I'm So Happy for You by Lucinda Rosenfeld Read Free Book Online Page A

otherwise, if only because she couldn’t bear
     to admit what had happened with Boaz.
    Looking back, it seemed to Wendy that as needy as Daphne frequently acted, she’d always had a way, however unwittingly, of
     making Wendy feel even needier.
    But that’s ancient history,
Wendy reminded herself on her way out of the 9th Street station in Brooklyn. It wasn’t Daphne’s fault that some rich Venezuelan
     in college had made Wendy insecure about her looks and personality. It didn’t matter, either. Wendy felt ashamed and embarrassed
     that she even
remembered
minor incidents from her late adolescence. Daphne probably had no recollection of who Boaz Heidelberg was, never mind Eduard
     de Hurtado. (Wendy was the type of person who remembered the name of every kid in her fourth-grade class.)
    And when she thought about how much had changed in the fifteen years since that night! In her twenties, Wendy had worked hard
     to create her own identity and life apart from Daphne. Then, one day, she’d woken to find their positions seemingly reversed:
     Wendy’s name published on a masthead for all the world to see, her bed and home full, while Daphne was anonymous, alone. Or
     at least most of the time she was. A homeless man, his beard caked with dirt, sat slumped in the stairwell that led to the
     street, muttering to himself.
Daphne isn’t in that bad shape,
Wendy thought as she passed him. Yet there were few traces of Daphne’s former glory—her free apartment, her fading beauty,
     a married guy who stopped by once a month when he happened to be in town.
    Wendy, on the other hand, had a husband and a career. She had peace of mind, too. And if she’d never been a great beauty like
     Daphne—had always wished she were taller, had never liked her nose, had the typical complaints about her thighs—she’d reached
     a truce of sorts with her flaws. She was also proud of her long, thick brown hair.
I should feel sorry for Daphne,
Wendy thought. And she did. She also thought of the wonderful times they’d had together: their backpacking trip through Belgium
     after college, their “summer shares” in Fire Island (their last summer, Wendy had had to pry a deer tick off Daphne’s leg—and
     had somehow enjoyed it), the countless alcohol-fueled confessions they’d traded at bars and restaurants and on each other’s
     sofas over the years.
    Even so, Wendy needed a break from Daphne’s problems. She didn’t even want to say her name out loud for a few days. Which
     was why, later that evening, back home in Brooklyn, Wendy told Adam she’d met up with Maura for a drink after work. (She knew
     he’d only ask her what she was doing at Daphne’s place, then imply it had been Wendy’s fault for showing up.)
    “How’s my Lady of Perpetual Graduate Student–dom?” he said.
    “Oh, you know, toiling away,” said Wendy, amazed at the facility with which she’d always been able to lie to her husband.
     “She’s on some kind of cleansing grapefruit diet, so she didn’t even drink.” (Had that last detail really been necessary?)
    And the next day at work, when an email arrived from Daphne, Wendy waited to open it until she’d finally finished editing
     Leslie Fletcher’s Medicare screed. And when she did so, she performed a quick scan rather than conduct a careful exegesis,
     which would have been her normal inclination. It said:
So sorry for worrying… good friend… I know I’m pathetic… Obviously, I need help… I don’t expect you to listen… Asking for
     your patience… Sorry again… Your friend, Daf.
    Fearing that not answering might be interpreted as a form of escalation—and also secretly eager to assert her superiority
     and indifference—Wendy wrote back, “D, It’s fine. Let’s talk later, W.”
    That’s some sort of progress,
she thought.
    But by the following Sunday, Wendy’s resolve to put distance between herself and Daphne had begun to falter. She woke that
     morning to find that she had