I’VE GOT MY BEST BOOTS ON, and I’m dangling one foot over the other as I wait. My latte is steaming on the table. I’m the first one here, as I often am. Maeve will be next, followed by Kayla, and Corrie will grace us with her presence in about half an hour or so.

I slip out my phone and check my notifications. I’ve been secretly hoping to receive another message from Eli, but there’s been nothing. I must have checked my phone fifty times this past week. I know I’m acting like a silly junior high school girl — I’m not too proud of myself. I suppose I just want that feeling again — the brief rush of excitement I got when I was chatting with him.

I’ve even used one of his paintings for my phone’s wallpaper — the one with the boats. No one needs to know what that’s about… it’s my little secret. I smile when I think about him. Maybe he’s seventy years old. Maybe he’s five foot one. Maybe he’s five hundred pounds. I picture him with blond hair, like John. Danish people are light, right? I Google “are people in Denmark blonde?” I can’t quite get a definitive answer, but apparently some common stereotypes about Danish people are: they eat very healthy, wear black, like to drink, and are a bit serious and standoffish.

I really need to get a life. Seriously. Maybe a part-time job, or volunteering. Why am I obsessing over this stranger?

Maeve is all smiles when she swoops in. Every time I see her, I’m struck by her beauty. Corrie always goes on about how jealous of us she is. She calls us her two exotic beauties. I’m Latina, and Maeve is half Irish, and half Jamaican, absolutely stunning, and a little curvy like me. The both of us envy Corrie’s beach blonde waves, blue eyes and tiny frame. It’s funny how that works. We women are never happy.

“So, what’s new?” Maeve asks.

“Not much,” I say. “John is away again this weekend. Anna is looking after the kids.” Anna is a neighbor, and only thirteen. She looks after the kids for us, but never for long periods of time.

Maeve pouts. “Well, that’s not necessarily a bad thing. Peter is always around, and I have to put up with sports on the TV all day, and his snoring at night.”

I know she’s just trying to make me feel better. At least, she has someone to cuddle and watch TV with at night. Maeve and Peter are big movie buffs. “How are the wedding plans going?”

A smile stretches across her face. “Good… I’m shopping for a dress next weekend… I just can’t wait. You wanna come?”

I wince. “It depends on if John is around, and if not, whether Anna is available.”

Maeve smirks. “Well, hopefully, you can make it.”

I hate this. I love my kids, but sometimes, I feel trapped. Like I’m in a prison. A beautiful prison with designer furniture, gleaming floors, crown molding, a luxury bathroom with a soaker tub, and a sixty-five inch wide screen television, but a prison all the same.

Kayla sneaks up on us. She’s flushed, straight from the gym, and full of energy as always. She and Maeve always seem so full of energy, but then again, they’re a lot younger than me, and haven’t had kids yet. Maeve is twenty-seven, and Kayla is twenty-eight. Kayla hugs us both, and heads off to the counter to order her tea. “Can I get yours, Maeve?” she offers. Maeve shakes her head, and joins her.

Out of habit, and possibly boredom, I check my phone again. My heart practically leaps out of my ribcage. There’s a new message from him. I’m eager as I check it. The rest of the world has disappeared — there is only me, and my phone.

There’s a photo of his living room, just below the message. It looks like a photo out of an Ikea catalogue, all light colors and clean lines. A modern sky blue sofa centers the space, and a yellow cushion and lamp adds a dash of color. The geometric area rug and wicker ottoman adds interest to the space. It’s gorgeous. And right there over the sofa, tying everything together, is my painting, the one of the cow. He’s digitally inserted it in. It looks fabulous — the yellow accents tie in with his cushion and lamp. Now, I’m starting to understand why he said the painting would look great over his sofa.

I’m smiling so hard, my face hurts.

“What’s so funny?” Maeve asks, latte in hand. She and Kayla take a seat at the round table. A chair sits empty, waiting for Corrie.

I smile. “Oh, it’s nothing… a friend of mine digitally inserted one of my paintings into… their living room.” I don’t say his living room. I don’t know why. A small part of me already feels guilty, and I’ve done absolutely nothing wrong.

“Let me see,” Kayla grabs my phone. “Oh wow, it looks amazing. Your friend has nice taste.” She hands the phone to Maeve.

“Gorgeous,” Maeve says. “Who’s this friend? Anyone we know?”

“Oh, nobody you’d know,” I say casually, grab my phone back, and slip it into my oversized purse. I pull out my journal. I have something to share today.

Corrie eventually shows up, flustered as always. We chat for a bit. We talk about Maeve’s wedding plans, and Corrie’s most recent disastrous date. The guy wore clogs and socks, in October! The date was over before it began.

“So, who has anything to share today?” Kayla asks. “I’m empty handed, I’m afraid. I’ve been swamped with classes and shifts at the spa.”

Maeve perks up. “Well, I’ve got a little something.”

We all smile as she starts reading. It’s an upbeat piece, all about the current transition in her life. Going from ‘single’ to ‘married’, starting a new chapter. You can tell how happy she is, and I envy her. She keeps reading, and her words fade as I’m brought back to twelve years ago.

Twelve years ago, when John asked me to marry him. It seems like such a long time ago. I was still working at the time, and his first novel had recently hit the New York Times Bestseller list. We were both on a high, the world at our feet. I didn’t think it was possible to be this happy. He’d taken me on a romantic getaway, and following a walk by the water, he got on his knee, and presented me with the biggest diamond I’d ever seen.

“Gabriella, you are the love of my life,” he’d said. “Will you marry me?”

Not too wordy, but then again, John has always been efficient with his words. He’s a fast paced writer, a modern day Ernest Hemingway.

I was so happy, I was crying.

I’m brought back to Maeve’s words. I missed a few, but I get the gist. She’s getting married, she’s happy. I’m thrilled for her, I really am. If anyone deserves to be happy, it’s Maeve — she’s such a sweetheart. And I hope Peter treats her well, today and always.

Everyone claps when she’s done. “That was great,” Corrie says. “Anyone else?” Again, she doesn’t contribute herself. Corrie rarely contributes journal entries, but when she does, they’re “entertaining as fuck” as Kayla would say. They’re usually snarky rants about life, and we love that shit. Every gal group needs a snarky bitch, and Corrie is ours, and we adore her to bits.

I admit, my journal entries tend to be a little sappy. What can I say? I’m an emotional woman. And sometimes my entries are sweet, sometimes they’re a little dark, and occasionally, just plain sad. “I’ve got something…” I tell them, not quite sure I want to share. But it always feels good when I do. These are my best friends, and I feel like I can share anything with them.

I swallow as I turn the pages of my notebook. My throat is dry and my heart is pounding. They sit silently, awaiting my words.

“I call this Just Us,” I tell them, and draw a deep breath. My voice trembles a bit when I start, like it always does. I read slowly, softly.

The hands on my kitchen clock tick slowly.

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

His smile is infectious, it draws me in.

I ask him about his day.

He tells me it’s good. He loves bananas. Can he have another?

He doesn’t ask me about my day. Children never do.

He doesn’t know about my migraine, or the pile of laundry sitting on the floor of my closet.

He doesn’t know about the rejection I received from the City Arts Council.

‘Vase of Tulips’ didn’t make it in the show.

I ask him if he likes my art.

Yes, it’s pretty, he says.

He blows me a kiss.

And I smile.

Tick, Tock, Tick, Tock.

I check my phone. No messages.

Did Daddy say hi? she asks.

Nope, Daddy’s very busy.

She beams proudly. He’s famous, she says.

One day, I’ll be famous too, she adds.

Tick, Tock. Tick, Tock.

It’s lunchtime. I don’t know what I’ll make for dinner.

Can we have macaroni and cheese? she asks.

Chicken nuggets, he says.

I wonder what he’s having tonight. Filet mignon?

I picture him.

He’s dashing.

Pressed suit, hair slicked back.

Swooning colleagues and fans.

Daddy’s busy. Of course he has no time to message me.

Tick, Tock, Tick, Tock.

I’ll let you know when Daddy says hi.

As soon as he does.

Which is never soon enough.

Tick, Tock, Tick, Tock.

I raise my gaze to complete silence. Shocked silence? Maeve’s hands are splayed over her heart, so are Kayla’s and Corrie’s.

“That was beautiful,” Maeve says.

Corrie pouts. “You didn’t make it in the show?”

I shake my head.

“No worries,” she says. “You’ll make it next time, I’m sure.”

“Thank you.”

“Are you okay?” Kayla asks, concern written all over her face. “It’s obvious that you miss John.”

I look down at my notebook. A lump in my throat threatens to break me apart. I can’t look at them, because if I do, I know I’ll lose it. “I do. It’s hard.”

Maeve rests a hand on my shoulder. “I read somewhere that the early years are the toughest… when the kids are small. It’ll get better.”

“You know what you need,” Corrie chimes in. “When that husband of yours gets back, he can look after the kids, and we’re taking you out on a girls’ night, and getting you drunk.”

We all laugh, and the golf ball in my throat disappears. I’m so grateful for my friends. They always make me feel better, and I honestly don’t know what I’d do without them.

As soon as I get home, I feed the kids leftovers for lunch. They tell me all about the game of Candy Land they played with Anna. And I promise to take them to the play center later in the afternoon. “But first,” I tell them, “Mommy needs to do some work on the computer.”

I snap a photo of my living room, taking care to remove all the junk on the sofa; Emma’s Barbies, Theo’s books and Rubik’s Cube, and my iPad. I position the cushions just so, and smile when I think back to about ten years ago, when we first bought our house. I’d spent a year poring over decorating magazines. I’d also spent a lot of money. Ten years later, our home still looks fabulous.

I haven’t played around with Photoshop in a while but it’s all coming back to me. I insert my favorite artwork of his, the one with the boats, and it looks amazing, much better than the actual artwork displayed on my walls; two floral paintings I did years ago.

I’m giddy as I put it all together, and copy it back to my phone. I haven’t been this excited about anything in a long time.

I check my phone obsessively all day, but there is no response. I know I’m acting crazy but I can't help it. What time is it where he is? I Google it and learn that he’s six hours ahead of me. It’s Sunday night for him. He’s probably out with friends, or his girlfriend. Or maybe he’s playing a game of Euchre at the seniors’ center, for all I know. I picture an old man with a cane and a hunched back. This is driving me crazy. I check him out on Google, but all I come up with are other Eli Kellys living in other parts of the world. Any images pertaining to him are of his artwork. There’s also a glass artist who goes by the name of Eli Kelly — he’s quite good.

I’m at the play center, reading the latest Sophie Kinsella novel on my phone when a message pops up. My heart skips a beat, but settles when it realizes it’s just a text from John.

I’m back to my book, engrossed in the story when Eli’s message pops up. My heart instantly goes into overdrive. And I forget all about my reading.