Free Friendship Makes the Heart Grow Fonder by Lisa Verge Higgins Page B

out a kink in her knee. “Are you two going to look
     me in the eye and tell me you never inhaled?”
    “I haven’t.” Becky blinked and cast a quick glance Monique’s way. “I haven’t. Weed wasn’t so easy to get in my tiny corner of Minnesota. Our poison was blackberry brandy and peppermint schnapps.”
    “Well, well,” Judy said, “we’ve found that rare creature. A mom who didn’t lie to her stepdaughter during the drug talk.”
    Monique’s lashes flickered. A muscle moved along the edge of her jaw as she raised her hand. “Liar, liar, sitting right here.”
    “We’re all liars,” Judy said. “We told them about Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny too.”
    Monique murmured, “I believe that still makes me a hypocrite.”
    “You’re no hypocrite. You’re a realist . Rule number sixty-two: Avoid giving teenagers ammo. You can regale them about the adventures of your misspent youth when
     their brains have developed enough to correctly weigh risk and reward.”
    “In any case, I didn’t like the stuff,” Monique said. “It made me paranoid.”
    “Then avoid the space cakes in Amsterdam.” Judy grimaced. “You can’t gauge the strength of those until after you’ve eaten
     one.”
    “Please tell me you’re not serious, Judy.”
    “About the space cakes? I’m absolutely serious.”
    “No, about rolling a joint and smoking it in some Dutch coffee shop.”
    Judy paused, remembering what it was like to sit in those rattling chairs with the haze of blue smoke above their heads. She
     remembered how she and Thierry laughed every time the bell over the door rang, how once they were done, their group—and there
     was always a motley, ever-​changing group—would tumble out into the darkness of a Dutch evening and into the crowd. She remembered how they’d stand in front
     of a head shop just to admire the colors of the lights. They’d find a park, throw themselves under a tree, feel the prickle
     of grass on their faces as they made stories out of the stars.
    Judy shrugged and avoided Monique's eye. “It is legal here.”
    Monie muttered, “Oh my God.”
    “But I have to admit, there’s been so much genetic engineering in the last twenty-seven years that the idea makes me anxious.“
    “So this is why you chose Amsterdam?”
    “No, no. It was never about the drugs. That was just a little…rebellious experimentation. The last time I was here, all I
     really wanted to do was roll around in bed with my French lover.”
    Thierry had a gentle smile, the kind that made one eye crinkle more than the other. She’d first met him on a city train in
     Strasbourg. She’d been dressed for work—neat skirt, sleeveless top, and flat shoes. He was tall and lanky, and the warmth
     of his body released a loamy, aromatic fragrance from the wear-softened cotton of his T-shirt. The sway of the train thrust
     him against her as they held on to straps through the tunnels. He’d apologized for bumping into her. He told her he was just
     back from picking grapes at a vineyard in Champagne. Would she like to go for a coffee?
    Judy became aware, again, of the sway of the train, the rhythmic clatter of metal against metal, and her friends’ gaping silence.
    “My, my, my.” Monique’s voice was a low rumble, her eyes alight. “You’ve been holding back on us, girl.”
    Oh, dear.
    “All those Friday afternoon barbecues,” Monique continued, “and never once did you mention a French lover.”
    “Did you really expect me to bring up my ex-lovers while the whole neighborhood is sitting on the McCarthys’ deck?”
    Monique raised a brow. “Under the influence of pinot grigio, you usually overshare.”
    Judy looked away, hesitating. There was a certain kind of man a girl met when she traveled far and wide. They flooded the
     continent during the summer months, breezily attractive, easygoing, and adaptable. They knew multiple languages and switched
     between them effortlessly. They were charming to a fault