She doesn’t. Just holds it on her lap. We’re sitting on the back porch, a fire going in the little firepit, a bottle of wine half finished. It’s white wine, a dry white. I still can’t drink red. It reminds me too much of Paris.

“Nads, I don’t want anything from you.”

“I know. But…I just…you’ve been here for me twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. You take care of me when I can’t function. You’ve literally kept me fed, kept me from getting dehydrated. You’ve cleaned my house. You’ve done more than the term ‘friendship’ can even begin to cover.” I tap the box. “This is nothing. It’s not even a thank-you, Tess. It’s just…a token, I guess. Appreciation is the only word I can come up with, but that doesn’t cover it either.” I sniffle a laugh. “Just open it, dammit.”

She sighs in something very like frustration. She unties the ribbon, slides the layers of tissue paper off from around the box which is square and black, with a black ribbon tying it closed. The word “CHANEL” is written on the top of the box in large white letters.

“You didn’t.”

I just smile.

She gingerly slowly opens the box. Within is a signature Chanel purse, small, black, quilt-stitched leather, with a chain strap of gold woven through with leather, the clasp in that iconic twin C logo.

“Nadia, no.”

“Nadia, yes.”

“You wouldn’t buy one for yourself, if I’m remembering correctly.” She lifts the purse out. Sniffs it. “You said it was too extravagant for your taste.”

“True.”

“So, why…?”

“Because I wanted to,” I say. “I wanted to find some way of showing you how much I appreciate you, and all you’ve done for me the last…however long it’s been. It’s for our whole friendship in general, but since all this started in particular.” I touch her wrist. “I could never repay all you’ve done, Tess. Never.”

“You’re my best friend, Nads,” she whispers, sniffling. “It’s what we do.”

“You’ve gone above and beyond, Tess. Way above, way beyond.”

She sighs. “Is this your way of kicking me out?”

I laugh. “Hell no! This is your home now, too. For as long as you want it to be home. You move out when you’re ready. Don’t worry about me.”

The laughter hurts. It feels wrong. I have to kind of force it. Because I know it’s necessary, socially. She needs the social signifier that I mean what I’m saying. But I don’t feel like laughing. Inside, there is nothing but sorrow. All other emotions have to be faked.

“I do worry about you,” Tess says. “I see you putting on a brave face, Nads. You’re not a good actress, I have to admit.”