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and whose turn it was to take the car for a tune-up.
    “Are you depressed?” Reese asked her the week before. “I did some research. I think you’re suffering from some sort of post-collegiate pardum.”
    “You just made that up.”
    “It sounds pretty real though, doesn’t it?” When Wendy didn’t text back, she added, “P.S. That was my way of inviting you to visit this weekend.”
    Wendy wasn’t depressed, exactly. But then again, maybe she was. Did depressed people realize they were depressed? In any case, she was more focused than depressed. She would be a painter. She would set up an online shop one day, and hopefully, own a gallery. That was the dream. For now, there wasn’t room for anything else.
    Vivian opened the door wearing an apron. An apron . With white ruffles and a cherry print.
    “Dear God,” Wendy said, dumping her bags at the door of the Pinterest-perfect apartment.
    “I’m so glad you’re here,” Viv said. “I’ve got so many plans.”
    Plans were things that adults made. In college, you never caught anyone making plans about anything. What are you doing this weekend? Whatever the hell everybody else is doing.
    “Thanks for letting me stay,” Wendy said, slipping off her jacket. “Peer interaction is long overdue.”
    “Oh, what’s that?” Viv said, pointing to Wendy’s face.
    “What?” Hands to cheeks.
    Vivian laughed. “Thought I saw a wrinkle.”
    “Ha. Ha. You’re hilarious. Where’s the wine?”
    “Chilling,” Viv said, taking her bags and neatly placing them in the hall closet. “Reese and Ben should be here in about twenty minutes. Make yourself comfortable.”
    Wendy went to sit on the couch. Around Vivian’s apartment, there were DIY canvases in gold and peach paint. There was a bookshelf with color-coded shelves. Every cord was masked from sight and the whole space smelled like freshly cut flowers. This was how interior designers lived, no detail unturned.
    “Vivian Kate Delano,” Wendy said, pointing at the coffee table. “Is that a cheese plate? ”
    Vivian floated to the seat beside her. “Yes, I’m trying to be domestic.”
    “Domestic. Wifely. Adultish.”
    “Exactly. Am I pulling it off?”
    “Hmm, let’s see,” Wendy said. “Do you own salad forks?”
    “Yes,” Vivian nodded.
    “Those doily things?”
    “Yes!”
    “How’s your knitting?”
    “Oh, I can do that, I think,” Vivian said, biting at the edge of her lip.
    “Yeah, you’re not a wife,” Wendy said. “You’re a grandmother.”
    Vivian sank into the cushion and sighed. “Hilarious.”
    “So, what are these great plans of yours?” Wendy asked, smearing brie onto a cracker.
    “Dinner at Oak Room. Free drinks at Rucker’s. Then cab it back here to pass out.”
    “Well look at you,” Wendy said. “Not so grandma after all.”
    After half a cheese plate, Wendy kicked off her shoes and tucked her feet between the couch cushions. They swapped war stories of work: Vivian with her snobby, power-tripping coworkers and Wendy with her scatter-brained superior.
    Things had shifted since they all started working. Reese spent her days wearing suits at the accounting firm; Vivian was always nose-deep in paint samples. All of Wendy’s best friends’ stories involved people she didn’t even know, and it seemed that their lives were heading in three separate directions.
    And Vivian was getting married.
    “Where are they?” Wendy asked, after two chatty hours.
    “I’m not sure. They were supposed to be here by now.”
    “Text them.”
    Vivian checked her phone. “Shoot. It wasn’t on vibrate.”
    She read the message, eyes skimming back and forth over the screen.
    “What’s up?” Wendy asked.
    “Reese isn’t feeling good. Says she’s got a cold or something.”
    Wendy sat up. “Tell her to take a pill and get her ass over here.”
    Vivian raised her eyebrows. “You really think that’s going to work?”
    “God, Reese,” Wendy huffed, grabbing a perfectly fluffed