Thirty-Five

thirty-five

I wake up the next morning to my wrist throbbing and three missed calls from Connie. I rub my eyes, aware my parents have long been up and gone in search of breakfast from the way the light is hitting the window. It’s probably the latest I’ve slept in years.

My parents left a glass of water and some ibuprofen on the coffee table. I chug some immediately, and before I can overthink it or chicken out, call Connie back.

She picks up on the first ring and speaks before it’s even over.

“I’m sorry. I mean, you know that, but I’m going to start with that and end with that, and possibly say it into perpetuity.”

I close my eyes, trying to acclimate my brain to what’s happening.

“I just—the whole thing was—so dumb. I really didn’t think it was gonna, like, be a whole thing, you know? Or maybe that’s it. I was worried it was gonna be a thing, and either you’d both leave me behind, or you’d have some big messy breakup and the whole thing would get ruined and I’d have to pick a side, and shit, Abby. I love you both so much.”

I open my eyes again. “So you … you told me Leo didn’t like me.”

“Yeah. But what you don’t know is … after, you were so relieved about it … I told Leo you didn’t like him.”

“Hold up. One sec. Sorry. I just woke up, so I don’t … really know what’s happening.” I take another swig of water and see that there’s a banana, too. I rip it open as if I didn’t eat my weight in Thai food last night, hoping it will make the ibuprofen work its magic faster.

Then my eyes snap fully open. “You told him what?”

“You’re pissed.”

My mouth is too full of banana to allow me to be much of anything. Or maybe it’s that, when I try to summon the anger I’ve felt since figuring out what she did, I can’t find it. If it’s there it feels like the smoke it left behind, something too thin to hold on to.

“Kinda.”

Connie’s not crying, but her voice is at that specific decibel it gets just before she starts. “I ruined everything, haven’t I?”

I sit up on the couch, trying to clear my head and decide what to say. I should tell her how much this hurt me. I should tell her how I spent the last few months tiptoeing around her and Leo both, nursing the kind of ache I couldn’t tell anyone about, least of all the two people it affected most.

But I can tell she already knows that. And making her feel worse isn’t going to do anybody any good.

“No, you haven’t.”

I just watched an entire lifetime of friendship get imploded by a misunderstanding. I’m not going to let this rock us. We’ve got way too much behind us and way too much ahead to lose it over something that I think—I hope—can still be fixed.

“I’m fixing this, I swear. I was on the phone with Leo last night. I was trying to reach you, but someone found him for me and I told him everything,” she says in a rush. “Just—so he knew. Why there was weirdness. If there was weirdness.”

“A surplus of it,” I say. It’s a relief, weirdly, to be open about it with her. I’m dying to ask her what Leo said—an even vainer, louder part of me wants to know what Leo said about me—but I know it’s not Leo I need to ask about. “I was … mad when you told me what you did. And I didn’t give you a chance to explain.”

Connie lets out a sigh. “Well—I guess part of it was that so many things have been changing, and I just wanted to—hit pause, you know?”

“Yeah,” I say after a moment. “I know.”

The relief of hearing that seems to speed her up, making her words trip over each other on their way out. “It kind of felt like the two of you were going somewhere I’ve never been, and—if I’m being honest, might not ever really want to go,” she says. “I’ve never really had feelings like that for anyone before, I guess, and I … I didn’t want you guys to get wrapped up in it and leave me behind. We’ve all been so busy as it is.”

It’s like we’d been driving in the same car for ages, and only just looked down and saw the hole in the floor—like we could convince ourselves everything was still okay, as long as we were chugging along in the same direction we’d always been. I try to remember the last time Connie and I really talked to each other, really talked, without homework or extracurriculars or a phone screen in our way, and I’m coming up empty.

“Well, you know what? We’ll change that. Spend more time together this year, like we used to,” I say. “I’m going to have more free time. So if you find some, we can just … hang.”

“You’re not gonna third wheel me?” Connie’s voice is light, even if there’s still a slight wobble to it. “Not gonna make me the Harry to your Ron and Hermione, the Peggy to your Steve and Bucky, the PB&J cinnamon rolls to your brothers and any other living creature—”

“I’m gonna go ahead and cut you off right there,” I laugh. “Connie, nobody could ever third wheel you. You’re like four wheels all on your own.”

“This is a fact.”

I press the phone closer to my face, as if she can feel the intention and it will make my words count for more than they already do.

“And even if things change—I mean—I guess what I’m trying to say is, things were going to change no matter what. Leo’s going off to school. You and I are gonna peel off somewhere in a year, too. But that doesn’t have to be a bad thing. After Hermione and Ron got together, Harry and Ron were still best friends.”

“Did you just … willingly make yourself Ron in this metaphor?”

“That’s how much I love you, Con.”

“Well, shit.” She sniffles into the phone, relieved. “And Abby—I mean—I know I’m not exactly the patron saint of budding relationships right now, but I think … well. Even my meddling didn’t stop you two from feeling things for each other. I really think it could work out.”

“You know he’s leaving.”

And like that, Connie is back in full Mom Friend splendor, the words so firm that I can hear her hand land on her hip for emphasis. “Abby, you’ve waited your whole damn life to get out of Shoreline and see the world. I’m pretty sure there isn’t anywhere either of you could go that the other one wouldn’t follow.”

I’m not so sure about that, but I am sure I’ll do whatever it takes to find out.