Four

“Oh wonderful!” Rose beams delightedly from her end of our table. “A three-way split.”

Esmé arches a perfectly lined eyebrow. It’s still a little strange seeing her in makeup at all, let alone the full face she has on for the occasion. “Only you would be delighted by a disagreement on wine,” she says, shaking her head.

Rose refuses to be dampened. “Think of it less of a disagreement and more that we have full representation for the whites, reds and Rosés.” She says the last item with a grin and a saucy flip of her hair, which makes us all laugh.

The three of us are tucked into a table in the corner of the Northside Grille, dolled up to the nines. Not only is Esmé wearing makeup, she is wearing an adorable little black dress that displays the length of her legs to a ridiculously attractive degree, underscored by a pair of extremely strappy heeled sandals.

Rose is in a soft, slightly shimmery jumpsuit with fluttery bell sleeves and Docs. The jumpsuit’s also in black, which is not surprising as she describes her aesthetic as comfy goth witch-core.

I am not in black, unlike my companions. Upon Esmé’s warning that a “fancy dinner” was to be part of the agenda, I had packed a deep blue cold shoulder dress that I love and almost never get to wear.

“Blue suits you,” Esmé had said after seeing me in it. “Brings out your eyes.”

It had been a hilarious process getting ready. There was the disadvantage of three women needing to dress for an evening out with only one bathroom between us, but Rose had produced two lit vanity mirrors from some closet or another, allowing all three of us to do our faces without all crowding around the tiny bathroom mirror. (“Sor is a little short for the bathroom mirror anyway,” Esmé had said, which earned her a sharp elbow in the ribs.) Somehow, between the giggling, the makeup, the friendly roasting and the repeated calls for zipper assistance, we all managed to be ready and out the door to make our 6:30 reservation with time to spare.

We settle the wine debate by getting separate glasses. When they arrive, Esmé proposes a toast. “To old friends and new ones,” she says, solemnly clinking her glass against both of ours.

“Hear hear,” I say, taking a deep sip from my glass of cabernet sauvignon.

“Do you count as both an old friend and a new friend?” Rose says to Esmé, a dimple appearing in her cheek.

Esmé looks at Rose with a long-suffering sigh. “You ruined it.”

“Then I’ve done my job,” Rose retorts without remorse, before sipping her incredibly pink glass of wine and holding it up again. “To possible new starts?” she toasts, shooting me a warm grin.

“Oh great, does this mean I have to come up with one too?” I groan.

The side of Esmé’s mouth kicks up, but she doesn’t say anything to the contrary.

I swirl my glass a little bit, thinking. “To finding the calm before the inevitable storm,” I finally offer.

“Hear hear,” both Rose and Esmé say. We clink glasses again and drink.

Our server arrives with a covered basket for the table, and takes our appetizer order. When she disappears again, Rose eagerly flips back the napkin on the basket, finding a small assortment of rolls and tiny loaves of bread. “Ooh,” she breathes. “I can never decide what I want to start with. Maybe the rye? Or the pumpernickel?”

“Let me just rescue you from the whole grain now,” Esmé says as she fishes out a brown loaf topped with grainy chunks.

Rose chuckles. “Knew there was a reason I keep you around.” She offers me the basket. “Saoirse?”

“Wait. Bet I can still guess.” Esmé picks out a lovely looking brioche roll and places it on the saucer in front of me.

“Incorrect,” I say, then laugh as Esmé pouts. “I’m kidding, brioche it is.”

“Ass,” Esmé says with affection.

Rose is nibbling her tiny loaf with the delicacy of a picky squirrel as she looks through the menu. “Did you know that pumpernickel originally meant ‘goblin fart?'”

This catches Esmé mid-sip, and she coughs as wine goes down the wrong pipe. “I seriously can’t take you anywhere,” she laments.

“You wouldn’t have me any other way, sweetheart.”

“Probably true, but still, could you be a little bit less of a chaos elemental while we’re out?”

Rose smiles sweetly at Esmé before winking at me. “I will not.”

Esmé shoots me a “see what I have to put up with?” look.

“I don’t know why you’re both looking at me,” I say, arching an eyebrow. “I’m not getting in the middle of you two — don’t you even dare,” I say, seeing Rose’s eyes light up with pure mischief.

“What? I said nothing.”

“Your face said everything,” Esmé says with an exasperated smile.

“Mean mean mean. Not even letting me have the teensiest ‘that’s what she said.’ Why do you hate fun?” Rose pouts, but she can’t maintain it for long without giggling.

Esmé sighs. “Anyway.” She puts her menu down, folding it neatly in front of her. “I know what I’m getting.”

“Steak or salmon?” Rose grins.

Esmé rolls her eyes. “Neither,” she says primly. “I’m going to have the chicken cacciatore special.”

“Adventurous.”

“Well, that’s a departure,” I say at the same time.

Esmé scrunches her nose at me. “How would you know, hon, we haven’t been out to dinner together in what, seven or so years?”

“Is she wrong though?” Rose giggles.

Esmé drops her face into her hands, then snatches them away as she remembers her makeup. Fortunately, Rose had spritzed her with some sort of fancy industrial strength setting spray before we left, so she does no damage. “Gah. I hate not being able to touch myself.”

“You would think the pandemic would have broken you of touching your face anyway,” Rose says, fishing another small roll out of the basket.

“Surprised you didn’t go for the joke there,” I giggle.

“Low-hanging fruit.” Rose grins. “Sometimes I like to leave an opening for other people.”

Esmé opens her mouth, catches me glaring at her, and sheepishly shuts it, much to Rose’s apparent delight. “Did you always have such a powerfully withering glare or did that come with the 2 kids?”

“That’s… not new,” Esmé grumbles, blushing scarlet.

She is rescued by our server, who appears with a heaping plate of truffle fries, another of gorgozola garlic bread, and one more of flatbread quarters surrounding a ramekin of spinach and artichoke dip. “You ladies ready to order? Or… do you need a minute?” she amends, giving Esmé’s red face a dubious look.

“No, no, we’re ready,” Esmé says quickly and orders. Rose goes with a rare porterhouse with hasselback potatoes, and I get the tomato basil shrimp pasta.

“Excellent choices, ladies. More wine? Maybe some water for the table?” she says, looking at Esmé’s still-red face with concern.

Esmé turns on what I used to call her thousand kilowatt smile. “I’m all set on more wine, thank you, but water for the table sounds lovely,” she purrs.

“I- um. Sure, okay. Water.” The server, blushing herself at this point, flees.

Rose shakes her head. “Babe, stop flustering the waitstaff. Unless you’re planning to put your number on the check like you did last time.”

“You did what?” I shoot Esmé an incredulous look. Her face, which had almost attained its normal shade, flushes pink again.

“Oh yeah.” Rose drops her voice. “I swear to god, this one gets boobs and suddenly she becomes the Flirt Queen of the Valley.”

“Well.” I grin. “If that whole Thing a couple years ago about that vampire lady from Resident Evil is any indication, super tall gorgeous ladies are catnip for everyone.”

“Speaking of which!” Rose grins wickedly and pulls out her phone, bouncing excitedly in her chair as she flips through it.

“Oh, no,” Esmé murmurs, sliding down in her chair.

“This vampire lady?” Rose asks, turning her phone around, revealing Esmé dressed as the character in question. She’s nailed it, down to the white dress, gigantic hat, dead white makeup, lurid red lips and the disdainful sneer she’s aiming at the camera.

She looks hot.

I swallow hard. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

“Right? I think three people at the Halloween party we went to asked her to step on them.”

“Not seriously,” Esmé grumbles. “Well, maybe one seriously. The other two were our friends and clearly kidding.”

Rose rolls her eyes. “Keep telling yourself that, Ez.” She turns back to me. “You know that cliche where someone walks into a room and literally everyone stops talking? That happened. It was wild.”

Esmé sighs, her hand moving as if to cover her face again before she remembers and awkwardly puts it down. She covers it by snatching a handful of fries instead.

“Sweetheart, one of the consequences of being hot shit on toast is that I’m going to talk about you like you’re hot shit on toast. Something you’re clearly okay with until I call attention to it directly. Glare at me all your want,” she adds, unfazed by Esmé trying her best to manifest eyeball lasers. “You know I’m right.”

“She is,” I add, unhelpfully. “I mean you always were, really.”

“Thank you,” Esmé murmurs.

“So what happened with the person you left your number for?”

Esmé’s mouth twists a little, wryly. “Never called, so I don’t know.”

“Damn shame,” Rose says. “She was cute as hell. This one is too.”

I tilt my head at this. “Would you have been okay if she’d called?”

Rose shrugs. “I was the one who dared her to leave her number. Granted I wasn’t expecting you to actually do it,” she says to Esmé, who bows, complete with hand flourish. “I’d like to think I’d have been okay, but honestly it hasn’t really come up in any serious fashion yet. Granted this one’s forays into putting herself out there either fizzle into nothing or she gets all up in her own head and talks herself out of following up on the weaponized smolder she likes to deploy at random.”

I raise an eyebrow at Esmé, who also shrugs. “Sor, you know I’m terrible at making a first move. Flirting’s safer.”

“Indeed. What was it you told me? You couldn’t tell when someone was interested unless there were body parts being rubbed on you?”

She wilts further into her chair. “My face isn’t returning to a normal color tonight, is it,” she groans, picking up her wine and polishing off the remainder just as the admittedly adorable server returns with three waters and fresh wine glasses for me and Rose. She puts them all down carefully and bustles away, murmuring an assurance that our food is coming right out while not making eye contact.

“Probably not,” Rose cheerfully confirms. “It occurs to me suddenly that you now qualify as what we used to call a lesbian sheep back at Smith.”

It’s my turn to accidentally snort wine. “There’s a term I haven’t heard since I left the area,” I laugh in between coughs.

Esmé looks lost. “Lesbian sheep?”

Rose grins. “You wanna take this one or should I?”

I’m still coughing so I wave my hand at her, hopefully conveying she should explain.

“The way it was explained to me, and I can’t confirm if this is in any way accurate, is that rams indicate they’re down to clown by aggressively humping everything in sight.” To illustrate this, she puts her index fingers and middle fingers down on top of the table, walks one set over to the other, and playfully simulates humping.”With me so far?”

“Will you stop that?” Esmé says, looking genuinely scandalized.

“Seriously, this is not getting me to stop coughing,” I wheeze.

Rose obligingly stops, but makes the two pairs of “legs” stand next to each other, somehow managing to recreate awkwardly shuffling feet. “Ewes, by contrast, just kinda stand there and let the ram do all the work,” she continues. “So if you have two ewes interested in each other, well.” She turns her hands so the two pairs of legs face slightly away from each other. “Not much gonna happen if they just stand there… at each other.”

“Fucking hell,” Esmé groans.

“I’m not wrong,” Rose smirks, taking her hands off the table in time for our server to place her plated steak and potatoes down in front of her, followed by the rest of our food. “Thank you,” she says.

The server smiles, and I notice her quickly sneaking a glance at Esmé before telling us to enjoy and leaving, slightly less quickly.

It hasn’t escaped Rose either. “She might actually call you back,” she notes as she carves a sliver off of her perfectly rare steak.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, let me eat,” Esmé groans, stabbing a chunk of chicken on her plate.

“If I recall correctly, you were very very good at eating,” I murmur, winding my pasta around my fork.

“Damn right,” Rose concurs, before grinning wickedly. “I believe I have you to thank for that?”

Esmé puts her fork down. “I can’t with either of you,” she says. “I’m going to the restroom, which should say something if I’d rather do that instead of dealing with you two.”

“That probably would have a little more sting if the bathrooms here weren’t single stall and gender neutral,” Rose retorts, but she smiles apologetically up at Esmé as she gets up from the table. “Don’t be too long, your chicken’ll get cold.”

Esmé sighs, but drops a kiss on top of Rose’s head. “You’re impossible, and it’s the temperature of the sun anyway,” she notes before grabbing her clutch and marching towards the back of the restaurant, face still vermilion.

“Was that too much? Also is she gonna be okay back there?” I fret, watching her leave.

“She’ll be fine. Anyone here gives her a hard time, they’ll get tossed out by the staff right quick. Saw it happen once. I suspect that’s about when the huge trans flag got put up outside.” Rose grins, but there is the barest hint of sheepish to it. “We should probably dial back teasing her a bit though before she bursts a capillary.”

I chuckle.

“However while she’s gone,” Rose smile regains a wicked tinge behind her wine glass. “Esmé did say her, shall we say, cunnilinguistic skill set was thanks to you. Something something ‘very insistent I get it right’.”

“She sells herself short,” I grin. “I mean, she had a fair bit of raw talent to begin with. Also enthusiasm, which tends to make up for any gaps in technique.”

“Facts,” Rose says, holding her glass out until I clink mine against it. “I did tell her after the first time she’d gotten her face down there that I’d have to take you out to fancy dinner as a thank you for refining said technique.”

I laugh. “Oh, is that what this is?”

Rose grins and sips her wine, then briefly tips her chin up, her eyes focusing on the space behind me. “She’s coming back. Looks like her face has calmed down.”

Esmé indeed reclaims her seat, perching daintily on the edge of it before crossing her ankles. “I trust you two have gotten whatever possessed you out of your systems?” she asks. Her voice is exasperated, but her expression is more fondly amused.

“For now,” Rose polishes off her wine. “Think I’m ready to switch to rum and cherry cokes tho. Or maybe one of those hard ciders on tap. Something sweet and dangerous. I plan to get very silly since I don’t have to drive home.”

Esmé sighs and lays into her chicken.

---

When Esmé first told me about starting to date Rose, one of the many things she’d said about her was that when she made up her mind to commit fully to doing something, she doesn’t do it by half. Forty minutes and some more hilarious conversation later, Rose has a rather sizeable plate of chocolate mousse pie in front of her and she’s had enough cider that her cheeks and nose have a pink tinge. She’s ignoring the pie for the moment as she’s telling a story about a holiday with her parents and sisters when an ex of hers decided to bring a tofurkey to dinner and enthusiastically illustrating the story with her hands. Esmé is giggling quietly into her lemon sponge cake, and having also had quite a bit, I am having a little trouble keeping it together myself. The two tables next to us have given up any pretense of trying not to eavesdrop; the couple at one waiting for their dinner are absolutely riveted by the story, and several members of the large party of blonde sorority girls at the other have actively turned around in their chairs to listen.

This level of attention in a restaurant would have made me at least lower my voice, but Rose seems to be reveling in it as she deliberately pitches her voice up a bit so her extended audience can hear her. “So anyway, we suddenly hear a giant crash in the kitchen, and when Shel and I go to investigate, Jake” — Rose’s parents’ German shepherd, apparently —”is standing in the middle of the kitchen with the entire pan of tofurkey dragged onto the floor. Normally he’d be extremely pleased about this, as he’d pulled the same stunt a few Christmases ago with an entire ham, but he’s just staring down at the tofurkey with his head tilted looking extremely confused. He hadn’t even bitten into it. Like he’d sniff it and clearly think about it, but then yank his head back like it burned him. When we came in he looked up at us with this extremely judgemental look on his face. I have never seem a dog illustrate ‘excuse me, but what the fuck?’ so well.”

Esmé chuckles. “Probably wondering what the heck it even is. Smells like food, but the texture’s all off, or something. I don’t know, I don’t even know what tofurkey looks like.”

“Kinda like a large boneless ham with a big donut hole hollowed out of it for the stuffing. ” I put in. “I’ve seen it a lot in California.” I wrinkle my nose. “I’ve certainly eaten enough of it to be polite.”

“Yeah. So Sam and a few more people pop into the kitchen to investigate only to be glared accusingly at by the dog, who is offended.” Rose draws her head back and scrunches her face as if she’d just smelled something terrible. “While we’re all standing around he takes one extremely resentful bite of it before attempting to slink off. Have you ever seen a large dog attempt to disappear in front of a crowd? They can’t, but it’s funny to watch them try. And I swear, he stops and looks right at Sam, still with that ‘the fuck??’ look.” She grins. “What do you even call this abomination, human?” she finishes in a deeper voice.

“The Aristocrats,” I quip before stopping myself.

The eavesdropping couple breaks. It takes Rose a couple blinks before it hits her as well. Even a couple of the sorority girls giggle before turning back around.

Esmé shakes her head and smiles. “Finish your dessert,” she says to Rose. “If you keep entertaining the restaurant, they’re gonna have to pay you.”

“Oh I don’t know, think that might have been worth at least a free dessert?” Rose lays into her mousse pie, her eyes fluttering closed as she takes a bite. “Oh wow, this is good,” she sighs. “Just perfectly light and fluffy and chocolatey.”

“So what actually happened to the tofurkey?” I ask.

“Oh, it was floor and dog trash. It went right in the bin. Luckily Sam and I broke up shortly after that and he took his paleo cryptovegan superman bullshit with him.” She smiles, a glint of smugness in her eyes. “And guess who got and ate herself an entire pint of Ben and Jerry’s the same day he walked?”

“Hollywood Hulk Hogan,” Esmé suggests.

“Absolutely not.” Rose delicately hiccups, then pushes the plate with the final third of her pie still on it towards Esmé. “Think I’d better let my tummy settle before I put anything else in it,” she says with a sheepish grin.

Esmé not only helpfully puts away the final third of Rose’s mousse pie, but chases it with the bit of cheesecake I’m unable to finish. “Wusses,” she declares when the last forkful disappears.

“Oh come on, those desserts were freaking huge,” I protest. “Besides, I saw the prices on those. It’s more cost effective to keep most of it down rather than upchuck all of it.”

“Gross,” Rose wrinkles her nose. “But fair, I suppose.”

I shrug. “I’ve got two small boys with sensitive tummies. I had to stop being precious about vomit a while ago.”

“Also fair.” Esmé says. “Criticism withdrawn.”

“Speaking of which,” I stand up, gathering up my coat, telling the floor to stay put as the room sways a little. “I’m going to head into the foyer. I didn’t call the boys last night, so I had better tonight.”

Esmé raises an eyebrow. “You know it’s only about 5 there, right?”

I had indeed momentarily forgotten how time zones worked, but I wasn’t going to give Esmé the satisfaction of admitting it. “Mama’s setting a good example and calling before bedtime her time.”

“Nice save,” Rose’s smile is a little lopsided.

I bow. “I can do it after the check? Or you can let me know how much my third comes to and I’ll get you back.”

Rose shakes her head. “My treat, remember?” Her smile takes on a wicked tinge. “Goodness knows I continue to benefit from someone’s thorough training in down-under navigation.”

Esmé’s face goes deep red. “Rose,” she scolds.

Rose laughs. “Go call your kids, hon, we’ve got this.”

“Well, thank you then.” I smile at both of them before heading up front, passing our server on the way and noting the wash of pink in her cheeks. Could just be the restaurant is warm but I kinda doubt it. I also wonder if she’s going to end up with Esmé’s number.

There is a bench in the restaurant vestibule; I plop myself down on it before pulling out my phone.

The phone buzzes in my hand, and my screen lights up with a picture of May being kissed on both cheeks by her sons at her 40th anniversary party. It’s a delightful picture, and I smile ruefully as I answer the call. I’d have to apologize for lying to her later.

May is nowhere to be seen, instead the image on the screen pitches and yaws wildly until it resolves to two similar-looking towheaded faces cramming into the frame. They light up when they see me. “Mama!”

I smile. “Hey, tigers.”

Both of them immediately start babbling, fighting over who gets to talk first. Jas, being bigger, wins, gently hip checking his brother out of frame and insisting that I look at the tower he is building in the game, flipping the phone camera as he aims it at the giant TV in their grandparents’ living room. The screen is completely washed out, and all I can see is a vague blocky blob, but I compliment his work anyway.

“Let. Me. Talk,” Remi says off-screen, with all the imperiousness an outraged five year old can muster.

“Jas, put your brother on camera before he explodes.”

“Yeah, Jas,” Remi echoes. “Before I ‘splode like TNT. Kaboom!“

I giggle.

“But I’m showing Mama —”

“Jas. Save the game, I can see your tower better when I come home and you can give me a tour, okay? Even better, is this on our server?” Jas nods. “All right, I’ll log in tomorrow and check it out. I can’t really see the TV through the phone all that well anyway.”

Remi’s imperiousness is cute. Jas’s affronted second-grader groan is slightly less so. “Fine. Here, butthead, you talk to her.”

“I am NOT a butthead.” The screen wobbles, then the camera flips again, the screen suddenly filled with Remi’s indignant little face.

“Jas, don’t call your brother names. Apologize right now.”

I hear the most dramatic, world-weary sigh coming from off-screen. “I’m sorry I called you a butthead, I didn’t actually mean it.”

I bite my lip to keep from laughing. “Okay Rems, what do you want to tell me?”

Remi lights up, insult immediately forgotten. “Maymay went to the store today and lookit what she got me.” The camera tips down to reveal Remi’s little feet swallowed by a pair of plush T-rex heads. “Look what they do!”

He stamps a foot, and not only do the eyes on the slippers light up in red, an appropriate (if tinny) roaring emits from them. I’m genuinely impressed, and slightly envious. “That’s awesome, kiddo.”

“Wait, the other one does it, too.” Remi solemnly demonstrates with the other foot, and I dig my teeth into my lip even harder. He’s the quieter, more serious one of the two, and the earnestness with which he treats everything kills me some days. That degree of gravity just gets funnier the smaller the kid is, and thanks to my genes Remi is a smaller than average kindergartener.

“I love them, Rems. Be careful wearing them, okay? They’re okay for carpet, but I don’t want you slipping on the stairs at Maymay’s. Hold on to the rail or take them off, got it?”

Remi nods. “Okay.”

“All right, you two. It’s almost bedtime over here already so I wanted to call and say night night.”

Jas giggles as he comes back into frame behind Remi. “Mama, it’s not even dinnertime here yet. The sun’s still up.”

“I can see that. But look.” I flip my camera, aiming it out the glass doors of the restaurant. “See? Nighttime here.”

“Whoa,” Remi breathes, his eyes gone wide and round. “Mama, did you go to the future?“

That loses me the battle against laughing. “Not exactly. Well, kinda. Remind me to tell you all about time zones and planetary rotation when I get home. It’s a little hard to explain without a globe and a lamp.”

Jas makes a face. “That’s silly anyway. If I were going to the future, I’d go further than —” he squints and taps the screen a few times, probably either checking the phone clock or looking up what time it is here. “— three hours.”

“Well, grown-ups are boring. We can only go a little bit into the future.”

I look up as Esmé appears, shrugging into her trench coat. She clearly caught the last thing I said, as there is a wry, bemused smile on her face. “I gotta go. I miss you so much. Be good for Maymay, you hear me?”

“Yes, Mama,” both of them say, doing their best to look angelic and mostly succeeding.

There’s an off-screen chuckle, then I hear May’s voice from somewhere else in the same room. “They’ve been very well-behaved, no worries.”

“Good, good. Keep it up.” I smile wistfully at the screen, then blow kisses to both boys. “Love you. Good night.”

“Byeeeeee,” two small voices chorus before my screen goes dark.

“They sound adorable.” Esmé says softly.

“They are. Too cute for their own good sometimes.” I put down the phone, swallowing hard, before shaking off whatever dark mood threatens to descend and putting on my jacket. “We all set? Where’s Rose?”

“Bathroom, and yeah.” She pauses. “You told them you went to the future?”

“From a certain point of view, I did.” I sigh, dropping my phone into my purse, then aim a wistful smile up at Esmé. “Nice thing about youngsters? They’re easy to impress.”

“I can see that.” Esmé offers me both her hands, and I take them, letting her pull me to my feet. “Wanna get out of here? We can wait for Rose outside.”

“Yes, please.”