I didn’t know where to put the truth of it, so I just let it sit there between us, fragile and unknown.
I let out a slow breath. “Funny thing is, I didn’t even realize how much of that I’d been carrying until our conversation last night—and then today.”
“Because of my parents,” she said.
I nodded. “Watching them talk to you like that, seeing how much weight they put on money and appearances.” I shook my head. “It hit a nerve.”
She was quiet for a beat, then said, “I’m really sorry. About your ex. About all of it.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’m sorry too.”
She frowned slightly. “For what?”
“For misjudging you,” I admitted. “Back in college. I let my resentment about money color how I saw you. Took it out on you when it wasn’t fair.”
I remembered the first time I’d seen her—freshman year, Intro to Statistics. She’d been sitting in the second row, laptop sleek and new, hair perfectly styled like shehadn’t just sprinted across campus to make it on time. Everything about her had screamedeffortless. Money. Comfort. A life where problems didn’t involve choosing between groceries and gas. I’d taken one look at her and decided she had it easy. Decided she wouldn’t understand someone like me.
I’d never stopped to wonder what it cost her to look so put together or what she might’ve been running from.
Her lips curved into a small, sad smile. “We were both different people then.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “But still.”
The town sign came into view, inviting and safe.
“I see you now,” I said. “How hard you’re trying to build something that’s yours. Not theirs. That takes guts.”
She swallowed. “I didn’t realize it was so obvious.”
“It wasn’t to me,” I said. “Not until today.”
We pulled into our apartment complex a few minutes later. I parked, cut the engine, and the silence rushed back in.
Roxie didn’t move to open her door right away.
“Ledger?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you again,” she said. “Not just for standing up for me. For seeing me.”
Something warm spread through my chest at that.
“You don’t have to thank me,” I said gently. “That’s just what you do. For someone who is your friend.”
Even as I said it, the word felt insufficient. Too small for what had passed between us today. Too neat.
Friends didn’t look at each other the way she was looking at me now, like she was trying to memorize something.
But the words still hung between us, heavier than I’d intended.
She searched my face, eyes lingering, curiosity and something else flickering behind them.
“Friends can still be pretend,” she said lightly. “In our case.”
“I think with everything we’ve been through,” I said, holding her gaze, “we’re past pretending to be friends.”
Neither of us moved as my words and the truth in them wrapped around us.
