Free MWF Seeking BFF by Rachel Bertsche

to keep an open mind. We set up a dinner for next Monday night.

    As I suspected, finding a best friend really is like finding a man. At least in the beginning. There are the wardrobe changes before the first date (I go for nonpolarizing casual cool—jeans tucked into my new gray boots, a cozy sweater), the clumsy hellos and goodbyes, the “so nice to see you” next-day correspondence that only sometimes leads to a second invitation.
    So far I’ve noticed only two real differences: We’re just friends, or trying to be, so we always split the bill. Also, women have no problem inviting other friends along. Since there are no sexual prospects, I guess girls figure they can get in a date with two for the price of one. It’s driving me batty. I don’t want a chaperone.
    This has happened to me twice now. When Heidi invited Michelle to dinner, I felt like I was on an audition. They were already best friends, so with every glance that passed between them, I wondered,
Do they think I’m funny? Will they let me in? Did I just make an ass of myself?
Michelle drove Heidi to dinner, so when they got back in the car I was sure they were mocking my desperation. The worst part was that Heidi and I hit it off, but there was something amiss between Michelle and me. We weren’t in sync. Had Heidi and I met alone as I had intended, we could be exchanging witty banter this very minute. Instead I think our future, or lack thereof, is sealed. Michelle and Heidi, best friends forever. Is there a word for the friendship version of cock-blocking? There should be.
    Now Hilary’s done the same thing. On Sunday, she sends me an email to firm up plans and mentions that she invited her “really awesome friend Claire, too. She is one of the nicest people on earth.” What are these people doing to me? Don’t they realize I am looking for a best friend here? If the chancesof wooing one girl are slim, getting two at once feels impossible. It’s almost enough to make me wish this
were
real dating. No one would stand for a first-date threesome.
    The good news is that as pessimistic as I am about Hilary, I’m equally as hopeful about my budding friendship with Hannah, date number one. She’s like my wedding dress. The first gown I tried on was perfect, but I slipped on thirty more to be safe and each beaded monstrosity made me more confident in the tulle number I wore down the aisle. Since our first meeting we’ve only seen each other once, at book club, but we’ve been trying to set up a second date for weeks. The problem is that she’s studying for the Bar exam, which pretty much guarantees a person won’t see the light of day for at least a month. But in our emails back and forth about schedules, we’ve chatted about books and weddings and boys. We’re pen pals, taking it slow.
    FRIEND-DATE 7. When I arrive at English, the upscale pub Hilary chose for dinner, she’s waiting for me at the bar. She’s blond, with the tiny body you’d expect of someone who runs seventeen miles before 7 A.M. on a Saturday.
    “Hey hottie,” she says.
    We sip our cocktails—me a pinot grigio, Hilary a vodka tonic—as we wait for Claire.
    “The last time we met we were at this same bar,” I say. It had been a fun, and funny, evening. Fun because it was my first girls night in Chicago, funny because it was July and the air conditioner was broken at the bar where we started the festivities. Imagine five 25-year-olds trying to look sophisticated while sporting dresses covered in sweat stains. Like I said, funny.
    “That was probably the last weekend I went out on the town,” Hilary says. “I’m usually in bed by ten.”
    “Me too! I’m more of a homebody,” I say. “Definitely.”
    This is good. Connection.
    When Claire shows up we grab a table. Suddenly, before I have a chance to overanalyze the situation, something crazy happens. Hilary and I click. It starts with Hilary telling Claire how we connected—my college roommate used to live across