Page 93

It’s not a question. It feels more like an indictment.

“I did. I’ve read it so many times I could probably recite it back to you from memory,” I admit.

Henry lets out a snort. “And yet in the five weeks since you first read it, you couldn’t be bothered to call.”

“I left you the pretzels. I thought—”

He cuts me off with a brusque “What do you want, Norah?”

He’s hurting, I remind myself. Be brave.

“I wanted to talk before the engagement party. Since we’re going to see each other there. I was hoping to…clear the air.”

“You’re actually going?” he asks.

I can’t read his tone. It’s not the cruel disbelief I encountered from Hannah. There’s something thick like honey behind it that I can’t entirely place.

“I am. I don’t know why everyone’s so surprised. I said I would be there. I’m really trying here,” I say as gently as I can. “I don’t want to be a joke to everyone. I’ll be there for the party. I’ll raise a glass to the happy couple. And I hope you and I can be civil.”

“Civil.” His voice is hollow.

“Civil,” I repeat.

“You broke my heart, Norah.” My name on his tongue is heavy with emotion.

“I know I did,” I whisper, and that lingers between us for a few moments. “I’m sorry.”

Henry’s back to being quiet. I hear someone lay on their car horn on his end of the line.

Finally, he sighs. “You don’t have anything more to say than that?”

“I am sorry,” I add quickly. “About everything. I guess—” I look around at my bedroom, which I’ve managed to keep from being a disaster zone since I returned to New York. “I guess I wasn’t ready. I should have said that then. I was acting immaturely.”

He lets out an affirmative grunt, and I take that as a sign to keep going.

“I’m so sorry, Henry. You didn’t deserve any of that.”

I want to tell him how good it is to hear his voice, anger and all. How I watched a nature doc about turtles even though I hate documentaries, just because it made me think of being in that toy store with him. How I want to be right for him, but I can’t figure out how to untangle myself from the ways I instinctively self-destruct, even when I try my hardest.

“I really do hope we can still be friends.” The words feel sour on my tongue, but it’s the most I can give him right now.

“I’m not your friend, Norah.”

The line goes dead.

Don’t take it personally, I try to tell myself as I finish packing.

It’s going to be fine, I repeat as I go through TSA.

I have this inkling that Henry will be on my flight, and that we’ll both see the parallel to our December travel, and laugh about it all.

But he’s not here.

When I arrive at Frankie’s apartment, her cat is slightly less skeptical of me, which I call a win. We take the L to Belmont because my best friend tells me it looks like I need pizza. We split a terrible bottle of wine while we eat, and Frankie, who rarely has more than a glass, tells me she’s proud of me for coming. For asking for a place to crash. She offers to help make a game plan for seeing Henry, but it feels useless after our call.

I’m not your friend.

It’s the thing I could always count on when he was in my life, and now I don’t even have that.