MWF Seeking BFF by Rachel Bertsche Read Free Book Online Page B

cookie exchange and accepting invitations—interacting—is part of the process. So tomorrow I’m expected at a party, as are three-dozen homemade cookies. Since 1) Mandelbrot are the only cookies I know how to make, 2) I’m fairly certain no one else will bring them, and 3) each one is small enough that thirty-six doesn’t seem like such an undertaking, I am breaking my own vow and baking his beloved dessert. On a Friday night.
    I want to believe that this cookie exchange could present me with my new best friend forever, but I don’t. The next day, standing outside my apartment, holding two Lululemon bags full of my mother-in-law’s specialty, I feel like a phony. Cookie exchanges are more her speed; I’m a
Law & Order: SVU
—marathon kind of girl.
    This isn’t what friend-making should be. I need to be true to myself, not some super-smiley dessert-wielding chipper versionof myself, which is probably expected of someone at a cookie exchange. But “being true to myself” is perhaps just a self-indulgent way of saying “hiding in my comfort zone,” so when Natalie’s car pulls up to my apartment, I’m all grins.
    We enter the home of the cookie master. It’s like a cozy winter wonderland. The entire downstairs, made up of a dining room, kitchen, living room, and enclosed back porch, looks like something out of a Martha Stewart magazine. The cookie table displays beautiful treats—frosted sugar cookies, giant peanut butter bars, and oversize classics like chocolate chip and oatmeal raisin. My own offering looks dinky in comparison.
    The affair is filled with grown-ups. The 38-year-old host’s parents are here. Her in-laws are here. There’s a small gathering of grandmothers in a corner admiring the desserts. There’s a fire burning in the back room and an itty-bitty baby asleep on the couch. The kitchen has two pots of heavenly smelling soup, phyllo dough appetizers, and a champagne-spiked punch. The soundtrack is set to classical music. I had pictured a loud gathering of 20- and 30-something women laughing, gossiping and eating, but this party has more of an afternoon tea vibe. It’s the single most refined event I’ve ever attended socially. That doesn’t automatically disqualify it from being the bearer of best friends, but, looking around, I’m not hopeful. Unless there’s someone else who showed up and was caught totally off guard. I stand in the corner downing my punch as I scan the room for such a girl. She’s not here.
    If this were an evening event there might be more mingling, but at noon on a Saturday this party is more of a family affair than a friend one. Considering I don’t even know the host, I wonder if everyone in the room is thinking, “Who the hell is
that
girl?”
    When Natalie first told me about the exchange she explainedit as “such a fun girl thing,” but she and Anne are sitting in a corner by themselves. I settle in next to them. Rather than making new friendships, I’ll use the party to keep building these two.
    A few hours later, my Lululemon bag is full again (the guests think it’s hilarious that the rookie didn’t know to bring Tupperware), this time with a variety of cookie flavors. I’ve met and actually talked to only Melanie, who lives in Wisconsin but comes to Chicago some weekends. Not BFF-qualified. It’s time to get out of here, and I feel perfectly satisfied that I put forth my best effort. There’s only so much talking to Grandma and gazing at a newborn I can take. Anyway, my friend—my
real
friend—Chloe is in town and I need to get home to greet her.
    As I leave the party I think about my ideas of us versus them. I do think I could be close friends with a woman in a different life-stage, but between the date with Rebecca and this cookie party, I’ve come to realize that finding her may not be easy.
    So, Chloe. She’s one of those effortlessly gorgeous friends who, no matter what she wears, looks fit for the pages of
Vogue.
She makes jeans and a