There’s a long pause where Sibby simply looks at me, as though she’s trying to decide whether it’s worth it, to do this.
And it almost breaks my heart when she uncrosses her arms and shrugs, moving toward her luggage. “We’ve both been really busy, I guess.”
I move to stand in front of her suitcase.
Because she’s worth it, to me.
“Sib. Don’t do that. Let’s finally talk.”
She stills, crosses her arms again. But I can tell she’s surprised. “Listen, I know it makes it weird, that I’m moving out.”
“That’s not what makes it weird. It’s been weird formonths. I don’t want to pretend it’s not anymore.”
Her face softens, and she drops her eyes to our weathered floors. “It’s probably—you know how it is, when you get into a new relationship. Elijah and I—”
“It’s not Elijah. This is before Elijah. You know it is.”
That softness in her face vanishes. She raises her chin. “Meg, you’re making this too big of a deal. I’ve changed, you’ve changed. That happens sometimes.”
You know how it is? That happens sometimes?Like she’seducatingme, in some way, about friendship in general. About our friendship in particular. I once held this woman’s hair after she threw up from one wine cooler at senior prom. I got on my hands and knees on the floor of the Union Square station to help her find one of her favorite earrings even though the pair had only cost fifteen dollars. I’ve held on to grudges against anyone who’s ever done her the slightest wrong. I know what friendship is.
I know I haven’t made it too big of a deal.
“It doesn’t happen to us,” I say, proud of the way I’ve kept my voice calm. “I want to know what changed betweenus. I want to know why you stopped wanting to hang out. I want to know why you stopped talking to me about your day. I want to know why you constantly brush me off.”
“It’ll be better when I’m in my new place, okay?”
I feel my brow lower in confusion. “How will it be better?
How do you really think we’re going to spend more time together that way?”
She gusts out an exasperated sigh. “Can’t you leave this alone?”
It’s a version of something I’ve heard before. From my parents, especially that final year I was at home. From myself, anytime I’ve wanted to avoid something difficult.Leave it alone, Meg, and there’s still a part of me that wants to listen.
But I’m different now. I don’t only protect myself anymore.
I press. I practice. Istay.
“No, I can’t.”
For long seconds, I don’t think she’ll answer. I think she’ll simply turn on her heel and walk the short distance to her boxed-up bedroom. And if she does, I guess I’ll have to accept it. I can’t force her to talk to me, to fight with me. But at least I’ll know I tried.
“I want to work this out, Sib. It can’t be worse than how it’s been—”
“I’mjealous, okay?” she says, cutting me off. But her voice, in contrast to her words, isn’t a sad, sorry confessional. I see thatjealousas a sword: theja curved, elaborate hilt, the letters rising out of it slanting and sharp-edged, narrowing and narrowing to the most precise, painful point.
I blink at her, stunned. “Jealous?”
It doesn’t compute, not with me and Sibby. We made fun of girls like that. We rejected that kind of thing with elaborate celebrations of each other’s accomplishments, always. Always, until...
“Because of my business?” I say, tentatively. I think back, months ago. When theTimesarticle came out, Sibby and I went for a fancy dinner, the kind you make a reservation for. We drank champagne. We toasted The Planner of Park Slope, and we went to a new show she’d been dying to see. Shehadcelebrated it. But after . . .
After, shedidstart getting distant.
At first, I feel a sense of relief. Jealousy is awful between friends, but Sibby and I can get past it. If I tell her how it’s been—the pressure I’ve been feeling, the isolation I’d felt for so long. The worry over the block, the Make It Happyn deadline. If she knew . . .
But then she makes a derisive, annoyed noise, and I don’t feel any relief at all.
