My finger traces the glossy paper over the words Butch Oven. An imperfect rhyme.

“I don’t want to show up to her big event and ruin it,” I tell Andrew. “That sounds like a ridiculously idiotic plan.”

He reaches across the bed to grab my foot again. “Sometimes,” he says, “ridiculously idiotic plans work out mostly for the best.”

Chapter Thirty-One

Tuesday, February 14, 2023

The air smells like the possibility of snow.

I step out of the car and into the cold evening, wrapping my blue scarf closer to my face. It hasn’t snowed in Portland all winter, but now the promise lingers in the sharpness of every deep breath I take. And I’m taking a lot of deep breaths.

“Is this a ridiculously idiotic idea?”

Ari finishes paying through Parking Kitty on her phone, then loops her right arm through my free one. “Oh, it’s definitely a ridiculously idiotic idea. That’s why I love it.”

She gives me a tug, as if she knows my internal resistance is about two seconds away from becoming external, that I’m about ready to plant my feet into this sidewalk and never move. That I’m ready to freeze.

Ari doesn’t let me freeze.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like my stomach is going to fall out of my ass.”

“God, it’s so sexy when you talk about your anxiety-based GI issues,” Ari says, and I laugh as she nestles closer to me while we walk, pressing her crown of hair to my shoulder. She smells like coffee and essential oils and unconditional love.

“But is this fucked up? That I’m crashing her soft opening?”

“You’re not crashing,” Ari argues, “because her entire family invited you.”

“Yeah, but what if it was a pity invite?”

“Now. What have we talked about?” Ari says in her most patronizing voice.

I roll my eyes and repeat back Ari’s words. “I should not assume people invite me to social events out of pity, since that’s not a thing that actually happens very often.”

“Exactly. You’re not showing up to shit all over her special day. All you’re doing is walking in, congratulating her, and giving her your gift.”

The gift in question is tucked under my other arm.

“This is a totally normal gesture between friends.”

Friends. The word leaves a sharp, metallic tang in my mouth, sits like a knot in my chest. Friends.

Three months ago, I had one friend, singular. Meredith.

And, of course, I still have Meredith, sending me TikToks I never watch and screenshots of dating profiles for people I have no interest in dating. We have our constant video chats and my upcoming trip to Chicago. I don’t know what I would do without Meredith, but I also have so much more than Meredith now.