Page 25 of Her Alien Neighbor

In the bottom drawer of her dresser, there are no letters, but also no clothes. Just VHS tapes, and tons of them. She still has a VCR on the shelf beneath the TV, which I find adorable. I bet it still works.

In fact, putting an old movie on in the background that I’ll most likely have to rewind first sounds rather lovely. When I make my selection, I pull out the tape, snap a picture of it, and post it to Instagram with the caption “An underrated classic.”

Within a few seconds of posting it, I get a DM from Sam, the fourth member of our group in high school, and the only one I still like and communicate with.

Sam:Now and Then! OMG, I haven’t seen this movie in ages. Remember when we’d watch it after school at your aunt’s house?

Me:Haha, of course I do. Those were good times.

I mean every word. Sam and I spent the majority of our time sophomore year in this very house. It was closer to the school than either of our parents’ houses, so we’d leave school and come here. We’d tell our parents that we were doing our homework, but Aunt Franny would make us Shirley Temples and cookies and we’d watch movies instead.

Sam:Yo, I’d recognize that floral quilt anywhere. Are you at your aunt’s place?

Me:Yeah, she passed away a few days ago and left the house to me. So I guess this is my old-ass floral quilt now.

Sam:Oh, wow. I’m sorry. Truly. She was an amazing woman.

Me:Thanks. Means a lot.

The majority of the communication that occurs between Sam and me these days is on social media. She’ll post a photograph from her latest assignment as a freelance photographer, or one that has won an award, and I’ll shower her with praise in the comments. We’ll reminisce about old inside jokes over DM, or we’ll tag each other in a funny meme.

Normally, I’m fine with where our friendship has settled. We’ve gone in different directions, quite literally, but have always remained in contact, even if it’s a single like on a post. But now, I wish she were here. Besides my aunt and my sister, Sam is one of the few things I actually like about this town. None of the memories I have of her are painful.

She never let Beth boss her around like Caitlyn did, and whenever those two were off doing their thing, Sam and I did ours. Or, more often, we would leave them and hang out, just the two of us. And when The Incident occurred, Sam supported me, and that support never wavered, no matter what was said about me in the hallways at school.

Sam:I’m in town visiting Mom between assignments. Give me ten minutes. I’ll stop and get wine on the way.

The moment I finish reading the message, I leap off the bed with childlike excitement coursing through my veins. Sam’s coming over with wine, and it’s like the ugliness of this morning’s encounter with Beth has been wiped off the map.

I change into a pair of gray sweats and an oversized teal hoodie with the words “Caught Feelings for a Fictional Hero” across the chest in white cursive letters, grab the movie, and head toward the kitchen.

If Sam’s bringing wine, the least I can do is make her something to eat. Luckily, wine and pasta are a picture-perfect pairing. I’ve just dumped half the box of rotini in the pot of boiling water when the doorbell rings.

I throw it open and spread my arms wide. “Samwich!”

“Vanillaaaa!” she squeals back as I pull her in for a tight hug.

We laugh and sway in a circle as I nudge the front door closed behind her. “I was kind of hoping that nickname was dead.”

She pulls back to give me a sideways glance that is classic Sam. “Well, that’s your fault for bragging about being distantly related to Columbus when we were in fifth grade.” She tugs her large brown leather messenger bag over her head and drops it on the dining room table. She shakes her head, an amused twinkle in her eye. “Silly white girl.”

“Ugh, it’s a holiday we used to celebrate!” I say, throwing my hands up in surrender. “I didn’t know the truth then.” It was not one of my finest moments, but I was also a kid. In my defense, there was no mention of genocide in the history class we both took.

Sam runs a hand through her long, tight brown curls, then lifts her nose. “Ooh, do I smell dinner being prepared?” She saunters through the house, wine in hand, then adds over her shoulder, “What are you making me, Vanilla? Mayonnaise sandwiches on white bread? With a side of unseasoned chicken?”

“Ha-ha,” I say in a sarcastic tone. “Actually, how’s a giant bowl of pasta sound?”

“Mmm, sounds lovely,” she says with a pleased sigh as she takes a seat at the kitchen table.

I pull out two wine glasses and then get back to stirring the pasta as Sam pours the wine. We clink our glasses together, then take simultaneous long sips. Dumping the sauce into the pot, I turn and lean against the edge of the sink with my wine glass in hand.

“It’s so good to see you,” I say to Sam as she looks around wistfully.

“You too,” she replies with a smile. “I can’t believe this place is yours now.”

“Uh, ditto.”

“Wait,” she says, putting the glass down a little harder than was necessary, “does that mean you’re moving back here? Permanently?”

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