Page 2 of Friends Don't Kiss

“What did you call me earlier?” I ask.

She shrugs like she has no clue what I’m talking about.

“The fearful bitch?” I nudge her.

She laughs so hard she almost chokes on her coffee. “The Fearless Leader of the Bitch Brigade,” she finally manages to say.

That gets me laughing too.

“After, you know…” she adds.

“Yeah-yeah-yeah.” Last summer, when our friend Grace nearly lost her spa, we rallied the troops. The name Bitch Brigade came organically to me. Being called their fearless leader is a stretch, but it’s still nice. “Thanks for today. I owe you one.”

“It’s nothing.” She takes a long sip of her coffee, her eyes on me. “You’ll have your own place one day, I promise. The world is gonna find out what a great pastry chef you are, and you’ll have more work than you can handle.” She smiles deviously. “Then I’ll guilt-trip you into paying me an insane salary with benefits. I’ll remind you how I saved your sorry ass more than once.”

I tip my coffee mug toward her. “Fair enough. In that case, I need one more thing before you go. If you have time,” I add.

“It’s Saturday. Chris gave me the day off to help you, and I don’t have a life.” She shrugs. “What do you need?”

“Help me figure out an outfit.”

Willow squeaks with excitement, downs her coffee, and dashes to my bedroom.

I finish my coffee to the sound of the closet door opening and closing and Willow humming to herself, then rinse our mugs and join her.

Any sense of order and control I thought I had is completely obliterated. Half my wardrobe is piled up on my bed, tops on one side and bottoms on the other. “What you got for me?” I say, faking enthusiasm as I stretch my mouth into a smile.

Willow doesn’t catch onto my near state of despair. “How about this?” She thrusts a pair of black skinny jeans and a bright green tube top my way.

“Yeah, nope.”

“Oh.” She blinks, seeming surprised. “More conventional?” She offers a pair of gray slacks and the white blouse I only wear when I have a meeting at the bank.

I scratch my head. Willow isn’t making it easier, but at least I’m not doing this alone.

She tilts her head. “With your body type, you can wear whatever you want.” She flings the clothes on the bed and finds an empty spot to sit on. “Why don’t you tell me what this is about?” she asks with a kindness that is worrisome.

“Just my grams’ birthday party. Eighty years old.”

“Yup. We just spent all day baking for her, ’member? Try again.” She nudges me with her elbow in an attempt to perk me up.

“Alright.Fine.” I lean against the closet door, cross my arms, and try to gather my feelings into something that makes sense. “I haven’t seen my mom and my sister in a long time.”

Willow’s facial expression shifts. “Oh. And… are we happy about seeing them?”

I let out a humorless laugh. “Well… They still think I’m a loser who tore the family apart.”

After my falling out with them, we went two, maybe three years without speaking. Then Grams forced us to patch things up, and I thought all the ugliness was behind us. That we were a family again.

I was wrong.

Whenever we see each other now, it seems their only purpose is to remind me of how inadequate I am. Of how unlike them I am. Of how I don’t belong. Mom calls and texts me, acting like a normal yet distant mother might, but her efforts don’t fool me. There’s something broken beyond repair in our relationship.

I’ve learned to shove my feelings down the pit of my stomach, where no one can see them and they can hurt only me. I’ve learned to toughen up. I’ve learned to accept that I don’t have a family, that it was ripped from me when I was a teenager. That any so-called family reunion is just another reminder that I fucked up in a major way that will never be forgiven. That no matter how much Mom pretends otherwise, I will never really be back in the fold.

Willow knows the gist of it, but not the details. I’ve also learned to pretend that I don’t care about these things. It’s called adapting, and I like to think I’ve become pretty adept at that survival skill.

She stands and wraps me in a quick hug. “Fuck them!” she whispers.

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