the store and head for the swimsuit department, I debrief her on all my news. I am happily distracted with my own tales of woe, wondering when the right moment to discuss hers will come. Her reactions come intermittently as we poke through racks of suits.
“What are we looking for exactly?” I finally ask.
“I need a swimsuit that has a little more coverage than what I usually wear. Nothing too expensive though.”
“Easier said than done,” I comment, peering around.
“I know, seriously,” she agrees, holding up a string bikini that hardly uses enough material to cost over a hundred dollars.
“Why do you need a new swimsuit with more coverage?” I ask.
“When I’m around Mike’s kids, I don’t want everything on display, you know?”
I shrug at her. Kids aren’t really my area of expertise.
“I’m going to try this one,” she says, holding up a solid black tankini suit.
A few minutes later I hear Katie call my name from the dressing room. I enter the narrow space lined with tiny rooms and lit by buzzing fluorescents. Katie’s head pokes out from behind one of the dressing room doors. She holds the swimsuit out to me. “Can you see if they have this one in the next size up?”
“Is this one your usual size?”
She nods her as her brow furrows.
I come back with the larger size, hand it to her, and decide to lean against the wall and wait in case she needs me again.
“This one is much better,” she declares from the other side of the door. I wait while she changes out of the swimsuit and purchases it.
“All set,” she says, walking toward me with her red shopping bag. “Do you need anything, or should we go to lunch?”
“I vote for lunch.”
“Where would you like to go?” she asks, glancing back at me over her shoulder. “And don’t say the food court.”
We settle on a bar and grill restaurant just down the road from the mall. The dining room is barely half full. Dark wood paneling on the walls and brown hardwood floors give the place a cave-like feel. We decide on salads for lunch. It’s too warm out for hot food.
I decide to start by trying to feel her out a bit. She’s in a strange, distant kind of mood. “Did you enact the plan to let Mike pick the wedding date?” I finally ask.
She nods, taking a sip of her ice water.
“Really?” I reply, surprised she didn’t bring it up right away. “What happened?”
“Nothing.” She shrugs one shoulder. “He thanked me for understanding and told me he would get back to me on it.”
“And?”
“And he hasn’t yet.”
“Did you give him a deadline?”
She shakes her head.
“Wasn’t that part of the plan? The most crucial part?”
“I don’t want to give him a deadline.” Katie takes a deep breath and peers around the room before her eyes come to rest on mine. “I think I’ve been too pushy about setting a date. His first marriage didn’t go so well. I need to be more understanding if he’s having trouble with the idea of getting married again.”
“He’s the one who asked you to marry him.”
“I know. But being engaged is one thing. Actually making it legal is another.”
“You’re divorced, too. Are you scared of getting married again?”
“Of course. I don’t want to let it stop me. But I’m scared.”
I nod, trailing my finger through the condensation on my water glass, trying to form my next sentences carefully. Our salads appear then, and I busy myself with pouring on dressing and cutting up lettuce. I’m tempted to abort the plan to tell her about Mike and Bryn. I consider and then reconsider while I cut my romaine lettuce into smaller and smaller pieces. I keep coming back to one thought. How can I call myself a good friend and keep this a secret? If I were her, I would never forgive me.
I look over at Katie as she forks a crouton into her mouth. “I need to ask you a question” I begin.
“Okay,” she says, eyeing me curiously.
“If I were dating someone and you knew something about him, something bad, something that you knew would upset me, would you tell me?”
She stares at me, her fork hovering over her plate. “Something like what?”
Despite having thought this out all through my sleepless night, I hesitate now, not sure how to describe what Mike has done. It’s breach of trust, surely, but much more, too.
“Something like what, Andy?” she asks, apprehensive now.
Making this a hypothetical is a