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“What am I going to do without you?” Luisa asks, giving my arm a squeeze.

“It’s only a few days. And the kitchen will be so much cleaner.”

Luisa sighs. I’m the messy one in our apartment, but at least I’m self-aware.

I fill a tall glass of water, then dig through the Duane Reade bag, pulling out the box of cranberry pills.

“Oh no,” Michael says as I push two red pills out of the foil packet.

Luisa rolls her eyes. “Oh, Rob.”

I shrug as I toss the pills back, chugging the entire glass. “Can’t take any chances. No one wants another UTI debacle.”

“No one wants to hear about your urinary tract, Nor,” Luisa replies as she takes a forkful of kunefe.

“I’m going to hop in the shower, but save me a plate,” I say, taking the opportunity while the bathroom is free to wash all of Rob right off me.

Luisa and I became friends at my first job out of college. We were both working as assistants at a digital marketing company and bonded quickly over the low pay and generally terrible environment. While Luisa found her way to a design agency, I suffered through years of stagnancy and half steps in the right direction, only getting promoted to a copywriter position this fall, four years later. But Luisa and I stayed friends, and we’ve lived together for the last two years.

I’m sure Luisa has many complaints about me as a roommate, but my only qualm with her is her and Michael’s excessive shower use, so I jump at the opportunity to get in there before they take it over as they do every morning and night for an hour. I don’t mind too much, especially when they feed me at all odd hours of the night, but I’ve also learned to be strategic about my bathroom time.

I take a long shower, knowing that it’s already almost midnight and there’s no chance I will get to shower again in the morning before my flight. Afterward, I collect my toiletries, tossing them on my bed next to the empty purple suitcase. I really did not plan this right at all. I emerge briefly in sweats to collect the bowl of food Luisa left. Aya has joined them at the tiny dining room table we found by the subway when we first moved in.

We met Aya through an online post when our last roommate decided the city wasn’t for her and moved back to Jersey. Aya’s lived here for almost a year and we still barely know anything about her. She’s very fun to be around, but Luisa and I have an ongoing game of who can get even the tiniest bit of personal information from her. One time, she mentioned her brother was in a K-pop group and I had a fucking field day, but that’s the most we’ve ever learned.

I take the bowl into my room (another pet peeve of Luisa’s) and shove a huge piece of broccoli into my mouth as I start to pull sweaters out of my closet and ram them into the suitcase. I no longer have time to be discerning. I’d put off packing this long with the hopes that work or something else would come up, and I’d have an excuse to cancel another trip home like I did at Thanksgiving.

My phone pings with an email, and I swipe open the notification. It’s a reminder to respond to the annual class reunion bar night e-vite. I sigh. I truly have no interest in going, but I click on the link and scroll down to the attendees.

I would be so very happy to never be in the same room, or building, or frankly, zip code as most of my former classmates ever again, for the rest of my life. I scroll past the sea of exclamations claiming Absolutely cannot wait!!! and I am SO there!!! My eyes roll so hard that it feels like I really should have had an audience for that.

I scan through the rest of the Yes, No, and Maybe columns, searching for his name. Give me this one win, I think, as I reach the Not Replied column. There he is.

Henry Cole.

Maybe I’ll have garnered enough goodwill from finally going home that I’ll at least be spared from seeing him. I click Maybe, and am about to go back to packing when the phone buzzes again in my hand.

It’s Frankie Carlisle, FaceTiming me. I answer to her screaming, “You’re going!” Frankie’s platinum blonde hair pops into frame, grazing her collarbones, as she cackles at me over the phone. Her usual perma-frown is nowhere in sight.

“That was fast,” I laugh, relishing the sight of my best friend’s face.

“I get the notification emails when people respond,” she explains, and I see her collapse onto her charcoal-colored comforter. “That’s what happens when you organize the whole damn thing.” Frankie is an event planner and may or may not have been being taken advantage of by our alumni committee. I think she’s getting paid at least?

I sigh, settling onto the corner of my own bed, the only spot that hasn’t been taken over by stuff.

“You’re going to make me go, aren’t you?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

“Nor, I’m completely slammed with holiday parties for the next two days. Then it’s the reunion, and then I leave on the cruise with my parents. This is the only chance we’ll have to see each other. It’s been two years. It’s getting ridiculous.”

“You’re the only person in the world I would suffer through this night for,” I say.

“I really am,” my forever best friend replies. “Who knows, it might even be fun. I’ve put a lot of work into making sure it’ll be the best time possible. And you know I hate almost everything, so I mean it.”

“Fine,” I say, leaning back on my pillow. “But I’m not changing my RSVP. I need to maintain the air of mystery.”

“For whom?” Frankie snorts, her orange tabby cat, Monsieur, crawling briefly into frame.

“I don’t know! For my own dignity! I have such little dignity when it comes to high school, Frankie. You know this.”