I laugh. Now that I’m out of there, it’ll just be a funny story to tell.
Penelope’s face lights up as she stirs her drizzle. “A lot can change in a week,” she says.
I crack the second egg. I tuck the shell back into the carton, neatly, beside the first one. There is something almost grounding about the ritual of it.
“I just — now that I’m settled in,” I say, “I need to focus on midterms. Like, I really need to focus. I’ve been so distracted with the move and everything that I haven’t opened a textbook in a week.”
“Same,” Penelope says. She closes the fruit container. She slides it back into the fridge. “I have a big midterm coming up, too.”
I crack the third egg. I drop the cover on the pan. The edges of the whites are starting to lace and crisp in the butter.
“We should study together,” I say. The idea comes out of me before I’ve fully thought it through, but as soon as it’s out, it feels right. “Honestly, it would help me so much. I get on the phone with Chase, and I get nothing done. He’ll call, and three hours will be gone, and I’ll have read maybe half a page.” I roll my eyes at myself.
“Yeah, let’s do that,” Penelope says, pulling out her phone. “Let me ask the girls who else needs accountability.”
“Group chat,” Mila chimes in, with the bright enthusiasm of a girl who lives for group chats. “Group chat, group chat, group chat.”
“Good idea.” Penelope leans against the counter, her thumbs flying. “Mila, what’s your number?”
I smile across the kitchen at Mila as she calls out her digits. Mila waggles her eyebrows at me and starts dancing very gently in place to the music drifting in from the living room, mouthing the lyrics.
Mila says, “We should turn the music up.”
“On it,” Penelope says, without looking up.
The volume rises by a notch. The kitchen fills.
When the eggs are done, I turn around to plate them and find that Penelope has already laid out three plates with toast on each one — a slice of perfectly browned sourdough, edges crisp, middle still soft. I slide an egg onto each piece. The yolks tremble. Penelope drizzles her saffron-colored oil over the top of hers and slides the bowl across the counter to me with a small smile.
“Try it. I promise.”
I drizzle it, then add salt and pepper. I take a bite.
“Oh,” I say, with my mouth still full.
“Right?” Penelope says again, pleased. “The store didn’t have ripe avocados. Otherwise, this would be a perfect ten.”
“This is a perfect ten to me,” I say honestly, and she laughs.
Mila is already halfway through hers. She nods so vigorously that a crumb falls into her lap.
I look around at the three of us — at the bright kitchen, at the music, at my best friend with toast crumbs on her thigh and my new roommate with her glass of lemon water and her pretty smile, at the soft hum of belonging in the air — and I think,this is what I came here for.
This.
Not the degree. Not the career. Not the city. Not Blue Golding.This.
“I don’t think,” I say slowly, “I’ve ever worked out first thing in the morning before.”
“That’s because you lived with Chase for so long,” Mila says without looking up.
I pause with my coffee halfway to my mouth.
“Oh,” Penelope says, glancing between us, careful. “You used to live with him?”
I nod and look at the counter. It sounds a lot like a serious relationship when you’re living together. “Yeah.”
“At his parents’ house,” Mila adds, because Mila does not have a filter.
