The Friendship Breakup


 Contents
 
 Title Page
 Dedication
 Chapter 1
 Chapter 2
 Chapter 3
 Chapter 4
 Chapter 5
 Chapter 6
 Chapter 7
 Chapter 8
 Chapter 9
 Chapter 10
 Chapter 11
 Chapter 12
 Chapter 13
 Chapter 14
 Chapter 15
 Chapter 16
 Chapter 17
 Chapter 18
 Chapter 19
 Chapter 20
 Chapter 21
 Chapter 22
 Chapter 23
 Chapter 24
 Chapter 25
 Chapter 26
 Chapter 27
 Chapter 28
 Chapter 29
 Chapter 30
 Chapter 31
 Chapter 32
 Chapter 33
 Chapter 34
 Chapter 35
 Chapter 36
 Chapter 37
 Chapter 38
 Chapter 39
 Chapter 40
 Chapter 41
 Chapter 42
 Chapter 43
 Chapter 44
 Chapter 45
 Chapter 46
 Acknowledgments
 Author Biography
 Copyright
 
 
 
 Guide
 
 Cover
 Title Page
 Dedication
 Chapter 1
 Acknowledgments
 Copyright
 
 
 
 Pagebreaks of the print version
 
 Cover Page
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 iv
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 THE FRIENDSHIP BREAKUP
 A Novel
 ANNIE CATHRYN
 
 
 
 
 For Mom,
 I am because of you.
 For Dave and Skylar,
 My loves. My everything. All for one, and one for all.
 
 
 
 CHAPTER ONE
 
 Right between the milk and the eggs, I go into menopause. Shoving my head into the store’s cooler, I pretend to find the expiration date on the eggs as my own unfertilized eggs are expiring.
 Please pass quickly.
 Oh no.
 The water works are starting.
 Why am I crying?
 There is a feeling of loss, but of what? Loss of youth. Loss of my eggs. Loss of my best friend, Beatrice. Why is she ghosting me? Did I do something? I must have done something … Before rehashing it for the trillionth time, I swipe at my eyes and chide myself to get it together. You could be stuck in gridlock traffic with a full bladder. Pushing this nightmarish thought away, I silently give thanks that I live in the Midwest and not L.A.
 As I take my head out of the fridge, a busty blond twenty years younger than me bounces up in a miniskirt, tank top, and lavender Birkenstocks. She’s dressed the way I should be right now, with this sudden heat rush creeping up my neck. Then I remember it’s only fifty degrees outside. Typical April weather in this small, barely there town. Last week, it dumped four inches of snow on us, and I thought I woke up in Antarctica.
 I eye miniskirt girl again. Before Jessica Rabbit can ask me where the whipped cream is, I grab a carton of eggs, lower my head, and see my slippers. Ugh. How did I forget to change out of them? I guess I’ve been too preoccupied with the fact that my “bestie” isn’t acting like my friend anymore.
 Hurrying down the baking aisle, I park my cart in front of the decadent chocolate and on impulse pull out my phone once again to see if there are any updates from Beatrice. Scrolling through my texts, I stop on the last message I sent her weeks ago, asking how she was doing. She still hasn’t answered. Or called me back. I haven’t seen Beatrice at our daughters’ soccer games either, because I’ve been using that time to work on my chocolate business. And at school drop-off, it’s too rushed to say more than two words to anyone. Just this morning, I thought Beatrice saw me in the school parking lot, but when I waved, she turned and quickly got into her minivan. There’s a possibility she didn’t see me, I convince myself.
 “Excuse me,” someone says, startling me out of my delusion. I glance up to see a big, toothy grin with a sprig of greenery stuck in the middle. Cringing, I refrain from swiping a fingernail through my own teeth. How can I tell the woman about her leftover spinach? I don’t know her—or if she is saving it for later.
 “Do you know which chocolate is the best for fondue?”
 I’d rather tell her where the toothpicks are, but I swallow down my words and point to my favorite brand. “This works well for dipping,” I say with a forced smile.
 Then, because I would want someone to tell me I had a sprig in my teeth, I whisper, “You have a little