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He laughs, standing up and walking over to where I’m standing in the kitchen. “Making enough for me?”
“Yeah.”
“So what did you plan to do up here by yourself?”
“I didn’t have any plans. Just wanted to get away and clear my head.”
“Yeah, I get that feeling.” He crosses one ankle over the other, leaning back against the counter next to me. Only the sound of the percolating coffee fills the air. I can’t take the awkwardness that’s come between us any longer.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“What happened to us? We used to be friends and now it’s just . . . weird.”
His expression is confused. “We’re still friends, right?”
“I guess, yeah, I consider you a friend, but we’re not friendly. Things are awkward at times and even uncomfortable. I don’t know . . . it just seems like in the last few years, it’s changed drastically.” He runs his hand over his jaw slowly. “What? You think it hasn’t?”
“No, I know it has. I’ve, uh, I’ve done a shit job of being your friend. I meant what I said to you the other night in the parking lot. I recognize that I’ve been distant. I’ve let stress build up and I’ve taken it out on you.”
“Are you angry with me about anything?”
He looks up at me, his eyes almost sad. “No, no, not at all. You’ve been great and beyond patient with me.”
“Do you want to talk about things at work—what has you so stressed?”
“Maybe.” His eyes shift back down toward his feet. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Do you think that if Dean and I hadn’t been best friends, you and I would be friends?”
That’s not what I was expecting to hear. “Yeah, why wouldn’t we be? We’ve stayed friends since he died.”
“Yeah, that I understand. Just wasn’t sure if we would have found our way into each other’s lives otherwise.”
I feel myself growing defensive and a little hurt. “Do you not think we would be?”
“I wonder.” He shrugs.
“So, what? You don’t think this friendship is legit then?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Well, what are you saying then?” My throat constricts with emotion. Have I been a complete fool this entire time in thinking that he and I were best friends? Was this just some obligation he felt to Dean’s memory?
“I dunno, just forget it. I shouldn’t have said anything.” He shakes his head.
“No, fuck that. Say what you really feel.” I push off the counter and stare at him.
“Sometimes I wonder if you’ve remained close to me because I’m your last tie to him. We built a lot of memories together—the three of us, I mean. We were practically still kids when he was taken from us, so I wouldn’t blame you.”
“Don’t,” I say, shaking my head, “don’t youdarediminish our friendship like that.”
“I’ve been a shit friend to you, pushed you away, and you still stay. Why?”
I gasp, a laugh choking through the tears I’m holding back. “And you’re faulting me for that? That’s called loyalty. That’s called being a good friend, Ranger. You don’t just bail when someone is struggling with life or stress. Friendships—relationships—have ups and downs, so you don’t just give up on someone when it gets tough.” I feel my voice growing shaky and I ask the question I’m dreading the answer to: “Is that how you see me? As some last thread that ties you to Dean? Some obligation that you have to protect or carry on out of some duty to your best friend?” My voice has become a bit shrill as I try to remain calm, but I’m failing.
