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She leans forward, bringing the smell of lavender with her. “Breaking the rules,” she whispers.
A stone sinks in my stomach; it feels a lot like disappointment. I’m not one to show my emotions on my face but in this moment the realization feels written into my DNA. “Well, we didn’t break any rules, right? Cuz we’re just friends,” I say quickly. “We were just doing each other a favor.”
She straightens from her lean. “Right.” She shakes her head. “Right, of course. Are you sore?” she asks, gesturing to where my hand grips my thigh.
I let go and shake my hand loose. “I’m fine. How’s your hand?”
She holds it up for me. She no longer needs the gauze bandage and three peach-colored Band-Aids cover the cut that is now just an angry red line. “What did you talk about in your group session?”
She switches topics so quickly my brain gets whiplash. I’m still stuck on her maybe not being OK with the friends-with-benefits situation. After we were done that night, I got her a cloth soaked in warm water and wiped her skin clean. She’d laughed, grabbing the washcloth, claiming it tickled. Betty had come in while we sat at the edge of the bed, our clothes finally put right, sweat drying on my skin. She let us pet her, and when I asked Lulu if she needed anything, she’d just shrugged and said, “I’m good.”
And then we went back to the couch and finished the movie. Lulu fell asleep on my shoulder, her breathing slow and her body a solid weight against me. She didn’t wake up until the credits finished rolling, and when I tried to drive her home she insisted she take a cab and I insisted she text me when she got home. It felt comfortable. Like friends. Or maybe something else. OK, so maybe she has a point.
Also, I didn’t talk in group at all.
“What didyoutalk about in group?” I ask instead of answering her question.
She launches into an explanation of how she’d been ruminating on the act of friendship. How when we were children it was as easy as playing next to another kid in the sandbox, of having your parents push the two of you together, and how now it feels like a far more intentional action. She rattles off the names of books she’s read, a non-fic about keeping each other close, a romance with a friends-to-lovers trope,Charlotte’s Web, and a picture book on the subject.
“You read this all in the past week?”
She shrugs, likeyeah, who doesn’t read four books in a week?
I’m still working on the book about the Derrida guy she mentioned, after I gave up on the one about witches. I like to read as much as the next person but not that much.
“It’s just interesting,” she says finally. “There are all these rules about how we make friends, but we don’t really talk about what the rulesare. And I tried to think about how I got along with people in the UK, and I don’t know, I guess I’m a little gun-shy? I’ve never had a big friend group. I had one or two close friends, plus my parents. And then my best friend at Lancaster, Nora, she cheated on me with my boyfriend. Or well, he cheated on me with her, I guess?” She glances over at me, her mouth a crinkle. “I can’t remember if I already told you that.”
“That’s...” I’m at a loss for words. More than usual. “Terrible.”
She shrugs, likeit is what it is, even though I can tell by the flush in her cheeks, the nervous way she gnaws at her lip, that it isnotwhat it is. “His betrayal was bad enough. But hers...” She shakes her head. “Mostly, I try not to think about it too much. Anyway,” she says, dragging out the word. “I keep trying to think about what I’m doing differently now. Like how did I become friends with Nora? We worked together and we just...clicked. And it’s not like I have a boyfriend for a new friend to cheat on me with.”
“Maybe you’re not doing anything differently. Maybe the people are different.”
“You have to say that,” she says quietly. “You’re my friend. Maybe I should have stuck it out in the UK,” she says, more to herself.
Lulu claims she has difficulty making friends, but she pulled me into her orbit and somehow, I never even noticed. In fact, I think I went quite willingly. “If I wasn’t your friend yet, how would you make me one?”
She purses her lips, looking up at the ceiling panels. “I’d ask you questions.”
“Ask me a question.”
“I had a list of things I wouldn’t let myself talk about on our...the first time we met,” she admits.
“Why wouldn’t you let yourself talk about them?”
She shakes her head. “Second-guessing myself?”
“Like, what?” I ask. “What would you have talked about if you had let yourself?”
“Like...” She sighs. “What’s your favorite tree?”
“Favorite type or a specific tree?”
“Either. Both.”
Never in my life have I considered what type of tree I might like the most. “A pine tree? I like Christmas. What about you?”
“I have a favorite. You can meet her sometime.” She frowns down at her hands. “But don’t think I didn’t notice you changing the subject. What did you talk about in your group session, Jesse?”
