Julia
A buzzing sound startles me awake. It takes me a moment to pry my eyes open and pat around my nightstand for my phone. The brightness of the screen makes me squint, and it takes another second to realize it’s a text from Alex.
My stomach flips, and instantly, I’m awake. It’s the first time she’s reached out to me since the funeral. Losing Mason has been painful, but losing Alex has been slowly killing me.
I eagerly open the message. It’s a link to a song. A quick glance at the time and a little mental math and I figure it’s half past three where she is. Two weeks of barely any responses and rejected phone calls, and the first message I get from her is a song sent in the wee hours of the morning?
Brian stirs beside me. Careful not wake him, I slip out of bed and tiptoe to the main room. The apartment is chilly, so I pull the blanket draped across my favorite chair over my shoulders and make sure the volume is down low before pressing the link. The album cover pops up first, a white T-shirt against a red and white striped backdrop, with a red cap dangling from a denim-clad back pocket.
Bruce.
“I’m On Fire” begins to softly play.
It’s a song that we listened to on repeat when we were sixteen and caught up in teenage angst. Pining for people who weren’t interested. Now, the lyrics hit a little harder. They hold a deeper meaning. One that strikes straight through my chest and right to my core.
Because I think I know what Alex is trying to say.
My eyes start to water, and I stare at the moon. It isn’t fair, I want to tell her. To do this to me now. Not after pushing me away for so long and when I’m planning my wedding to someone else.
A part of me wants to throw my phone out the window, to silence this song because she’s too late. The other part of me wants to fly to London right this very moment and make her say it. Make her tell me exactly how she feels so we can deal with it together.
I pause the song and call her.
“Hey,” she says after the first ring. “Did I wake you?”
Having not expected her to answer, I freeze, my momentary burst of determination melting at the shock of hearing her voice. “Hi. No, it’s okay.”
“How are you?” she asks when I don’t say anything else.
“I should be askingyouthat.”
She groans. “Everyone asks me that. I want to hear about you.”
What about me? It feels like an eternity since we truly talked about me, and I’m practically overflowing. I want to tell her about the wedding and how stressful it’s been. Or that even though I’ve enjoyed grad school, I’m ready for it to be over. I want to tell her I still cry over Mason and that I think about him every day. That I think aboutherevery day and that despite how deeply she’s hurt me, I miss her. But mainly, “I want to know why you sent me that song in the middle of the night.”
“Ah,” she says, drawing out the word, as if she was waiting for me to ask. “I was sitting on my fire escape thinking. About Mason and about you. Bruce came on, and I just…I don’t know. He always seemed to say it better.”
“I’d rather hear it from you,” I press.
She’s quiet for a beat and then, “I wanted to apologize. For all the horrible things I said to you. And for taking so long to do it in the first place. You’re the most important person in my life. I should never have pushed you away.”
I fight back the urge to cry. Despite everything, despite the hurt, I really do miss her. “I get why you did. Grief is a funny thing.”
She hesitates. “I’m not just talking about these past few weeks.”
“I know,” I whisper.
She takes a deep breath, and I can visualize her rubbing her handalong her thigh like she does when she’s nervous. “I’ve been a total asshole. I haven’t been the friend you deserve. But I want to try to do it right if you’ll let me.”
“You want to be my friend,” I repeat slowly, trying desperately to follow her conversation. She sends a song about heartache and love, then tells me she wants to be my friend?
I stand and look at the streetlight underneath the apartment window. Everything looks so still, so peaceful. She doesn’t know how to both love me and be only my friend. She’s still running.
I glance at the ring on my finger. It shimmers in the moonlight. “Is that all?” I ask, tired of the push and pull. The hot and cold. She’s telling me what she thinks I want to hear when I all really want is for her to be honest with me.
“Look, Jules,” she continues, “you deserve the best of everything. I can deal with these feelings if it means keeping you in my life. But I don’t want you to—”
“Alex.” She stops talking, and I press my forehead against the cool windowpane and smile, a memory rushing to the forefront of my mind. “Remember when we were eight, and we had our first fight?”
