She considers this. “The tutu.”
“The tutu with what?”
“Just the tutu.”
“You need something with the tutu.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s how clothes work.”
She thinks about this for a genuinely long time. “Rain boots,” she decides.
“Rain boots and a tutu.” I lift one brow.
“And nothing else.”
I look at this tiny, stubborn, perfect human being who is exactly like her mother in every way that drives me crazy and exactly like me in every way I can’t admit, and I make a decision.
“Fine,” I say. “Tutu and rain boots.” I’m praying she pairs this with underpants and a shirt, but we’ll start there.
She beams, hops off the chair, and runs upstairs to get the tutu, her bare feet slapping the hardwood. I lean against the counter and close my eyes for three seconds.
My phone buzzes. It’s my teammate Zayden.
Zayden:You good?
He’s been checking in every couple of days since Bree left. Not pushing, not prying. Just being there.
Me:Good. Sydney’s coming today.
Zayden:THE Sydney?
Me:She’s the only Sydney I know.
Zayden:About time.
I have no idea what that means, so I don’t ask.
I clean the kitchen, do the dishes, and shove the laundry pile into the closet and close the door. I find the sippy cup under the couch, open it, immediately regret opening it, pour the contents down the drain, and throw the cup away entirely because some things are beyond saving.
By 11, the house looks passable. Luke is on the couch with a picture book about sharks. Lily is wearing the tutu and rain boots and, after a second round of negotiations, a t-shirt that says DADDY’S GIRL across the front, which she specifically chose because she knows it makes me soft.
I stand in the living room and take a breath. Sydney will be here soon. My best friend, who I haven’t seen in person since Bree’s birthday in March, is flying across the country to help me hold my life together.
I’ve known her since I was a freshman in high school, when Coach Davis forced the hockey team into a ballet class that I would have rather died than attend. She was one of the dancers assigned to help us—small, dark-haired, standing at the barre with her chin up and her spine straight, looking at a room full of hockey players like we were an inconvenience she’d been asked to tolerate.
She gave me hell. She corrected my form, rolled her eyes at my footwork, and made me repeat the moves until my calves burned. She was five-foot-two, and she terrified me. By October, I was showing up early just to be the first one in the room.
That was fifteen years ago. We’ve been inseparable since—through high school, through college at different schools, through girlfriends and boyfriends, and the whole messy stretch of early adulthood where everyone figures out who they are. Sydney was always the constant. The person I called before anyone else. The person who showed up every time withoutbeing asked, without making it a thing, without needing anything in return.
Everyone always thought we’d end up together. For years, it was this background assumption—when are you and Syd going to figure it out?I laughed it off every time because Sydney wasn’t someone you fumbled. She was loyal and honest and sharper than anyone I’d ever met. She was my best friend, and I wasn’t going to ruin that by making it into something it wasn’t supposed to be.
I’m glad I didn’t. That’s what I tell myself.
Because look at what happened with Bree—I did the relationship, did the marriage, did all of it right, and she still left. If that’s what happens when you go all in with someone, then I made the right call protecting what I had with Syd. Our friendship survived everything. Every girlfriend I had, every boyfriend she had, the wedding, the twins, the divorce. We’re still here. Still good. Still us.
I’m not going to be the one who wrecks that.
