After I spent thirty years pinching every penny for our dream trip, my best friend looked me in the eye and cheerfully announced she hadn’t saved a dime and that I would be funding the entire thing for both of us.
It was our pact, made when we were young. We were supposed to see the world together, fifty-fifty.
She called me the “responsible one” and said our friendship was more valuable than money. She thought thirty years of memories was a blank check she could cash.
She tried to weaponize our history against me, but she never imagined I’d find the receipts that would pay for my justice, with interest.
The Final Tally
The number on the screen glowed with an almost holy light: $252,147.88. It wasn’t just a number. It was thirty years of skipped vacations, of driving a sensible sedan until the wheels practically fell off, of packing my own lunch every single day. It was the physical manifestation of a promise I’d made to my best friend, Chloe, when we were twenty-five and drunk on cheap wine and possibility.
I leaned back in my worn office chair, the leather sighing under my weight. From the living room, I could hear the low murmur of the TV, where my husband, David, was watching some historical documentary. He called my spreadsheet “Project: World,” and for years he’d watched me, a meticulous accountant even in my own life, squirreling away every spare dollar into this dedicated account. He thought I was a little nuts, but he loved me, so he just refilled my coffee and never complained about our modest life.
“Everything looking good for the big dinner?” he called out, his voice warm and familiar.
“Perfect,” I answered, a genuine smile spreading across my face. Tonight was the night. The Launch Dinner, Chloe had called it. We were finally going to sit down with my binders of research—itineraries, hotel options, visa requirements—and start booking. The Pyramids of Giza. The Great Wall of China. The lavender fields of Provence.
My phone buzzed on the desk. A text from Chloe.
Can’t WAIT for tonight! Had to buy a new dress to properly celebrate. You’re going to die when you see it! XO
I chuckled. Of course she did. Chloe never met an occasion she couldn’t find a reason to shop for. It was part of her charm, that effortless, celebratory approach to life that was the complete opposite of my own careful planning. We were the yin and yang of friendship. The ant and the grasshopper. For thirty years, it had worked. Tonight, the ant and the grasshopper were finally going to Paris. Together.
A Table for Two Histories
La Vita hadn’t changed in the two decades we’d been coming here. The same red-and-white checkered tablecloths, the same Chianti bottles with candle wax dripping down their sides, the same intoxicating smell of garlic, oregano, and simmering marinara. It was the scent of our shared history. Anniversaries, birthdays, commiserations over bad bosses and worse boyfriends—it all happened here, at this corner table.
I was ten minutes early. I was always early. I ordered a glass of Pinot Grigio and smoothed the front of my simple navy blouse. Sensible. Practical. Me. I felt a nervous flutter in my stomach, the good kind, the kind you get on Christmas morning.
Chloe swept in a full fifteen minutes late, a whirlwind of vibrant floral print and expensive perfume. She kissed the air next to my cheek, her cloud of Chanel No. 5 momentarily suffocating me. The dress she’d texted about was a silk Diane von Furstenberg that probably cost more than my entire outfit, shoes included.
“Sorry, sorry, traffic was a beast!” she said, not sounding sorry at all. She slid into the booth and immediately flagged down the waiter. “We’ll need a bottle of your best Brunello, Antonio. We are celebrating!”
She beamed at me, her face, still remarkably youthful for fifty-five, glowing with excitement. “Okay, so before you pull out the famous binders—which I love, you know I do—I have something to tell you. A little housekeeping item to get out of the way.”
I leaned forward, my hands clasped on the table. “Okay.”
“It’s about the financial side of things,” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, as if she were about to share a juicy piece of gossip. “The travel fund.”
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