Lauren entertained the idea of Charlotte — the pristine, always proper Charlotte, wearing her ironed shirts and her heavy glasses for the computer, her analytics immaculate and her emails spot on — actually liking holding her hand, in secret. It was a self-indulgent thought. Charlotte was everything Lauren didn’t know how to be. Where Charlotte was put together, Lauren was all over the place; where Charlotte was the picture of classical beauty, Lauren was a sad rat; where Charlotte was a solid, genuine, reliable friend, Lauren could shower with attention and affection one day and run dry the other.