“I don’t think Adrienne wants Donald back. I don’t think she wants to break the two of you up. I think Adrienne is lonely. I think she wants to be a part of Donald’s life. And if that means befriending you—a woman who succeeded where she failed—in order to secure that place in Donald’s life, then I think that’s what she’s determined to do.”

I listened, then breathed a sigh of relief. Fran was probably right. Her reasoning certainly made sense. Maybe the situation wasn’t as dire as I’d made it out to be. Adrienne’s motives had been articulated, and the whole tableau was clarified—now all I had to do was figure out my role in all of it.

“So you think I should be friends with her?”

Fran considered the question carefully. I knew that despite her harshness and flipness, she was concerned for me; wanted the best for me; felt compelled to give me the soundest advice possible. Still, she couldn’t help her sarcastic, eye-rolling tone. “Well, being afraid of her and letting her drive you crazy hasn’t worked that well, has it?”

No, it hadn’t.

For one thing, it had caused me to drop five hundred dollars on a sweater that I would probably never wear again because of its bad associations. For another, Adrienne had smelled my fear that day; had known I was intimidated by her, even in awe of her. Deep down, despite my misgivings and pride, I knew there was some truth to what Fran was saying. Still, I couldn’t believe the trajectory of this conversation; this day. One minute I had two friends who were (seemingly) on my side; the next minute they were trying to convince me to surrender to the enemy.

“I’m not telling you to be her best friend or anything. But you’re the one marrying her ex-fiancé, remember? You have the power here; you’re the one winning. If you act like you don’t care that she’s around, like you don’t care if she wants to get the occasional cup of coffee with Donald, that you’re not threatened by her, it’ll make you look like you’re secure and self-confident. Even though, of course, we all know you’re not.”

Again, Gayle nodded in agreement.

“Now enough with this Jerry Springer bullshit,” Fran said, unzipping her overnight bag and pulling a huge (brown) Eskandar sweater over her head. “I’m starving.”