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I got the skinny on Cammie and Dante last night. Dante's been cold to me all week, his irritation over Nicole's affair being taken out on me for some ridiculous reason. And Cammie's been avoiding me at every turn, which, BTW, takes serious effort when we live in the same 900 square feet. Last night I parked myself in front of the door, whipped out my Kindle and settled in. Didn't move, didn't take a bathroom break, just waited. At 11, I turned out all the lights, in case she was watching from the street. And finally, at 11:30, the front door creaked open. Slowly. Cautiously. I set my Kindle down and watched. Too bad I didn't have popcorn.
One bare foot snuck in, then her torso appeared, her heels in hand, her sneaking into the apartment interrupted when I spoke. "I'm up."
I've heard Cammie scream twice in our four-year friendship. Once was when we rented Blair Witch Project and had a midnight screening three Halloweens ago. The second was when a cockroach ran across her ankle when we were at a dive bar in Williamsburg. This scream had to have woken up half the building. It was long and loud and way overkill. I reached up and flipped on the light. Her scream died. "What are you doing sitting here in the dark?" she gasped.
"Waiting on you. We need to chat."
I saw the panic in her eyes as they darted to the kitchen, to the clock, to the bathroom. Her mouth opened, an excuse on those lips.
"Zip it, woman. Just tell me." I walked to the freezer and pulled at the door. Grabbed the chilled bottle of Patron and set it on the counter. Pulled two shot glasses out of the dish rack and set them next to it. "Here."
Her eyes dropped to the bottle, then darted right, to my pillow on the floor and the discarded Kindle. Her shoulders dropped and she let go of her heels, them thudding when they hit the floor. "This smells like an ambush."
"Damn right it is. I want my best friend back." I poured us each a shot and straddled a stool, pushing hers forward.
"I have to be up early," she grumbled, then threw back the shot. I followed suit.
"No chasers?" she groaned, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand with a shudder.
"Talk." I ordered, pouring us a second round.
Yeah, I was being all white-girl gangster on her. But it worked. She sat, she drank, she talked. About the guy she works with. Some executive-type whom she got too friendly with. About the client dinner that was followed by drinks at the club where they danced. Where they kissed. Where they got drunk on Champagne and she brought him back here. Where they didn't seal the deal but did just about everything else. My heart sank the more she spoke because I know she likes Dante. Like, really, really likes Dante. Might love him. And he's the best guy she's ever dated. Granted, he's a driver — he's not loaded with cash, and he works horrible hours, and he'll never drown her in diamonds and vacations. But the guy is hot. And sweet. And loyal. He's what she needs.
I know what she should do, which is to tell him everything that happened and promise that she will never lie to him again. But I also know, especially after his reaction about Nicole, what will happen if she comes clean. Dante will walk. It won't matter if he loves her or not. I can say, with absolutely certainty, that he'll leave.
When she cried, I hugged her. I hugged her tightly and listened to everything she had to say. I wrapped my arms around her and wondered how many more times she'd stumble. How many more times she'd cheat. I've been through this so many times with her. But this is the first time I cared about the guy she did it to. The first time I worried about her relationship's outcome. And when she pulled away, wiping under her eyes, her mascara everywhere, I flinched when she asked the question that I knew was coming.
"Do you think I should tell him?"
I met her tear-filled eyes and struggled with the answer.
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