I talk myself into it, and the talking-into is the vulnerable part, the part I would never say out loud to a living soul: more friends would be nice. I’m twenty-one years old, and I have never, not once, had this. And of every group of women on the planet, this is the one that would actually understand the specific deranged shape of my life — Gianna grew up the sister of it, Lucy’s dating straight into it, they both speak the language with no translator required.
I want it.
I let myself want it.
That, for me, is the growth. Not the lunch. Wanting the lunch and not talking myself out of it. Choosing the thing instead of defending the wall I built.
Me: Count me in.
The place is a cramped Italian spot near campus with paper tablecloths and a candle stuck in a wine bottle on every table, and Lucy is already there when I come in. She stands up and hugs me like we’ve done this a hundred times, which we have not, and Gianna blows in six minutes later already mid-sentence, before she’s fully through the door.
Lucy is warm in a way that is also watchful. She hugs you and reads you in the same motion — the kind of person who has the whole table understood before the breadbasket lands, who has, I’d bet, had Stanley figured out since long before I did. Giannais faster, sharper, and louder, running three conversations at once and saying out loud the thing everyone else at the table has politely agreed not to say.
I came in braced for it to be a performance. For the warmth to carry a transactional edge. For ninety minutes of being the girlfriend.
It isn’t. They’re just nice to me. There’s no audition on my end, and the sheer uncomplicatedness of this helps me lower my guard, because nothing in my life is uncomplicated, and I don’t have a defense built for people who are simply, plainly glad I came.
Somewhere over the pasta, Gianna says something unprintable about a freshman defenseman on Camden’s blue line, and I laugh. Really laugh. Before I’ve done the analyst thing of explaining the tape that proves her right. I just laugh, because it’s funny, and I’m inside the joke because I get it. She talks, lives, and breathes hockey, and so do I.
I have spent my entire life adjacent to a room full of men. Useful in it. Translating for it. Performing for it. I have never once been inside a circle of women who already speak the language, and I didn’t know it would feel this good inside of it.
And then Gianna reaches for the last piece of bread.
“Benson says Stan’s been different since you,” she says. “Like — actually different. Less annoying –– oh my god, no offense.”
I smile because Stanley is so annoying. She takes my smile as permission.
“Girl, I never thought Stanley would change. The guys all said that he’s been having dance parties inside the locker room.” She tears the bread in half. “You have to see the video. Lucy.”
Lucy looks a little reluctant, but Gianna sticks out her hand, and Lucy presses a few things on her phone. A familiar song I can’t name starts playing, and then Lucy slides the phone over. Sure enough, there’s Stanley doing something very serious withhis face while he sings the lyrics. He moves his body in good rhythm in the locker room, and then he stands on the bench and moves his hips in a thrusting movement. I stare at the video, a little stunned that this is how he is in the locker room. It’s not surprising. I just hadn’t thought about it. Then his white ass cheeks are on full display, playing peek-a-boo with the camera. I hear the roar of all the guys, laughing, hollering, and saying all different kinds of things. I slap a hand over my mouth, and the video ends.
Gianna clicks the phone screen off, sliding it back to Lucy. She waggles her brows at me and says, “So you’re one of us now.”
I blink.One of us now.Just like that.
I can’t correct her. There is no way that actually, none of it’s real comes out of my mouth at this table.
He’s been different since you.
I am quietly, and more every day, afraid that it isn’t a lie.
Lucy is watching me from across the table. She doesn’t say anything.
Gianna says, “Aspen, you’re coming to the game, right? We’ll be there. Sit with us.”
“Oh,” I say, not knowing how to get out of this one.
“You’re coming right?” Lucy asks quietly. “Do you have a ticket?”
Gianna scoffs. “Oh my god, Stan can get you a ticket.”
“Yeah, no. I’ll be there. I’ll text you.”
“You can get ready at our place if you’d like.”
I’m already shaking my head. “That’s okay. I’ll meet you guys there.”
Lucy smiles.
