Page 54 of Ricardo

That makes him blink. “I’m sorry. Did we skip a step?”

“I’m redecorating.”

“With lemons.”

“Yes.”

“Is there a theme, or are we just emotionally processing through citrus?”

“Probably the second one.”

He nods solemnly. “Healthy. Mediterranean.”

I laugh, and this time it comes easier.

He sobers again. “I’m serious, Jules. Say the word.”

“I know you are,” I say quietly. “It helps, knowing that. Really.”

I reach over and place my hand over his.

Just then, the food arrives. Pasta for him, pasta for me, bread between us, grated cheese that Dante accepts with the seriousness of a sacrament. For a few minutes, we eat without making the conversation work too hard.

It is nice. Painfully nice.

I had forgotten how easy friendship could feel when I was not constantly filtering myself. It's one of the reasons I’ve always gotten along with Dante so well.

After a lifetime of living my life and being in my perfectly perfect family, meeting Dante way back when was like a revelation. Conversation with him was freeing, being in his presence was enjoyable, not stifling and suffocating. Just being regular ol’ me was allowed and encouraged.

I think of how much easier my life would have been if we had fallen in love. But we'd become such good friends before that could ever happen, and he became more like a brother to me than anything else.

I guess easy just isn’t in the cards for me.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

Dante looks up with pasta halfway to his mouth. “For what?”

“For disappearing.”

He sets the fork down. “I wish you would stop apologizing for that asshole.”

“It wasn't just him,” I say. “When I was with Harrison, I let him shrink my world until he was at the center of it. At first, I thought it was because life was busy. Then, because the campaign was busy. Then…” I take a breath. “Then it was just easier not to argue anymore. I let him take my friends. I let him take our friendship.”

“I know.” He sits back, expression more serious than most people ever get to see. “I’m not mad at you.”

“You should be a little.”

“I was, for a while.”

The honesty hits me in the gut and shames me, but it feels cleansing somehow.

I nod.

“I was mad because I missed you, and because I knew something was wrong, and because every time I tried to get near it, you gave me some polished answer that didn't sound like the Julia I knew. It sounded like a memo approved by your mother.”

I wince. “That's painfully accurate.”

“But I wasn’t angry in the way you think.” He leans forward, forearms on the table. “I was scared.”