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He slides his hand across the countertop, the tips of our fingers touching. My heart squeezes and I hope it doesn’t show up like it feels, a crack down the center of my face.
“You’re my best friend, too.” My voice is shaky, and I swallow the other words down, that he’s the person I’m closest to in this world, other than Pop.
George doesn’t let me off the hook, though. “You haven’t been texting anyone back for months. You don’t pick up the phone. You didn’t join the softball team this year. I’m trying to be understanding, but I miss you.”
After over a decade of knowing each other, George is used to my silences. Still, I can’t help but feel self-conscious about them. I stare down at the old Formica countertop, trace my finger over the faint brown crescent moon burned into it, marking the spot where Grandma had once put a hot pot down without a trivet.
“So, you’re going to shower,” George says, softer. “And I’m going to make this new nacho dip I found, and you’re going to drink beer, and we will watch some rugby match on whatever channel you pay too much money for. And we’re going to start again.”
“Start again?”
“Our friendship,” he says, quieter still. “We’re going to restart it without the baggage of being exes and the decade that we’ve already accumulated between us. We’re just going to be two queer dudes, hanging out. Being friends.” He clears his throat and clenches his jaw, a little embarrassed.
“The casserole dish is above the stove,” I say after a moment.
The shower is too hot, then too cold. Never an in-between. I dress still a little wet, my shirt sticking to my back. I putter around my weight room, what used to be my bedroom until I moved everything into the master bedroom last year, after Pop moved into the assisted-care home. I wipe down the floor mats I installed, and the bench, the bar and the plates, the mirror on the wall, with an all-purpose cleaner.
Pre-match commentary blares as I enter the living room and I join George on the couch, a bowl of chips and the casserole dish—now filled with some sour-cream-salsa-cheese concoction—between us. “I also ordered a pizza,” George says, his eyes on the TV screen as if he’s actually interested in what two old white Welsh men have to say about these random teams’ prospects this season.
I shrug and dip a chip. “It’s good,” I say with a full mouth.
He preens. George has a separate Instagram account dedicated to his cooking and baking projects. I assume he’s already uploaded photos of this dish to the account. Meanwhile, I have an Instagram account I have forgotten the password to.
I sip my beer; it’s still warm after too few minutes in the fridge. A rugby player drop-kicks the ball from the middle of the field. George scrolls his phone. Despite his claims that we are starting fresh, he’s as comfortable here as I am. He’s as familiar as the furniture that’s been here for twenty years at least, the school pictures and my grandparents’ wedding photos hanging over the fireplace; nothing’s been changed since my grandmother was alive. The only new things in this house are the television and the close-cropped haircut I got last week.
Eventually, the boredom gets the best of him, and George regales me with the drama at his job. He’s the administrator for the psychology department at the University of Wilvale, the school that’s the only reason this town is on a map at all. George is also, slowly, getting his PhD part-time. He doesn’t want to be a psychologist, he says. He just wants to be able to psychoanalyze our friends. Since this is the exact level of meddling I expect from him, I’ve never said anything about how he’s spending a shit-ton of money to be able to dole out the best advice in our friend group.
“OK,” George says, breaking the comfortable silence that has settled between us. “There’s more to this intervention than just starting fresh.” His voice is pitched high. He catches his lip between his teeth.
I freeze with the beer bottle halfway to my mouth. This is what his nerves are about.
“Don’t be mad,” he pleads.
I place my bottle on the coaster and resist the urge to say I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed. Because George does this. He’s the king of not-always-welcome surprises. Most of the time I’m quiet because I don’t know what to say but this time, I let the silence hang thick between us.
The doorbell rings. George winces at the door and back at me. “That’s the food.”
George’s eyes are bigger than my stomach. I’m already full.
He says quickly, “You’re going on a date tonight.” Then gets up to answer the door.
“A what?” I ask when he comes back carrying a pizza box. Normally, I’d reach for my wallet, but he can cover this one. “Adate?”
I’m not disappointed. I’m definitely mad. But underneath that anger is the gripping fear that makes it hard to speak, to breathe.
“Why?” I ask, then before he can answer, “With who? When? George,why?”
He slides the box onto the coffee table. “Just listen.”
“No.” I stand up. Sit down. It’s been two years since my accident but in this weather—unseasonably cold, damp, the air heavy with rain that hasn’t fallen yet—my leg stiffens, aches. I press my fist against it, as if the pressure on the muscle will distract my nerves from the metal in my bones, the muscles that were torn and shredded.
“No. I’m not going on a date with anybody. You can’t do this to me, George.”
“There’s this woman who works at the university.” He plows ahead as if I haven’t already said an adamant and resounding absolutely the fuck not. “And we’ve become lunch buddies and we’ve been talking and she’s really lonely—but gorgeous—and she hasn’t been on a successful date in forever—I don’t know why, she’s lovely—and she reminded me of you.”
He walks into the kitchen, the floorboards creaking under his feet. The sound of cupboards opening and closing drifts in over the quiet hum of thickly accented rugby match commentary. As if this is just a casual conversation and not George meddling in my personal life. Again.
“She reminds you of me because...we’re both lonely and can’t get dates?” I ask. “Do you know how rude that sounds?” I don’t get angry often. Even now the feeling is burning up, leaving something empty and airless in its place. But my voice still trembles.
