When We're Thirty by Casey Dembowski (beautiful books to read .TXT) 📕

“Oh no.” Hannah knew exactly where this was going. It was completely Kate. Teddy had smiled, flirted a little, and showed off his impressive flexibility. “You slept with him.”

“He goes by Theo now, right? All I think of when I say ‘Theo’ is that guy from the Divergent movies, and he’s just gorgeous. I mean, ten seconds into our escapade, and I’m all hot and bothered. He’s kissing me, and I’m picturing hot Divergent guy whispering dirty nothings in my ear—”

“I get the picture.” Hannah turned off the television. “So what’s the problem?”

Kate focused on her wine. “He has a wife, Hannah.”

Hannah’s stomach roiled, the two slices of pizza she’d eaten sitting heavy in her gut. Kate wouldn’t do that to another woman—not on purpose.

“How did you—” Hannah held up her hand. “Actually, hold on.” With a last look at her friend, she went to the kitchen. Riesling wasn’t going to cut it. This conversation required a strong red. After pouring two glasses of the best—and only—red she had, she returned to the living room, reclaiming her spot at Kate’s side. “How did you find out?”

Kate took a giant swig. “He was only in town for a few weeks, which I knew. We were talking after his final class, and he just nonchalantly mentions that he’s excited to get back home to his wife, who is due in a few weeks. Of course, I started freaking out, but he just stared back at me calmly before explaining that his wife understood he had to ‘share his love.’”

“Jesus. What exactly has he been smoking lately?” Hannah asked, putting her arm around Kate.

“You’re the one from backwoods Jersey, so you tell me.” Kate smiled half-heartedly at her own joke.

Hannah took Kate’s hand. “Well, there is a story about some teenagers and the poppy fields behind the high school.”

Kate rested her head on Hannah’s shoulder. “So yeah, I’m a home-wrecker.”

Hannah stroked Kate’s curls, pulling her fingers through the ever-tangled strands. “I don’t think you can be a home-wrecker if his wife is aware of his penchant for sleeping with other women.”

“Pregnant wife.”

Hannah sighed, tightening her grip on her best friend. There was no easy answer to this situation—a man supposedly allowed to cheat on his wife. Was it even still cheating? Maybe not to Teddy. The growing wet spot on Hannah’s shoulder proved it meant something to Kate.

HANNAH TURNED THE DEAD bolt. Kate only lived two blocks away, but Hannah always asked for a safe-arrival text. She glanced at her phone, though Kate was probably still in the lobby chatting up the doorman. Kate loved older gentlemen with character, and Ronny was a character. He knew all the residents and had taken a shine to Kate when she’d stayed over for a few weeks between apartments—and boyfriends. Hannah plopped down on the couch, wishing she had cable and could channel surf. But cable had been one of the first things to go when her rent went up last year.

The apartment had been her home for the last four years. With a little help from her parents, she’d been able to get a small, one-bedroom unit instead of a studio—a decision that she couldn’t regret, even though it had cost her a dishwasher. She loved having a bedroom with a door instead of everything being in one open space. Not that paying the rent and keeping herself and Binx fed had always been easy. Journalists, especially ones working for small alternative music magazines, didn’t exactly make enough money to support a New York City lifestyle. But Hannah had made it work, first by leaning on her parents too heavily and then by working too many hours at Starbucks. Now, she embraced the art of budgeting and forced herself to take an honest look at how she spent her money. It wasn’t easy, but it was worth it.

Hannah picked up her untouched red wine. She swirled it around the glass, watching as it caught the rim and dripped down the sides. Wasn’t there something about the quality of the wine and if it left marks?

“Happy birthday, Hannah,” she said, toasting the air. Thirty. Fuck. On the outside, her life looked, if not perfect, certainly close to it—dream job, Manhattan-adjacent, long-term boyfriend, her own place. But something had felt off for a while. She could pinpoint her ennui to her sister’s wedding. Stephanie and Charlotte had met in London in a whirlwind romance. They had married within a year. Stephanie, who was all of twenty-six, had a house in the suburbs, a wife, stepkids, and a chocolate lab. Hannah had six hundred fifty square feet, her cat, and Brian, who couldn’t even be bothered to call on her thirtieth birthday.

She took another sip, glancing at her phone again. Two notifications. She clicked on Kate’s message, which included a picture of Milo Ventimiglia’s butt. Happy birthday, chica.

The other text was from Brian. A booty call if ever there was one. She was used to it by now—the late-night texts from her boyfriend—but they were seldom appreciated. Particularly because he always asked her to come to him.

Only if you come here, she typed before she could consider giving in again.

To her surprise, he answered right away. Be there in 10.

She glanced down at her penguin pajama pants. No one wanted a booty call in penguin pajamas.

Hannah’s phone buzzed again, this time with a friend request. She stared at the name—William Thorne. The last time she’d seen him had to have been at Melissa and Tommy’s wedding. That had been five years ago. It seemed like another lifetime. But they should’ve already been Facebook friends. She’d just seen a bunch of pictures of him from her twenty-first birthday in her Memories update. Had he started a new account or been hacked? Hannah clicked on his profile. They only had thirty mutual friends. Hannah opened her friends list and typed his name into the search bar. Will Thorne. Nothing. An inkling of