BooksBarbecue
Back When We Were Friends
Chapters (52)
  1. Cover
  2. Praise
  3. Dedication
  4. About the Author
  5. 31
  6. 14
  7. 31
  8. 14
  9. 31
  10. 14
  11. 31
  12. 14
  13. 31
  14. 15
  15. 31
  16. 16
  17. 32
  18. 16
  19. 32
  20. 17
  21. 32
  22. 17
  23. 32
  24. 17
  25. 32
  26. 17
  27. 32
  28. 18
  29. 32
  30. 18
  31. 32
  32. 18
  33. 32
  34. 18
  35. 32
  36. 18
  37. 32
  38. 18
  39. 32
  40. 18
  41. 32
  42. 18
  43. 32
  44. 18
  45. 32
  46. 32
  47. 33
  48. 33
  49. 33
  50. Acknowledgments
  51. Discussion Questions
  52. Booklist

My parents had, thankfully, bless them, gone out. I’d decided to go home for the weekend, in a blaze of “I want to repair everything with everyone,” but, after one full Saturday with them, I was regretting booking a Monday morning train home and not a Sunday one. However, they had “a commitment to meet the Hogarths for lunch,” and I was alone in their house, still in my pajamas, wondering if it would ever feel like my family home. Nursing a cup of tea, I climbed the stairs to my bedroom, which was essentially the guest room except it had all my childhood crap stuffed into one cupboard. I sipped and blew off the steam of my drink, staring at the cupboard door for a very long time, wondering if I’d ever feel up to this. Ben had warned me not to “torture myself” about my friendship ending with Jessica. But, if she was going to ignore all my calls and messages, I wanted to mark the termination of our friendship somehow. To say goodbye, even if it was just to a ghost. I heaved a deep sigh, placed my mug on the bedside table, and sat on the floor, yanking open the cupboard door, my childhood falling out on top of my lap.

A flood of physical memories engulfed me. Two shoeboxes stuffed with keepsakes slid onto my knees, and I put them on one side, and dug about in the cupboard, releasing another pile of boxes that fell onto the carpet. This door must not have been opened since I stuffed everything in here, years and years ago, in a rush as I was still too upset at my parents for selling my childhood home. I lifted the lids off the boxes and peered inside, trying to date them. The first appeared to be things from my early childhood—blotchy paintings of rainbows, exercise books of wiggly handwritten stories about total nonsense, a Pez dispenser in the shape of Minnie Mouse. I gave myself half an hour or so of self-indulgence, allowing myself to look through and remember how cute I was. But that wasn’t why I was here, so, eventually, I closed the lid and rifled through the boxes until I found the one I was looking for.

My Jessica box.