Friends from Home

by Lauryn Chamberlain

  “If you promise not to tell my mama, I’ll go buy us two more of these right now,” she said, handing me her cone. “You eat these two. We are going to sit here and eat ice cream until we’re sick.”

  “Wow, I love you,” I blurted, and we both giggled.

  “I love you, too,” she said, and I knew it was more than just a joke over ice cream. She meant it. We meant it.

  We were eight years old, but I can remember that moment better than I remember some entire romantic relationships. This may begin to give you some idea of how I felt about my best friend.

  In some ways, my friendship with Michelle has all the hallmarks of the nonplatonic love story our society is much fonder of telling. We had a meet-cute (I tripped and bumped right into her on my first day at a new school). I remember that first “I love you.” We even had the moment where she met my parents—and Michelle is the only person still in my life who has actually met both of them.

  The next part of the essay recounted the day Michelle drove me to see my father. I scrolled past those lines, feeling choked up in spite of myself. My heart beat a little bit harder as I thought about how much it had meant to me that day when Michelle said, “I’m staying.” She was the only person who had ever said that to me.

  I scrolled down to the final paragraphs.

  But my story with Michelle has one more thing in common with a romantic relationship: a breakup. It happened the way breakups always do: over the one big, “unforgivable” thing that is really the cumulative breaking point of a thousand other tiny moments.

  Why? Well, suffice it to say that I am a chronic overthinker, quick to doubt myself, and yet still somehow too convinced that I’m always right. Michelle’s flaws I will not detail here, except to say that she once forced me to buy a $395 bridesmaid dress. We are just two people bumbling through a mess of life. We’re okay without each other, I think.

  Or maybe we aren’t. I still do not know if I made the right decision about us. It feels like it sometimes, and other times it does not.

  People are fond of saying that you never forget your first love. Maybe Michelle, in a way, was mine. But when I think about that day she drove with me to Tennessee, when I think about the way she looked at me when she promised me, “I’m staying,” I know something else, too: I know that you cannot change who taught you how to love, a subtle but critical distinction. And I can see her sitting next to me in my mind, with all her sugar-dipped snark and her Alabama drawl, the same way I can see my face when I look in the mirror.

  CHAPTER 28

  Moving in New York is an experience that can cause even the most devout residents to wonder what the hell they’re doing living in the city.

  Once my lease application had been approved, I promptly spent all my savings on the assorted deposits and broker fees for the new apartment. That meant hiring movers for the big day was a no-go. I ordered a new bed from Sleepy’s that wouldn’t be delivered until the afternoon and didn’t own any of the other furniture from my old apartment, so all I had were garment bags of clothes and boxes. I still couldn’t fit all of it in an Uber, so I rented one of those $19.95-per-hour U-Hauls and said a silent prayer that I still remembered how to drive.

  “Don’t kill us,” Dana warned as she climbed up into the passenger seat next to me. “I’ll be so pissed if I die in a U-Haul in Brooklyn.”

  “Thanks for coming to help. And . . . I’ll try not to?”

  “Encouraging.” She slid on her sunglasses. “Okay, let’s get this over with. I have to work tonight. Again.”

  “Hold on.” I held up a hand. “Just got an e-mail.”

  “Oh good, yeah, check your e-mail while we hold up all the traffic on Flushing Avenue.”

  The message came from modernlove@nytimes.com. Just two lines: “Thank you for sending your writing to Modern Love. Although I don’t find your essay right for our needs, I’m grateful for the opportunity to consider it.”

  “What?” Dana asked.

  “My essay got rejected.” I stared straight ahead, convincing myself I did not feel anything about this. It was always a long shot. “But, to be expected.”

  I felt awkward for a minute, because I didn’t want to be the subject of consolations. But this was Dana, so of course she knew exactly what to say.

  “This is amazing!” She grabbed my hand.

  “It is?”

  “You can’t be a real writer until you’ve been rejected by the Times. It’s a huge deal! Lots of writers have—you’re in great company. I bet even, like, Faulkner got rejected.”

  “Right, William Faulkner, noted writer of New York Times personal essays.”

  “Whatever, you get it. You’re on your way. You’ll get the next one.”

  For whatever reason, I actually believed her more than I doubted myself. The rejection still stung, but I smiled, turned the key in the ignition, and pulled away from the curb.

  * * *

  • • •

  We made it to the new place in one piece. Dana took off to go squeeze in some Saturday hours at work as soon as we’d dumped everything I owned on the parquet-wood floor of my new eleven-by-fifteen-foot fourth-floor box on Cortelyou Road. “But I’m super excited for you, I swear.” She kissed me on the cheek. “We’ll have dinner or something soon.”

  “Good luck at work.” I hugged her good-bye. “Just wish me luck returning the U-Haul. I’ll need it.”

  As soon as she left, I sat down on the floor, because there was nowhere else to sit, and I waited for the deliverymen to drop off my bed. Killing time, I started scrolling through my recent messages. I stopped on Alan’s name, and I texted him that I had moved in, and I’d have him and Marcus over for drinks soon. I sent Ritchie a picture of the bare-bones living space of the apartment, and I knew she’d write back soon with a list of design suggestions, and probably links to her favorite “midcentury modern” inspiration on Pinterest. I thought I might even send my mom a message, too, but as I scrolled down in search of the last text from my mom, I got stuck on another contact name instead: “Michelle—your BFF.”

  I wanted to call her. The desire wasn’t from my conscious mind but rather from somewhere deep within me, as much as I told myself that the urge didn’t make sense at all. Maybe I wanted to call the Michelle who now existed for me only in the past: the one who had read my only actually published essay, a piece about our failed road trip to my father’s house that I had submitted to a niche literary magazine at Cornell. She had pored over every sentence of the first draft, and she even sent flowers to my dorm the day the issue came out. I tried to reconcile that Michelle with the one who told me I had lost myself.

  I couldn’t condone hating another woman for her choices; I wanted, more than anything, to be resolute in that. But I thought then of the little things, all the smaller irritations. For every time I complained about an offhand comment or a #wifeymaterial Instagram post from one of Michelle’s friends, had they rolled their eyes at all of us in New York, with our stories of artfully staged cold-brew coffee and our refusal to eat lunch away from our desks? Somewhere—everywhere, actually—someone thinks you’re doing it wrong.

  I knew then what I would do: I would send the essay to her. I wanted her to know. She might not even respond, but I knew somewhere deep inside me that I had only written it because I hoped, somehow, that she would see it. I drafted an e-mail before I could change my mind, reading only “I submitted this essay to the Times, but it didn’t get published. Decided I still wanted you to read it. Jules.”

  Then my phone buzzed with a notification. It was a comment, from Dana, on a photo I had posted on Instagram of the two of us grinning in the cab of my U-Haul: She had written “us vs everybody” with the heart emoji. It was stupid, but I caught myself smiling, and I thought, To hell with all of it, and just let myself feel glad about it, the tiniest thing, because sometimes in life it is very nice to just be happy an
d, for once, not interrogate yourself as to the reasons why.

  CHAPTER 29

  On Saturday, Ritchie and I had lunch in my new neighborhood. Mostly still a residential area with lots of families, it wasn’t chock-full of painfully hip spots like East Williamsburg—not yet, at least—but that made me like it even more. Each place we walked by looked homey and lived-in, like they were just waiting to become my regular spots. I hoped it wouldn’t change too quickly, even as I knew that I, somewhat guiltily, belonged to the wave of gentrification sweeping over Brooklyn.

  “You know, I grew up coming here, near Eighth Avenue in Sunset Park. My great-aunt and -uncle lived in the neighborhood when they moved to the US,” Ritchie told me as we walked down Cortelyou. “My parents wanted me to have the ‘suburban life’ in Jersey, or whatever, but I always loved it in Sunset Park.”

  “Let’s go there next weekend,” I told her as we stopped in front of her subway stop. “Unless you’re sick of coming all the way out here already.”

  “Never.” She hugged me tight, and we laughed when her glasses got caught in my hair, forcing us to stand cheek to cheek as we untangled them. “See? I’m literally trying to get stuck to you.”

  We eventually said good-bye, and I turned to walk the three blocks home. I clutched my keys in my right hand the whole way, enjoying a tangible reminder of the fact that this place was mine. My own apartment. My home.

  I climbed the four flights of lopsided stairs, excited to go inside and spend the rest of the day reading, undisturbed. But when I rounded the turn of the final staircase, there was someone standing there blocking my door.

  “Um . . . excuse me?” I said, but then I saw the short pastel skirt, the blond hair cascading down her back, and by the time I registered that it was her, she had spun around, her eyes locking with mine.

  “Miche—”

  “Julie,” she blurted at the same time.

  “Hi?” I asked, unable to ask even the obvious “What are you doing here?” question.

  “I read your essay.” Her voice sounded breathless. I glanced around, taking in her monogrammed LV suitcase, trying to figure out what this all meant. “I couldn’t believe that you wrote about me. Us.”

  “And?”

  “Well, I can’t believe that you did. After everything we said.”

  “So, what, you just . . . flew up here?” I asked, incredulous, even though of course that made perfect sense for Michelle, her particular brand of impulsiveness mixed with generosity.

  “I didn’t think; I just did it.”

  “Well, wow,” I said. I didn’t want to offer anything else until I knew why she was here, even though the part of me that had known her for so long wanted to pull her in for a hug, let this fight go the way so many of our fights had in the past. I couldn’t remember a time when Michelle had been the first to apologize about anything. She stayed quiet for a minute. I crossed my arms and leaned against the stair railing, waiting her out.

  She reached into her Michael Kors tote and started fishing around for something. “Anyway, I have something to show you, and it couldn’t wait.” She pulled out her phone, thrusting it into my hands. “Look.”

  I stared at her screen. It was an e-mail of some sort, sent from someone with an address at Bustle.com. “What is this?”

  “You told me the essay didn’t get published in the Times . . . but I submitted it to Bustle as a personal essay. And they’re going to publish it. Read the e-mail.”

  I dropped my arms to my sides, stunned. “Literally, how did you—how?”

  “Okay, I had a little help from Alan.” She grinned. “I remembered you talking about him, and I thought he might have some connections and be able to help on the publishing side.”

  “You remembered?”

  “Anyway, I messaged him on Facebook after I read the essay. His friend—I don’t know, this Meghan woman—is an editor at Bustle, and he made an introduction for me. It’s good, Julie. It’s really good. Oh, and he also gave me your new address. I’m not a stalker, I swear.”

  “Holy shit.” I clapped a hand over my mouth. “Sorry, this is—I can’t believe this. Thank you. But . . . I mean, why?”

  “I’m obviously trying to say that I’m sorry, damn it. I’m trying to say I’m sorry for how I acted.” She sighed, staring down at the floor. “A few times over these months, I guess. And especially at the bachelorette party. Maybe I went a little crazy.”

  Without me even making a conscious decision to forgive her, I felt the walls inside me crumble and turn to dust. I lunged forward and hugged her. “Hi,” I said into her shoulder, laughing, and she said, “Hi,” too, and then I pulled away from her, trying to figure out what we were supposed to do next.

  “Look, there were . . . plenty of times I wasn’t totally honest with you, and I think I should’ve been,” I said. “I’m sorry for that, too.”

  “But I have to say this, Julie,” she said, a note of stress in her voice. “This doesn’t change how I feel about what you decided to do. I don’t agree, and I’d probably tell you the same thing again.” A pause. “But, I don’t know, it’s you. I shouldn’t have said it like I did, like it wasn’t . . . your decision to make. I should have loved you through it anyway.”

  “Thank you,” I said. I thought of Marcia again then: To love someone without the hope of changing them is the only way you can love them. But this time, one small thing really had changed. Michelle and I were both finally ready to admit being wrong. This didn’t mean I was any more at ease with her views, or she with mine. Parts of us would always live in disharmony, and we would have to think about what that meant. Still, her apology, our understanding—it had to mean something. Forgiveness is how things begin.

  “And what I said about you thinking you were too good for us,” she added. “I don’t really mean that.”

  I laughed. “I actually think maybe you did.” Before she could protest, I added, “But it’s okay. Maybe I did think that for a while, trying to put Langham behind me. I don’t know why that was so important to me for so long, but I swear, I’m over it. And I’m sorry I made you feel that way. Just admit that you always thought you were better than me in high school and we’re square.”

  “I did not—”

  “Admit it.”

  “Fine.” She chuckled. “I was a bit of a brat back then. Sometimes.”

  “Back then?”

  “Excuse me, are we makin’ up or not?”

  “Sorry, I’m sorry. Yes. I just can’t believe you finally admitted it.”

  “And I never will again,” she said huffily, but I could tell she wasn’t angry anymore. “But I’ll tell you a little secret: You’d be amazed what marriage teaches you when it comes to compromise.”

  “So you’re a marriage expert already?”

  “So sassy. But then, that’s the Julie I always loved.”

  I took a deep breath. “This feels very seventh-grade us to ask, then, but does this mean we’re, I don’t know . . . us again?”

  Michelle pulled back, looking me in the eyes. “I decided I can’t imagine a life that doesn’t have you in it.”

  “There are always going to be things we don’t agree on, though,” I warned her. “I see that now. I mean, we should talk about it, but that’s not going to be easy. Maybe it means our friendship is going to be different.”

  “Maybe,” she said, her voice lower. “I still want to know you, though.”

  “I do, too.” And I did, even though I knew it might take some work. Even if it would never again be the easy, everyday kind of friendship that I had with Dana or Ritchie or Alan. It made me think of how people say you can never divorce your family: Even if you don’t speak to them, your mother is always your mother and your sister is always your sister. This felt the same to me. Like family, and no family has ever been perfect. If anyone knew that, I did.

  �
��So, like, do you want to come inside?” I laughed, realizing that we were still standing awkwardly in the hallway.

  “I did fly three hours from Birmingham, so, uh, yes.”

  I fiddled with the lock. “Just a warning—I have, like, no furniture yet. Definitely not Marcia approved. But I do have a bottle of wine in the fridge.”

  “Well then, perfect.”

  I heard her draw in a sharp breath as we walked into the room, the one and only room of the apartment, which contained the kitchen and the bed and the Ikea dresser I had yet to try to assemble. I realized that it was entirely possible Michelle had never seen a studio apartment.

  “It’s . . . very cozy,” she said.

  I elbowed her. “You don’t have to lie.”

  She laughed. “But your own place! That’s something. I just realized I’ll never live alone again.” I couldn’t tell if she sounded relieved or wistful.

  I opened the fridge to take out its sole contents, a bottle of sauvignon blanc and a tiny wedge of Brie cheese. “Not too early for a glass, right?”

  “Definitely not,” she said, sitting down on my bed. There was a moment of awkward silence, like maybe neither of us had thought much past the moment of reconciliation, but then she was back to being, well, Michelle.

  “So, does that mean I can finally tell you about the honeymoon?” she asked.

  “Yes. I’m even ready to scroll through a hundred photos of the beach from slightly different angles.”

  “Okay, but really, Turks was so gorgeous I couldn’t help it.”

  I laughed gamely. “Kidding. I can’t wait to see.”

  “I do want to hear what’s going on in your life, too. I haven’t exactly been great about that lately, have I?”

  “Well, there’s a lot to catch you up on.” I smiled, popping the cork out of the bottle. I realized how excited I was to finally tell her about my job, my apartment search, my conversations with Imani. About everything. “But you can start.”