Elyse and I stood in the driveway of my empty home, surrounded by suitcases. “I can’t go with you to the airport. It’ll make me too sad,” she cried. I nodded, choking back sobs. I was moving from Maui to L.A. to be closer to my long-distance boyfriend. Saying goodbye to my best friend hurt worse than any previous heartbreak. She and I were so close, we could make eye contact across a crowded room and know exactly what the other was thinking.
“Nothing is going to change,” I blubbered.
For a while (aside from being 2,500 miles apart), nothing did. We talked all the time, continuing to divulge every aspect of our inner emotional worlds. Then, three months post-move, my phone rang.
“I had sex with Brooke. Please, don’t be mad,” Elyse said, her voice shaky. “I’ve been so scared to tell you.”
My stomach churned as she explained how she’d run into my ex-husband, Brooke, at a party the previous weekend. He’d flirted first.
“Do you like him?” I asked. Surely, they’d made a drunken mistake.
“Yes,” she whispered. “But if it bothers you, I won’t see him anymore.”
“I don’t care,” I lied. “Go for it.”
In my 20s, I would’ve thrown my phone across the room. The unwritten tenets of “girl code” mandated one never hook up with their bestie’s ex. As Gretchen Wieners in Mean Girls succinctly explained: “Ex-boyfriends are off-limits to friends. That’s just, like, the rules of feminism.”
But at 36, I bristled at the notion of implied ownership over another person. Eight years had passed since my decade-long relationship (including a nine-month marriage) with Brooke ended. No unresolved feelings lingered. I wanted Elyse to be happy. Him, too. Besides, I was deeply in love and had been with my boyfriend for a year! So why did the thought of them together make me want to projectile vomit?
I was 22 when Brooke and I got married. College sweethearts, a wedding seemed the natural next step after graduation. We relocated from the Pacific Northwest to Maui so he could pursue a career in conservation. But our vows were short-lived. Six weeks after we said, “I do,” I had an affair, blowing up our relationship.
Nine months later, we signed our divorce papers. That morning, I’d driven from the paralegal’s windowless office to my job at a clothing boutique. I arrived bereft. My new coworker Elyse listened without judgment as I trauma-dumped. It was our first shift together.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s all going to work out the way it’s meant to.”
When she suggested we don the store’s finest garments and drink champagne to toast this new chapter of my life, I rolled my eyes. Still, I was drawn to her whimsy. We could only afford cans of sparkling wine, which we drank dancing to music at full blast. Tipsy, we closed the store early to eat sandwiches on the floor, cry-laughing as confused tourists knocked to be let inside.
Several months later, Brooke and I reconciled. Though we never remarried, we moved back in together for another four years. Our second chance wasn’t enough for us to make it work long-term—my affair still loomed heavy over our relationship.
In the aftermath of that final breakup, I spiraled, partying hard and seeking comfort with men who wouldn’t normally be a blip on my radar. I was 18 when Brooke and I first met—we essentially grew up together, dating all four years of college, getting married right after, divorcing nine months later, then reuniting and cohabitating for another four years after that. I was 28 the final time we slept together, and by then, I didn’t know how to be without him. He was my first experience with unconditional love. Elyse was my second. She pulled me from my burning pile of self-destruction. The sharp ache of my breakup was blunted by her steadfast companionship.
Now, my past had become her present.
In the weeks after Elyse admitted her feelings for Brooke, I listened to her palpable giddiness on the phone as she recounted their budding courtship. I wanted to share in her excitement. But whenever she said his name, my chest tightened.
Why were we pretending this man and I didn’t share an intimate and complicated history? Had she forgotten her pivotal role in helping me move on from him? How did I possibly fit into the picture now? Did they talk about me? Even worse, did they not talk about me at all?!
Instead of asking her these questions, I hid behind a smile, desperately wishing for everything to return to normal.
To our friends, I’d say with a nasty smirk, “I give them a month. Tops.”
Within three, they catapulted from casual dating to full-fledged monogamy. The closer they got, the further I grew from Elyse.
Information she used to confide in me first now trickled in from other sources. She didn’t tell me when her intuitive healer had a vision of her and Brooke surrounded by their future children. Nor did she mention when they said “I love you” for the first time. In turn, I stopped reaching out to her in moments of joy and sadness. When my boyfriend proposed on a beach in Mexico. When I became pregnant. When I suffered a miscarriage that landed me in the ER.
That spring, Elyse flew to Washington to meet Brooke’s family. Through the lens of social media, I watched her immersion into a life that was once mine. I flinched at the photos—the flowers in his mother’s garden, Elyse’s face pressed adoringly to his. I’d lost her to him. In a way, I grieved for him again, too. I liked all the pictures, of course, proving with a digital heart I was the bigger person.
I wasn’t.
That summer, my boyfriend and I decided to forgo a traditional wedding, opting to throw a small party in our backyard with our closest friends. Part of me longed for Elyse to be there. In the end, I didn’t invite her.
This was the slight that broke the dam of our repressed silence. In a heated email, she accused me of pushing her away first.
“You said you were okay with us from the get-go,” she wrote. “Your feelings changed. You didn’t talk to me about it. Are you jealous?”
Reading it, I spat out my coffee. Me? Jealous?! Of what?! I had zero desire to be with my ex-husband again. I wanted an acknowledgment that she knew sleeping with Brooke could irrevocably alter our friendship. That in that moment, she’d chosen him over us. As soon as I said it, I realized she was right. I was deeply jealous—not of Elyse but of Brooke.
The idea that jealousy was an emotion to abhor was just as ingrained in me as the concept of “girl code.” It’d been easier to focus on Elyse’s alleged disloyalty than it was for me to look inward. When I did finally accept my jealousy, I saw it stemmed from fear and anxiety. I didn’t want him back in my orbit in this strange new way. I also didn’t see a world in which the three of us could be friends, and I was afraid I would lose her altogether.
By gossiping behind her back and being dishonest about my true feelings, I’d made that world a terrible reality. My shame over being jealous had allowed resentment to rot the roots where love and trust once bloomed. In only seven months, I destroyed one of the most important friendships of my life.
My reckoning came too late. Despite trying to apologize for my behavior, Elyse wasn’t ready. I’d wounded her. For three years, we existed on the periphery of friends.
Then, early in the pandemic, I picked up the phone. It felt like an eternity had passed since we’d last spoken. As the line rang, I chewed on my lip, unsure she’d even accept my call.
“Hi!” Elyse answered. She sounded tentative but happy. A mixture of relief, sadness, and hope overwhelmed me. I’d missed my friend dearly.
“I’m pregnant,” I said. “We’re having a baby girl.”
That day we talked and talked, catching up about our lives, how scary and dark the world felt. It was the first of many phone calls to come. Slowly, we rebuilt our communication and trust. Now, we’re even closer than before, and when I look at Brooke, I don’t see my ex-husband. I see a devoted, adoring partner to a woman I cherish.
Recently, I flew to Maui to cohost Elyse’s baby shower. On the day of her celebration, I stood in front of the guests to offer a toast. Elyse was resplendent in fuchsia, her belly draped in strands of flowers. I raised a glass of champagne, my voice breaking as I tried to convey my love and happiness for her. We locked eyes, and she smiled. I didn’t have to say anything. She already knew.
A version of this article also appeared in Love, Willa. If you liked this story, you’ll LOVE our relationships newsletter. It’s a special place where we navigate the wild terrain of modern love together—whether you’re cuffed, ghosted, heartbroken, or thriving. Sign up here.
