Page 41 of All Our Almosts

For a man who’s so often tense and hard on himself, he’s relaxed while he cooks. He cracks four eggs into the skillet with one hand, then adds the mushrooms, spinach, and spices. I watch him nod down at the pan while it simmers, then turn to pull out plates and silverware.

“Oh, let me do that.”

I hop down from the counter to set the table, and by the time the meal is served, any awkwardness from earlier this morning has totally dissipated.

“So,” I say around a mouthful of omelet, “our third weekend as roommates. What should we do to celebrate?”

“Well, it has to be special. You know how important week-based anniversaries have always been to me.”

“Do you want to get out of the house? We could go somewhere really messy like White Horse or TITS.” The two bars aren’t so different from each other, but that’s the Allston neighborhood for you. Either way we’re guaranteed a night of sweaty 21-year-olds, early 2000’s dance hits, and bottom-shelf liquor.

“Yeah sure,” he says. “An homage to our friendship’s humble beginnings. College kids and strong drinks.”

“I’ll text NASA.” I take out my phone and scroll for the group chat as I ask, “What are your plans for the day until then?”

Andy shrugs. “Making my schedule for the week, maybe meal prep, or reading. Nothing special.”

“That sounds great. Let’s be lazy. Oh, but… I forgot, I finished my book yesterday.”

“Did you want to borrow one?”

“Can I?”

“Yeah, come on,” he says, rising from the table. “You can pick.”

He crosses towards the closed door of his bedroom, and here’s the crazy thing: I’ve never actually been in his room before.

I mean, I went in his college bedroom a bunch because it was a dorm and they threw all kinds of parties there, but that was different. Since he moved here after college, I have never, ever been in his room.

It’s hard to explain just how weird that is, but let me try:

NASA is close. We are very, very close. Definitely not the type of friend group to keep things off limits. Nolan is the first person I text every month when my period starts, so he can make me his special chicken noodle soup. One time I flossed Lia’s teeth for her because her nail polish was wet. I have often peed while on the phone with any/all of them and not even bothered to mute. We know each other to our bones. So I should know every inch of Andy’s room already, and shouldn’t be surprised by the contents. But I don’t, and I am.

Andy’s bedroom is just off of the living room. He opens the door now, revealing two tall windows on the far wall—same as my room. Between his windows is a queen-sized bed, tidily made with light blue sheets and a dark blue comforter. That’s not the part that surprises me. It’s the rest.

Dark wood shelves cover all of the remaining walls, floor to ceiling. Brightly colored paperbacks, hardcovers, dictionaries, grammaticals, novellas, anthologies, and manuscripts peek around each other like curious children. There are books stacked in towers on the floor, and more lying face down with creased spines. Even the ones on the shelves are in disarray—some in horizontal rows, others piled atop each other. Four books sit on his nightstand, each with a different item as a makeshift bookmark: a dollar, a blue pen, a receipt, a phone charger.

“This is your room.” I don’t know if it’s a statement or a question, as I rotate to take in the full effect.

“Sorry,” he cringes. “I should have cleaned up. Just tell me what series you’re reading and I’ll see if I have it.”

“Oh, no way, buddy. You’re not kicking me out yet. I just got here.”

I can’t help but compare this to his bedroom in college, which had been perfectly tidy except for one university-issued bookshelf that was always overflowing. In many ways, this is its natural evolution.

I start with the shelf on my left, scanning for familiar titles. “Am I in Beauty and the Beast or something? Are you going to tell me you can’t actually read and all of this is for me?”

“Yes,” he says, fingers running through his hair. “It’s true, I’m illiterate. You have to give me credit for fooling everyone, though.”

“An Oscar-worthy performance, to be sure. I don’t know a single other literary editor who can’t read.” I curve around to the next wall, asking absently, “Do I know your favorite? I can’t remember.”

“Book?”

“Yeah.” I reach up and pluck one from the shelf. I don’t recognize the title, but it looks like a special edition. I flip through it gently before putting it back.

“That depends,” he says, coming up next to me but keeping his eyes on the shelves. “Do you mean my most recent favorite, or my all-time favorite, or the book I think is technically the best, or my first—”

“All of them,” I interrupt. “Any of them. It doesn’t even have to be your number one favorite really, just tell me the first… I don’t know… three that come to mind.”