Page 140 of Gabriel's Album

Are we not friends, Ari? If not, I’d like to be.

I can barely inhale air while I wait for her to respond. She may not want my friendship.

“I’m not over you, Gabe.”

Can we be friends? I mean, we won’t know if we don’t try. When her response comes through, I can’t stop myself from laughing out loud.

Sure. Friends. I mean, it’s not like we’ve ever fucked each other silly, oh wait…

I laugh even harder when she sends through a GIF of someone with a cringing smile looking to the side awkwardly, and I write a reply to her.

Are you implying that people who have had sex can’t be friends?

I’m not sure. I’ve never tried. I like to just hit it and quit it.

Oh yeah, that soundssomuch like you, Ari.

I search the GIFs to find the one of Jennifer Lawrence saying “okay” and giving a thumbs-up, which I send to Ariana.

We continue to send messages to each other, and I’m reminded very much of when we first met. Once we were on tour, we didn’t need to message as much, but in the early days of our relationship, we texted back and forth a lot.

I get butterflies whenever I see her name on my screen, and I spend half my time laughing at whatever thing she’s sent through. She’s on my mind almost constantly, and I even have a couple of dreams about her that bring with them a terrible wave of guilt when I wake up from them. The dreams are very muchnotPG-13, and I enjoy them more than I should. I remind myself that we’re just friends, and it’s not like I can control my subconscious mind, anyway.

On Friday afternoon, we’ve been having a discussion about sloths and how fast they would drive, which has been highly amusing. Ariana tells me she has a meeting with a client, and after I’m pretty sure her meeting will have ended, I type out a message and leave it sitting on my screen for a solid fifteen minutes while I debate internally whether or not to send it.

Can I do this? Is it a good idea? In the end, I strike a proverbial match from the matchbook Hayden warned me about and hit send on the message.

What are you up to after work?

Nothing, why?

I swallow heavily and write out a reply.

Want to come over to my place and watch a movie?

Sure. Who else is coming?

We don’t need chaperones, we’re grown adults, and it’ll just be a casual catch-up with an old friend. Nothing more. I type a reply and ignore the guilty feeling that’s encroaching on my happiness right now.

No one. I just thought it would be nice to catch up. I’ll order a pizza, and we can watch something on Netflix. It’ll be fun.

There’s no reply for a few minutes, and I’m on edge the whole time I’m waiting. There aren’t even three dots to tell me she’s typing, just a blank screen, and me waiting to see if she’s going to say yes.

Okay. What’s your address?

I can’t wipe the grin off my face while I’m texting her that my address hasn’t changed and reminding her of what it is.

By the time she buzzes up for me to let her into my apartment in the evening, my unruly heart is pounding in my chest, and the familiar butterflies have taken up residence in my stomach. She knocks on the door, and I open it to see her standing there and looking gorgeous in a gray business suit, with her hair up in a ponytail.

I give her a hug, making a point of ending it quickly, and announce cheerfully to her, “It’s good to see your face, friend!”

“You too, friend,” she replies with a wry smile.

I get an odd feeling as she follows me further into the apartment. It’s so familiar, but so strange to have her here. It feels equally as though no time has passed and we could be back in time before theCards Have Been Dealt Tour, but it also feels like there’s so much history between us and nothing will ever be as simple as it was.

I cough and push away the weird thoughts I’m having before asking, “Do you want a drink?”

“Sure, vodka and orange.”

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