Ezra smiled wistfully.
“First of all, I didn’t ‘break in.’ I was given a key,” he said. “And no, actually. It was in American Lit. The third day of class. I asked to borrow a pen. Do you remember?”
“No, honestly,” I said. Those first few days on Elion’s campus were a blur. I’d been too preoccupied with getting a job outside of work-study to pay attention to any of my classmates.
“I know you don’t,” Ezra said. “And that was the beauty of it. It wasn’t that you didn’t know who I was, it was that you didn’t care. You didn’t try to make useless conversation or attempt to ingratiate yourself to me. You even made me give it back at the end of class.”
“I used those really nice gel pens in American Lit,” I said with a small smile. I remembered them; they’d cost seven dollars for the pack, my sole splurge during college move-in shopping. I told Ezra, and he laughed.
“You remember the pens but not me, huh,” he said. “But honestly... that tracks. You were refreshing. It felt like the first time I was being judged for who I was, and you decided that who I was was kind of a little shit.” Ezra grinned, like my less-than-charitable initial opinion of him had been a blessing. “Remember when we had that huge fight in the SSC? Because I called you my friend and you basically told me I was delusional?”
“Youweredelusional,” I said. “But you weren’t a little shit. You were pretty great.”
Even then, I’d known that it had been fear that had caused me to keep Ezra at arm’s length when we first met, not dislike. People like Ezra got do-overs; first, second, third chances; sympathetic letters from parents proclaiming hispotential; people like me weren’t supposed to be at institutions like Elion in the first place.I’d seen his self-destructive behaviors and thought of myself getting crushed in their aftermath. But I’d also seen his spirit. Ezra was kind to me, surprisingly sensitive. It had frustrated me, how he never seemed to hear the noise that followed him like a swarm of hornets, how insistent he was that we lived in a world where things like class and race and gender didn’t matter. He’d invited me into his family, into his home, into his heart.
“Iwasa little shit,” Ezra said quietly. “I stillam, sometimes. But I’m a little shit who misses you.” He leaned in closer, his expression earnest. “Jo. You’re my best friend, and you saved my life. I’m not willing to accept you not being in it. So I want you to tell me all the ways that I’ve hurt you so that I can make sure I never do any of them again. And if that means I start by cooling off on the flirting, I can do that.”
I sniffed to hold back the tears that were forming in the backs of my eyes. There wasn’t anything to say, because truthfully, Ezra hadn’t done anythingwrong. It had all been about my own perception of us. I had wanted him to look at me and me alone, to be the most important person in his life no matter who else was in it.
But now that I had Mal, I understood. Because what I felt for Mal was different from anything I’d ever felt for Ezra. It was comforting and safe in similar ways, yes, but it was also passionate, searing. I wanted to touch Mal in ways and places I’d never wanted to touch Ezra, wanted to be held by him, but I also wanted to fight with him over the type of granite we wanted for our countertops, wanted to sit proudly in the front row of his book events, wanted to bring him steaming cups of tea in the dead of the night when he was typing feverishly toward a deadline. When I thought of Ezra, I thought of our past. With Mal, I saw our future.
Maybe that was how Ezra had felt about Ashley, about every one of his eight ex-girlfriends. Maybe I’d minimized his relationships with them because I’d assumed they could never compare to the one he had with me. Maybe Ezra had just wanted to experience multiple kinds of love, just as I did now. Maybe I had been wrong to condemn him for that.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I... This wasn’t your fault. This was aboutmeand figuring out my own shit. You didn’t do anything—”
A hand clapped me on the shoulder, cutting me off midsentence. I turned to find Boris Finnegan grinning down at me like he’d just been handed his third Emmy. I sucked back my tears, rearranging my face into what I hoped was an inviting smile.
“Dr.Boateng, as I live and breathe! You look beautiful as always,” he said, then to Ezra: “Hello, Ezra.”
“Make it less obvious which one of us is your favorite, why don’t you, Boris,” Ezra said good-naturedly, and we both stood to greet him, understanding that our time alone was over for now. As the table’s occupants arrived, Ezra and I split, making all the requisite small talk—or, in the unfortunate case of Boris’s recently drained buttock abscess, verybigtalk—until the lights in the room dimmed. Then, when everyone shuffled back into their chairs, Ezra stepped in close, pulling me in by my elbow.
“Check your phone,” he said. And then, with a genial smile, he took his seat.
Renata Kovalenko knew how to put on a show. She graced the stage in a baby-blue Jenny Packham gown, her hair fashioned into a low chignon that showcased the giant sapphire on her chest like a talisman. The speeches were short and to the point, the singular boring academic who stepped forward to accept the gala’sdonations ushered offstage after only three minutes to make way for the live band.
I paid attention to none of it. I was trying my hardest not to crack up at Ezra Adelman’s less-than-charitable live commentary. The thin, raven-haired woman who accepted the Knydus Nest award for the biggest donation in a pink feathered dresslooked kind of like a flamingo. The sixteen-year-old son of a hedge fund manager who was seated at our tablethinks he’s being subtle about staring at Boris’s girlfriend’s tits. Even his own mother was not spared:Somebody’s soul is trapped inside that rock around her neck, I swear.
Jo: You’re being an ass. Stop it.
Ezra: What was that? I have a cute ass?
Ezra: Oh. Sorry. Am I flirting again?
Jo: Yes. But I’ll let it slide. Just this once. Because you’re learning.
Ezra: I don’t know if I can get away with once. You know this is just how I communicate.
Jo: Yes, yes, you only speak Fuckboianese.
Ezra: Excuse you. What I speak is clearly Wastemanian. It’s a different dialect. Don’t be insensitive, Jo.
“You’re a disaster,” I responded out loud, when the night’s program concluded and the dance floor opened up. The live band started the night off with a poppy rendition of Earth, Wind & Fire’s “September,” and half of our table, their nerves lubricated by an hour of sipping at wineglasses that were magically refilled by the overattentive staff, made for the dance floor.
“Still remember the words?” Ezra asked, getting to his feet.
I laughed. “Some of them,” I said. “The chorus, probably.”
“Good enough,” Ezra said, then held out his elbow for me totake. I hooked my arm through his, and together, we made our way to the dance floor.
