All four of us lived in the Whispering Farms subdivision, a suburban enclave thirty minutes outside of Chicago. Well, thirty minutes with no traffic. With traffic, it took over an hour, making the city seem much further away than it was, an inverse mirage. I wasn’t sure whether the city or our suburb of Winchester was the palm tree with water. Whispering Farms was our bubble, so close to the city, yet at times it felt like another dimension. The further we got away from the city, the more suburban stereotypes became like actual real life.

The front door squeaked open, its metal hinges rusty, and Melissa walked through the door. She still wore her work clothes, a smart black suit with four-inch heels and dangly earrings. Her curls drooped, and her lipstick was smeared. In her hand, she held a six-pack of Spotted Cow beer. It was only sold in Wisconsin; she and her husband stocked up on it twice a year after a state border crossing and guarded it furiously.

“Sorry, but I had a work call run late. Y’all, I finally just said my kitchen was on fire.” Her voice still held the faintest hint of a lilting twang. She actually grew up in southern Ohio, but when people asked about her accent she usually said, “The South,” even though her voice was more country than belle. People usually pictured Savannah or Charleston, as opposed to the truth: Chillicothe, Ohio.

Melissa’s heels click-clacked through the foyer before she stopped and kicked them off. She padded toward us and set the six-pack down on the counter.

“Ah, you brought your contraband smuggled across state lines. Spotted Cow: favorite beer of FIBs,” Jess said with a laugh. Jess was raised in Wisconsin and never failed to remind us of our FIB status (Wisconsin lingo for “Fucking Illinois Bastard”), despite living in enemy territory.

Melissa responded with a smile and a head shake as she opened a beer bottle. It was a running joke between them. “Fancy Illinois Bastard,” she said as she clinked her drink with Jess’s.

“Damn straight you are,” Jess said.

“Oh, you need more wine, Amy,” Liz said, and, before I could stop her, filled my wineglass to the brim from the box in the fridge. I looked longingly at the beer in Melissa’s hand before Liz handed the wine to me and lifted her own glass. “Cheers. Thanks for coming over. I live for these nights with you all.”