The Journal of Best Practices

by David Finch

  A few months before she and Mike were to be married, he and his brother, Jason, died in a car accident. Kristen’s friends from college took turns staying with her at her parents’ house for the first few weeks after the accident. I had just graduated from college in Florida and had returned to Illinois to begin my career as an engineer a few months prior. I visited Kristen whenever I could, my presence little more than a reminder of support. I had no idea how to console someone, even my close friend. I wanted to take care of her but when it counted most I was at a loss. I also felt strange because I had witnessed the accident.

  I was living alone at the time, in a suburban apartment across the street from Jason and his fiancée, Lisa, who was out with Kristen on the night of the accident. It was late at night and I wasn’t yet asleep when I heard the screeching tires, the jarring impact, and the sickening drone of a car horn that couldn’t stop blaring. I scrambled out of bed and ran to my patio, where I called 911. I couldn’t see the wreck from where I was standing, and I was hopeful that it sounded worse than it actually was. I waited outside in my underwear until the emergency vehicles arrived, and then I said a prayer for the victims and returned to bed, shivering from the adrenaline and the cold November air.

  I learned the next morning that the accident I’d heard was Mike and Jason’s and that neither of them had survived. Jason died immediately, Mike a few hours later in the hospital in a deep coma, with Kristen at his side, telling him that if he needed to go, then she would be okay. And then he went. And she wasn’t okay.

  A few months later, Kristen moved in with Lisa, across the street from my apartment. Often she didn’t want to see friends, but when she did I made sure to be available. I’d meet her at the park one afternoon and then I might not hear from her for a month or two. I tried to do what Tom Hanks or Billy Crystal might have done for Meg Ryan were it a Nora Ephron film—I offered my company, without expecting her to want it. It was a tactic that prevented me from leaving more than three or four silly messages on her voice mail at a time and allowed me to pretend as though no time had passed when she finally called.

  What brought our friendship back to life was, strangely, my girlfriend at the time. Funny how the complete disintegration of one relationship can salvage another. Andrea was a beautiful Italian cellist with hair that spiraled down to her shoulders in tight curls. She got my humor and didn’t complain when I’d listen to the same music albums over and over. She was also the only girlfriend of mine Kristen had ever liked, and when it seemed as though Andrea and I weren’t clicking anymore, she urged me—even coached me—to make it work.

  “This week, I think you should make time to talk with Andrea,” she told me one evening over a cup of coffee. “Tell her you feel distant and that you don’t know why. Tell her that you feel there’s a problem and that you want to work it out with her.”

  It had been more than a year since the accident, and Kristen was finally starting to seem okay. Not happy yet, not at peace, but okay. All things considered, I was happy for okay.

  “That sounds like a good plan,” I said, balling up little shreds of brown paper napkin. “I’ll try that.”

  “Try not to overthink it,” Kristen said, eyeing the balls of shredded napkin. “Just talk to her. See where the conversation goes, the way you do with me. You two will figure it out.”

  That night was the first of what would become a standing Tuesday-evening engagement: the two of us getting together for overpriced coffee and free therapy. Each week, we took turns dishing to each other about our respective circumstances. She would listen patiently while I overanalyzed my love life, and because I lacked the normal social skills that might prevent a person from prying, I turned out to be a great conversational partner when she needed to talk about Mike. Unlike most people, I wasn’t intimidated by Kristen’s sadness and she found it refreshing to be able to open up and speak candidly with someone.

  At the end of each session, we would prescribe little assignments for each other. I tried to suggest fun activities to keep her amused, to bring the joy back into her life. Fortunately, acting selfishly as a means of preserving happiness was second nature to me, so I was good at coming up with suggestions. I often encouraged her to go shopping, her favorite pastime. Within a few weeks, she had acquired a second wardrobe. “Spring is just around the corner,” she said with a laugh one night, joining me at Starbucks with two armfuls of shopping bags. Most of my other suggestions—taking vacations, journaling, visiting with friends—produced equally positive results.

  Kristen’s assignments for me, however, were not as successful. I joined her for our tenth cup of coffee with the news that Andrea and I had broken up. We were good on paper—logically it made sense—but it didn’t work. Love and logic don’t always see eye to eye.

  As Kristen and I grew closer, our Tuesday evenings grew longer. We were often the last people to leave the coffee shop, and we started finding it difficult to say good night to each other. What began as coffee once a week became coffee twice a week. Then three times a week plus dinner. Most nights, we chatted and laughed out loud, but other nights we’d people-watch or read books together. Sometimes, we would simply drive around in her car and talk. I would do my best to follow the conversation, but often I was distracted—pleasantly—by the scent of her perfume, the closeness of her body. The way she looked in her workout clothes, or how she would ask me to steer while she re-formed her ponytail. Things that themselves were not new to me but that I had begun noticing more. Things that I’d think about long after we’d said good night.

  We began talking on the phone every day, and she would occasionally send me little cards thanking me for making her laugh, for making her feel good about herself, for helping her to be excited about life again. I started making opportunities to see her throughout the day. If I knew that she was going shopping after work, I would sneak out of my office and drive to the mall just so that we could accidentally bump into each other as I casually strolled past Ann Taylor—because what guy doesn’t browse women’s fashions at three thirty in the afternoon on a weekday?

  I was also doing everything I could to stifle logical thinking. Logical thinking prevents us from making catastrophic mistakes. We don’t pick fights with bears. We don’t lick a hot stove more than once. And, if we’re relying solely on logic, we don’t fall in love with our best friends. Logic by itself wouldn’t let us do such a thing—to jeopardize a close, meaningful relationship for the sake of romance. But feelings have a way of defeating rational thought.

  One night in May, Kristen and I met at our usual spot. She had recently gone on vacation and I was eager to hear about her trip. We took our favorite seats beside the fireplace—a pair of plush, oversized chairs that we liked to pull close together, so that our knees almost touched. Kristen always seemed to look just right in hers, easing herself naturally into the comfort, kneading her shoulders against the seat back, and crossing her legs.

  That night, as usual, I was having a hard time settling in and looking normal. While I had come to know it as my regular chair, it was still a public chair, and there really was no telling who might have settled into it before me. Gross folks, probably. The dander and oils of the masses had been embedded deep into the velveteen upholstery so I was reluctant to remove my coat and settle back, fearful that I might absorb the gook of strangers. Kristen enjoyed a good chuckle watching me as I tried to get comfortable.

  She looked especially attractive that evening. Her dark blue jeans and thin cashmere sweater, her high-heeled sandals. It all worked. Suddenly, I was right back in the high-school dressing room, eluding the mandatory vocal warm-ups and gluing on my mustache.

  Her clothes, though, were no match for her suntan, which she had gotten on her trip to San Diego. When I commented on it, she gently pulled aside the neck of her sweater and used her fingertips to trace the narrow tan line along her shoulder and neck. Oh, schwing. Sliding her fingers back and forth, grinning toward the ceiling, she whispered, “Not here s
o much . . . Or here . . . But right here.” This was a line from Tommy Boy, one of our favorite movies, and as she said it, with her delicate fingertips tracing her collarbone, I couldn’t imagine liking anyone more than her.

  She laughed and started telling me about her trip. My focus shifted between what she was saying and the delicate wisp of blond hair that had fallen lazily over her eye. The beach was nice; she befriended a duck that was living behind her hotel; she met a guy. My ears perked up.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  He was, she explained, a lot like me. “Only not as funny as you. Or maybe not as cute? I don’t know. Not as something as you.”

  Go on.

  “We met on the plane and had the best time talking . . .” I chugged half my coffee, trying to look casual. Sounds like a douche. Please don’t hook up with this boner and get married and move away and stop being friends with me.

  “We spent a whole day together at the zoo . . .” I folded a napkin into a flimsy paper airplane, trying to look casual. Zoo? What? Please don’t hook up with this boner and get married and move away and stop being friends with me.

  “We exchanged numbers when we got back to Chicago, but of course he hasn’t called me . . .” Please, please, please don’t hook up with this boner and—Wait a second.

  “Boner Boy didn’t call you?” I asked, trying to conceal my happiness.

  Kristen wasn’t even interested in Boner Boy, or “Ryan,” as she called him. It was, she told me, simply the thrill of allowing herself to flirt with someone without feeling guilty about it.

  “It was just nice to know that I could flirt, should I happen to find myself attracted to someone.” She gazed at me for a moment, and I forgot how to breathe.

  After ratcheting up my courage, I said, “Tell me about your ideal guy.”

  She described him as being engaging, funny, sweet, completely devoted to her. “Oh, and he’d have to know how to order my coffee,” she added coyly.

  Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh boy.

  My heart raced as she adjusted herself in her chair, crossing her legs, letting her lovely shoe dangle from her toes. Her hair spilled over her fingers as she rested her face in her hand, smiling at me.

  “Tell me about your ideal woman,” she said.

  My answer, in its entirety, was sitting right in front of me. I just didn’t know if I was reading the situation correctly.

  Are we really doing this?

  I was pretty sure that we were, but then again, I can’t always tell when people are flirting with me and when they’re just being nice. When I used to play in bands in college, girls would ask me during bar gigs if I wanted to get a drink with them, and I’d decline, raising my cup and saying, “No, thanks. I’ve already got my 7-Up and orange juice.” If a waitress brought a check with a smiley face drawn on it I’d think, Wow, smiley face . . . That’s pretty forward. Does she want me to call her? I need things to be black-and-white.

  Kristen’s eyes locked on mine, bringing me back. She smiled.

  “Well, if you’re asking . . .”

  “I am,” she said softly.

  That moment reminded me what it meant to feel alive—my face getting hot, my mouth stammering, my words sounding not even remotely poetic. It all somehow led to more amazing moments that evening: going to her house afterward, talking all night about how our friendship was changing and how exciting it felt. Kissing her, and waking up the next morning on her couch, wrapped in her arms.

  The euphoria continued, and we were certain it would last. There were trips to Minnesota, Utah, Wisconsin. There were hundreds of restaurants. There were discussions about how lucky we were to have each other. There was a single “I love you” that opened the door to countless more. There were flowers and family introductions and an engagement ring, and still more discussions about how lucky we were to have each other. There was our first house. There were photographers to book and a wedding cake to order. And finally, there were wedding vows.

  All this because some doofus bonked his nose against his knee. Yes, our wedding pictures seem to say, that really happened.

  It’s our third anniversary. Much has changed since the silly days of high school and the euphoria of dating. We’re sitting in a fancy restaurant. Our chairs aren’t squeezed together—instead, they seem miles apart. There’s no fireplace, and by tomorrow morning, I will have forgotten what Kristen is wearing. The last few rolls of sushi remain on the platter, illuminated by a candle. My small saucer of soy is almost empty, just some bits of rice and wasabi mingling in the shallow pool. We’re supposed to be celebrating but we haven’t spoken much. Work. Our baby. Building the new house. People at other tables are chattering, smiling, drinking. I look up to ask if something is wrong, and Kristen is biting her lip, her eyes welling with tears, trying to focus on anything in the restaurant that isn’t me.

  It’s not working. Any of it. Our marriage, it seems, is over.

  “What is there to say?” she asks. She looks at me and starts sobbing.

  I hand her a napkin, saying nothing.

  “I don’t know when things got bad,” she says, wiping tears from under her eyes. “I feel like I’ve lost you and I don’t know what will bring you back.” She chews her lip as she organizes her thoughts. “You’re just so cynical and dismissive and checked-out. It’s constant. And it’s not supposed to be this hard . . .” She can’t continue. Her voice is strange, her face is strange—she is consumed with grief.

  I’m annoyed that she’s doing this right now, but not surprised. This is the first time we’ve bothered to talk to each other in weeks. What’s surprising is how little emotion I feel at this moment. By the time I’m able to process all this, I will feel an overwhelming sadness. But right now, in the moment, I feel almost nothing.

  People are looking at us now—first at her, then at me. Just celebrating our third anniversary, folks. Nothing to see here.

  We are not consciously aware of it this evening, as we sit face-to-face in separate worlds, but Kristen is mourning a loss again. This time it’s different. She has my body to hold. It’s right here. She can hear me, see me, touch me, feel me. But she doesn’t want to do any of those things. Embracing me now would be like embracing a stranger. It’s our special friendship that has died, our once deep emotional connection now little more than a distant, if consoling, memory.

  I sit back in my seat and wait as she composes herself. She has every reason to be sobbing right now. She is disappointed in me—I’m not the person she thought she was marrying three years ago. I’m not her friend. But I have nothing to say to her that will radically shift our course and get us back on track, because I’m disappointed, too. I’m disappointed in her for not being the woman I’d thought she’d magically become as soon as we were married: the portrait of domestic excellence, the perfect stay-at-home mom fulfilled by her duties and her love for her somewhat quirky husband. The woman I hadn’t even known I wanted.

  There are no pictures of us on the walls at home, there are no moments of tenderness after a satisfying day of taking care of the baby, there are no clean dishes in the cupboards. There is only resentment. And all this resentment between us certainly explains all the sex we’re not having—and this, in turn, does nothing to combat the ever-mounting resentment. Not only are we no longer friends, we are no longer lovers. Now we are just . . . married. Cheers!

  We never would have—never could have—imagined that our relationship would look like this back when we were just friends meeting for coffee. We had no idea that we would someday forget how to be friends. We hadn’t planned on assigning new titles to each other, much less that each new title would bear such hefty expectations. My friend Kristen would become my girlfriend Kristen. The word friend would vanish from the title when Kristen’s boyfriend, Dave, would become her husband, Dave. We didn’t know how detached and distant we would feel from each other after three confusing years of marriage. I didn’t know how lost and defeated Kristen’s eyes would look in our fourth year of m
arriage, when she’d tell me, “I don’t even know why we decided to get married.”

  Our third anniversary wasn’t what we’d planned, and, sadly, neither was our fourth. But thanks to my Asperger’s diagnosis, which allowed me to take a step back and look at our situation with new understanding, our fifth anniversary looked promising. I’m not an asshole. I don’t mean to be difficult. I can fix this. This knowledge gave me the courage to honestly assess the state of our union, as fractured as it was. There was almost no communication, as our conversations only led to arguments. The responsibilities of working and raising children and being married to an underdeveloped man left Kristen exhausted all the time. I never offered to help. I had no idea how to be a parent. Or a husband, for that matter.

  Though it was difficult to admit these things to myself, the naked honesty was refreshing and strengthened my resolve to get in there and fix everything. While I couldn’t envision the steps we’d need to take to get there, I found it rather easy to summarize the end goal: We have to get back to being friends.

  I committed myself to this concept—to this Best Practice—without any clue as to where we should begin. It felt like quail hunting with my dad on the farm where I grew up. Quail are these smallish game birds that huddle together under the cover of tall grass as predators approach. They don’t fly until it’s absolutely necessary. I’d take a step and suddenly, out of nowhere, there would be a half-dozen birds in my face, launching themselves into the sky, while my dad yelled, “Shoot! Shoot!” from across the field. I could see the birds, I could count them, but I could never get the hang of setting myself, drawing my gun, aiming, and firing before they flew out of range. Dad would laugh and roll his eyes, and I’d stand there trembling, wondering, Which one was I supposed to shoot? Such were the problems in my marriage. Problems were everywhere, but which one should I attack first? What was the first step to getting our friendship back?