“Look, I’m not going to force it out of Chris,” I say, steamrolling over their moment. “I’m not his therapist.”
“That’s true,” Tara agrees. “But you are his friend. And sometimes friends are supposed to pry, if it’s coming from a place of truly caring about the other person.”
“I don’t care that much about him,” I say. It feels important to state that aloud so my brain might interpret it as truth, play it back later while I’m sleeping, persuade my subconscious to register it as fact.
“Well, you’re a very empathetic person,” Tara says. She hands me the last slice of pizza because she’s a true friend like that. “You feel things deeply.”
I’ve never thought of myself as particularly empathetic. At least not since I was a little kid, when the weight of the world encased me in a gravitational vortex set in motion by my own mass. Before I learned how to break the curse of caring about what everyone thought and felt about me.
“I guess that’s right,” I say. Tara has that way of making me take her side, even if I don’t intend to. “Chris is lucky to have me.”
“He is,” Tara says. “But not as lucky as we are.”
“Enough with all the mushy confessions,” Hal says, but she’s glowing. “Time to get back to business.” She opens her laptop, furrows her brows at the screen again, as if taking this one night off might send everything careening off course.
Tara hops up to change into her bartending attire. I follow her into our bedroom so I can get some space from Hal and Astrid.
“You sure you don’t want to come along to the bar?” Tara asks, pulling on jean shorts and a black V-neck. The Lone Wolf uniform is casual, no surprise there.
“That’s alright,” I say, though it means a lot how she goes out of her way to ensure I’m not left out. “Think I’m just going to drive Uber; it’s been a while since I have.”
“Over to Tribeca?” Tara asks lightly.
I try to arrange my face as neutrally as I can. “Only if someone needs a ride over there.”
Tara doesn’t pry, just dabs Vaseline on her lips and eyelids.
“I’m just driving Uber so I can pay rent,” I remind her. “Nothing else.”
“EJ,” Tara says, nipping up her purse and hurrying out the door so she’s not late. “I know you pride yourself on being a great liar, but I can always tell. Your voice goes up two octaves.”
“No, it doesn’t.” I lower my pitch to prove my point, hammer it home.
“And you don’t blink, like you’re trying to overcompensate and prove how trustworthy you are.”
“I blink,” I say, but I know she’s right.
“Your antics might work on most people,” Tara says. “But not on me. We’ve been friends for over a decade now, EJ. I’ve had some time to figure you out.”
“Or maybe I just want you to know when I’m lying,” I say, and it feels like the truest thing I’ve said in a while. “Have you ever thought about that?”
“Hmm,” Tara says. “That theory makes me feel kind of good.”
“It should,” I tell her. “You and Hal are my people. You always will be.”
Tara shifts on her feet. I can sense her own fears over Hal and Astrid’s relationship becoming serious. “Always?” she asks. Her eyes are so wide and vulnerable. It gives me a glimpse into younger Tara, who was shuffled through the foster system from one temporary home to another.
I nod and loop her into a hug, my lips brushing her cheek.“Always,” I say. “Unless you join a polycule with Hal and Astrid and leave me out.”
Tara laughs, but the vibration is off. “Yeah, right,” she says. “Hal seems perfectly happy having Astrid to herself.”
It hits me slowly but all at once. “Shit,” I say, looking at Tara with fresh eyes. “You and Hal?”
“No, of course not,” Tara says quickly. “Nothing’s ever happened.”
“But you love her.”
Tara doesn’t say anything. She’s staring at her feet. “I love all the Redstockings.”
