had visited years earlier, or a running joke about something that had happened when they were twenty-two. Lauren sometimes laughed at her phone and rolled toward the edge of the bed to answer him. When I asked what was funny, she usually said it was an old college thing and that I wouldn't get it.
I didn't demand access to her messages, and I never searched her phone. I also didn't think ordinary friendship was a threat simply because two people had different genders. I had close female colleagues and friends, and Lauren met several of them at dinners and birthdays without any problems. What bothered me was the invisible line around certain parts of her connection with Chris, the insistence that it was both completely innocent and somehow beyond the normal consideration we extended to each other. Whenever I tried to describe that feeling, Lauren would tell me that I had nothing to worry about, as though reassurance automatically ended a conversation.
Once, about a year before our engagement, Chris called while we were eating at a restaurant. Lauren glanced at the screen and stepped outside because, she said, he was dealing with a stressful work situation. Ten minutes passed, then twenty, and our server offered to keep her meal warm. When she returned, I asked whether everything was all right and she said I sounded annoyed. I explained that I had felt awkward sitting alone in the middle of our dinner, and she replied that a friend needed her and she wasn't going to apologize for being a good person.
I didn't think that response was fair. At the same time, I didn't want to become the man who treated every phone call as a test of loyalty. So I told her I understood that emergencies happened but would appreciate a little warning when she needed to step away for so long. She kissed my cheek and said she would remember. We finished dinner and let the moment pass, although that small promise, like several others, gradually faded from both our conversations and her habits.
There were also good times with Chris present. He came to a barbecue at our townhouse one summer and helped me carry a heavy patio table through the side gate. We talked about basketball, bad coffee, and the difficulties of convincing clients to respect deadlines. He was friendly enough, and I remember thinking afterward that perhaps my discomfort was partly the embarrassment of being an outsider to an old friendship. If that had been the whole story, I might have gotten used to it.