“Monogmugamous. I’m faithful to coffee. He’d know if I stepped out.”
Then she lifts her mug of wine to her lips, takes a sip, and walks out of the kitchen. As if what just happened was perfectly normal and not the most absurd thing she’s ever done.
Which says a lot, considering she’s Skye Kennedy and you never know what the hell is going to come out of that woman’s mouth.
Tea brewed and bodies settled under blankets on the couch, we spend the next half hour talking about Sunny’s school project on plate tectonics and how she drew a fault line under her teacher’s patience. We talk about Dexter’s new lecture series, the way he gets lost in his research and babbles on about Madeleine de Scudéry as if she’s an old friend instead of a seventeenth-century author barely anyone knows about—(I literally have no idea who she is). We talk about Otis’s new trick: “shake” with either paw depending on which hand you offer, which is unreasonably impressive for a dog with the attention span of a toddler who got ahold of Mountain Dew.
Somewhere around the bottom of the mugs, our laughter thins to the soft contentment that only shows up when you’ve said all the words. Alis sets her cup down and tucks her feet under a blanket like she’s putting herself away, settling in for the quiet part of the evening.
“Thank you for telling me,” she says to me, quiet but steady. “Even the hard parts.”
“Thank you for asking,” I say back. “Even when you were scared to ask.”
Skye reaches all the way around Alis to my hoodie, pullingboth of us in for another group hug. “I love you bitches so damn much,” she says.
“I love you, too,” Alis mumbles. “But can you please let go? Because my face is smashed into your boobs.”
“Shhh,” Skye coos. “Rest in my bosom, sweet Alis.”
“Um, no thank you.” Skye continues to hold us in her death grip—her arm wrapped around my neck in more of a chokehold than a hug, Alis smashed between my chest and hers.
Finally, Skye loosens her grip enough that I’m able to duck out from underneath her arm and Alis resurfaces, making a show of inhaling as if she couldn’t breathe before.
“And remember. Vault,” Skye declares, tapping her chest. “The good kind. The glittery kind.”
“Those exist?” I ask.
“Only the most secure. Super rare,” she says.
We put on our favorite rom-com and quote over all the dialogue, as is our sacred custom. When the credits roll, Alis stands and collects her things slowly, like she’s not quite ready to break the spell. At the door, she hugs us both in a three-person tangle, and for once none of our elbows stab anyone in the boob.
“I’m here,” she says, one last squeeze.
“I know,” I answer. “Me too.”
After she’s gone, Skye leans her forehead against the door and lets out a soft, tired exhale. “I love her.”
“Same.”
She turns, eyes flicking over my face like she’s checking for cracks. “You okay?”
I think about tonight. About having to explain the shitstorm that was my marriage to my best friend, and how the three of us held each other in the aftermath. I think about how, even in the midst of so much pain and heartbreak, with these two women I am always safe, always completely at home. “I’m okay,” I say, and it’s true.
Skye bumps my hip with hers. “Next month, we make Alis say ‘integrate me’ in French.”
“Good God, woman,” I huff. “You really are feral.”
She grins, smug and soft. “Love you, too, mon cœur.”
“Don’t start,” I warn, but I’m laughing as we kill the lamp and let the string lights do the rest—our little apartment warm and bright, the night outside knocking softly and deciding to leave us be.
TWENTY
TORI
The copy roomhums like a lazy beehive—not that I can hear it—printer warm and breathing, the big industrial copier chewing through a packet for Dr. Patel one thunked ream at a time. It smells like hot paper and toner and that faint plasticky scent of fresh lamination, even though I have yet to find the magic laminator. I’ve commandeered the only clear stretch of counter—left to right: quizzes, stapler, paper clips, sticky notes with my reminders in tidy loops—while my audiobook chatters straight into my skull.
Maybe “chatters” isn’t the right word. More like,caressesmy senses.
