he hasn’t tried to set up a basketball net in the living room.”

The men joined us on the pair of matching oversize wicker chairs situated on either side of the sofa while the kids played quietly in the makeshift sandbox we’d set up on the lawn with a senior Yogi as their dozing guard dog.

Jerry removed a beer from the cooler and clinked it against Jude’s. “This is the life.”

I sighed contentedly in agreement. The three-bedroom ranch-style house where Jude and I lived with our five-year-old son, Billy, in Teaneck, New Jersey, was small, but the covered patio and huge, fenced-in backyard sealed the decision for us, making it the go-to destination for barbeques with our friends. Once it was safer for children, we’d build a pool, something all the Blum and Stark siblings had wanted growing up but never had.

Jerry and Esther didn’t believe in marriage but were fully committed to each other and still lived in the city with their four-year-old daughter, Lucy.

“I don’t wanna go to work tomorrow!” But for the British accent, I might have mistaken Esther’s petulant whine for Lucy’s.

“Not much is guaranteed, but you can always count on the Sunday night blues.” I plucked a tortilla chip from the bowl on the tile-topped wicker coffee table. I’d go inside soon to refill the salsa and guac. The cheese plate was also getting a little melty.

“Don’t listen to Molly. She loves her job.”

My lips spread into a smile. My husband spoke the truth. The third time had been the charm after all. Over the last eight years at Ceiling Crashers, I’d taken on the bulk of the counseling while Rosaria focused more on the business end. I commuted to the city twice a week to meet face-to-face with Rosaria and local clients. The rest of the time, I worked remotely from home and had virtual sessions with our members from outside of the area. Helping them turn their skills, interests, and passions into viable, lucrative careers, from personal shopping and fundraising to professional house staging and more, fulfilled me in a way recruiting never had.

Jerry pointed at Jude. “Like you’re one to talk.”

“True, true, true.” Jude grinned and took a pull from his beer.

I patted his knee. Jude’s pub, aptly named Jude’s, had opened three years earlier and was located in the town of Montvale, less than twenty minutes from our house. Jude’s, whose tagline was “We Make It Better,” was a laid-back, no-pretenses restaurant-tavern serving five-star food that had received accolades from food critics atNew Jersey Monthly,Jersey Bites, and theBergen Recordas well as from diners on Yelp, Foursquare, Tripadvisor, and more. Because his schedule was flexible, Jude was able to stay home with Billy on the days I went into the city.

“You can all feck off because I’m the only one whose job actually feels like work.” Esther turned to Jerry. “When are you and Alex going to come up with a billion-dollar app so I can quit editing dry medical journals?”

Jerry kissed her cheek. “Any day now, your highness. Any day now.”

I watched them affectionately, loving that Jerry still looked at my best friend with googly eyes. Their dynamic was so different, at least outwardly, from mine and Jude’s, which hadn’t changed much over the years either. We still mocked each other endlessly, and while the pranks had ceased, small competitions were a part of our everyday life—our son’s first word was “Mama,” but he took his first step into Jude’s waiting arms—something Jude reminded me of often. But it was no longer about who won or lost, but how we played the game. And we were compatible playmates. Most important, our relationship occurred against a backdrop of safety, passion, and trust beyond my wildest dreams. And, of course, all four grandparents got along splendidly. My parents never reunited, but they were both happy in new partnerships and enjoying retirement.

Life is good.I watched Billy and Lucy playing in the sandbox, so fortunate my best friend fell in love with Jude’s best friend and we had our first baby around the same time. With any luck, they’d be, as Esther so charmingly referred to it, “mates” for life.

Just then, the children’s voices increased in volume. I sat up straight and put down my wineglass.

A red-faced Lucy stood and pointed a pudgy finger at Billy. “Where is it?”

Billy looked up from the sandbox. “I don’t know where your dumb doll is, Lucy Goosey,” he said calmly before returning his focus to his sandcastle.

While the adults looked on, not wanting to intervene unless absolutely necessary, Lucy’s eyes shot arrows at Billy’s head he didn’t see before she took a running leap toward the sandbox and kicked Billy’s tower to the ground.

While Billy remained frozen in apparent shock, Lucy plucked the doll, now in full view, from the pile of sand and yelled, “Liar!”

Billy moved slowly, like a snake waking up from a nap. He stood, grabbed the heavy-duty water pistol either Jude or Jerry had left on the grass, and aimed it straight at Lucy.

Lucy, holding her doll tightly to her torso, stepped back.

Billy pressed the nozzle.

Lucy used her doll to shield her face from the force of the water and screamed, “Stop it!” before slipping butt-first onto the grass.

Esther bolted up and rushed over to her daughter.

Jude stood. “Billy!”

Our son dropped the water gun, turned to us, and rounded his large hazel eyes as if just realizing we were there.

“Apologize to Lucy right now!” his father demanded.

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