“Come here,” she says, putting down her water. And this woman who I barely know anymore is pulling me close and placing her arms around me. And what do I do? I put my face into the softness of her shoulder and give in. I weep like a little kid as she puts her hand against my hair, holds me, and lets me cry. “Okay, let it all out,” she says. And I do. I weep until everything in me is dry and she’s warm and wet from my tears. She pulls some tissues out of her bag and hands them to me.

“I’m sorry,” I say, and blow my nose.

“For what?”

“For, like, being a mess, and not being someone you can look up to anymore.”

“Mandy, you’re a good person. You just need friends. I do too, that’s why I wanted to see you. And you need to get out of this city. Memorial Day is only a couple weeks away. You’re visiting me, or I’m coming down and kidnapping you.”

I look at her, sitting all sweaty in her frumpy shirt, beaming with goodness. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

“Because that’s what friends do,” she says. And though it sounds like the kind of thing you’d see on some dumb Hang-Out post, with a sepia-toned picture of two people clinking martinis, it also sounds like the truth. “You okay?” she asks, and I nod, though I’m not sure it’s true. “Well, it’s a long drive if I want to make it home before midnight. Next time let’s move a couple fridges,” she says, laughing. And then she’s up, gathering her things, and I’m walking her down the sweltering staircase.

On the sidewalk, the final rays of sunshine make their way through the puzzle of buildings, lighting up the concrete in patches. I wrap my arms around Katie, feel her warmth against me, realizing all the options Firestarter has no checkboxes for: Hugging. Holding. Staying.

“Memorial Day, don’t forget,” she says. “And I know you only use your phone for bondage and threesomes, but I bet it works for calls, too.” Then she’s back in her car, pulling away from the curb, and I’m waving to her, actually waving as though I’m in a comfort porn video.