“Mandy,” Katie reaches for my hands, “this wasn’t why you wanted to move to New York. You wanted to make art, remember?”

“Yeah, I know, you keep reminding me of that. I got it, thanks, you think I suck now. Is that why you came to visit, to tell me my life is crap?”

“No, I came to see you because I missed you—”

“And what else? To ask for money? To get my old art? To sleep with me?”

“What are you talking about?”

“What do you want from me?”

“I don’t want anything from you.”

“That’s not true—everyone wants things, it’s the only reason anyone ever talks to you. They want sex, or connections, or free profile edits, and they only like you if they think they can get something.”

“Mandy, I came because we used to be good friends. I know we haven’t talked in years, but what you just said was crazy. We were really close, remember? And maybe I don’t know how dating works, but I know that app sucks, and I know you need to take a break from this city. Come upstate. We have an extra room. You can work on profile edits there, too, right?”

“Yeah, but—”

“I’m talking a weekend. You need a getaway.” She’s still holding my hands in hers, like we’re eight years old.

“Maybe,” I admit.

She squeezes my hands before letting them go. “You want a hug?” And though I feel stupid, I tell her I do. So she scoots over and puts her arms around me, just the two of us holding each other like a bad comfort-porn clip, but it feels good, like when we used to paint together and stay up all night planning for a future where we’d be happy and famous.

“Now, didn’t you say we have an air conditioner to move?” Katie says, letting me go. “I mean, it’s hot as fuck in your apartment.”

So we drive across town and Katie parks illegally in front of an apartment building where a woman lives who I have listed as a friend on social media. The air conditioner is a beast, and our clothes get covered in old insulation foam as we wrestle the unit free from the window. We have to stop at least a dozen times on the way down the flights of stairs to catch our breath, Katie nearly tripping on the cord as she walks backward, all the while worrying that her car will be towed. It’s a lot sweatier and messier than comfort porn and there’s a whole lot more damns and ouches, and no cold beers, but it’s also kind of fun— and when we get to the ground floor, her car isn’t towed, just sitting there with its blinkers on. So we load the AC into her hatchback and drive across town, and then, in a moment that seems unbelievably perfect, we see an open spot in front of my apartment and actually high-five like we’re in some super-old eighties film. Then we grunt as we haul the AC up my four flights until, finally, we slide it into the window, pull down and fasten the sash, and plug it in. When we turn it on, the unit hums with a gorgeous summer sound, cold air pouring from the coils, and we stand in the breeze, totally soaked with sweat.