Page 80 of Just Friends

Stevie holds my gaze, and I think she can see every thought going through my head. She’s like Cam in that way, often quiet and on the sidelines, watching everyone until she knows the secrets they’re keeping from even themselves.

“What happened?” she asks, and my breath comes out shaky.

I have to sit on my hands to keep them from trembling, the worn wooden seat biting into my palms. “He told me he loves me,” I say.

“Parker?” Wren asks, eyes wide.

“Alex,” Stevie says before I can get the chance. “Alex loves her.”

Wren looks between us. “Why is this a bad thing? We love Alex.” She puts a hand to her chest. “At least,Ilove Alex.”

“I love Alex,” I whisper, and it feels like relief to say it out loud, like finally pulling out a splinter that has burrowed beneath your skin. Tears crowd into my eyes, blurring my vision. “I love Alex, and I’m so scared.”

Thin arms wrap around me—Wren. And a moment later, stronger, leaner arms follow suit—Stevie. We all crowd on that picnic bench, like we did in the back of my mom’s SUV so many times as kids, whispering secrets to one another after school or singing too loudly to songs we probably shouldn’t have been listening to.

There, with their arms around me, I finally let myself go. I tried not to fall apart with Alex today. Not when I could see how much his admission was costing him, but now, the fear claws through me, ripping and shredding, fighting against the warm, glowing bundle of love that wants so desperately to be let free.

“Alex isn’t Sebastian, honey,” Wren says after long moments of holding me, rocking slowly.

“I know,” I say into the damp air between us, heavy with tears.

“He’s not Oliver either. Or Noah,” Stevie tells me.

I sniff, and it echoes loudly. “I know that too. He’s better than all of them combined, and he means so much more.”

They nod in unison against me, words not needed, giving me space to say what’s on my mind if I want to. “Losing him would be so much worse,” I whisper.

“But having him would be so much better,” Wren says, and it feels like rainwater seeping down into drought-parched soil, filling in all the cracks and soaking into deeply buried roots.

Sitting back, I run my hands under my eyes. “I need to get it together,” I say, glancing between them. “How do I look?”

“Like you’ve been hit by a bus,” Stevie says.

Wren adds, “But in a cute way.”

A laugh rockets out of me, wet and choked, but real and genuine too. Wren smooths a hand down my arm, squeezing my elbow before gripping my hand.

“You’re going to be okay,” she tells me. “And we’re going to be here for you, no matter what.”

Tears threaten again, ones that feel like gratitude and the kind of happiness that aches. “Thanks, guys. I love you both.”

Wren smacks a kiss on my cheek. “You know I love you. Always.”

“I love you too,” Stevie says, bumping her shoulder with mine. “Now, let’s eat before the gazpacho gets warm.” She stands, moving back over to the other side of the table.

“Gazpacho, huh? I don’t think you’ve made that for me before.” I say, examining the dishes on the table. The deep red chilled Spanish soup sits in the middle of the table in a matte black serving bowl. A bright green salad topped with avocado slices sits beside it. On the other side, there’s garlic bread on an acacia wood serving platter and some sort of eggplant dish. At the very end, next to several types of dipping sauces, are cinnamon and sugar dusted churros.

“You sure it’s going to be enough?” I ask wryly, and Stevie smirks at me.

She passes us each a bowl. “Get your food and leave me alone.”

Wren and I stifle giggles, filling our bowls before doing the same with the matching black plates. We will never be able to eat all this food, and a good amount of it will probably end up with the sweet old lady who lives in a tiny cottage at the bottom of the hill, but I’m glad for this bit of familiarity. Everything else may feel like it’s changing, but at least I can be here with my best friends since childhood with way too much food and oldies rock music playing through the speakers.

The stars wink alive in the night sky as we eat, and the cicadas chirp in response to our laughter. Dinner with them feels like medicine to my soul. We stay at the picnic table until our butts go numb on the hard seats and the vinyl stops playing, humming on the needle. Then we haul vintage handmade quilts from the Airstream and turn off the café lights before hiking to the clearing in the trees and spreading the blankets on the ground.

We lie down, shoulder to shoulder, watching for shooting stars, and hit each other’s shoulders like we’re playing Punch Buggy every time we think we see one. After the third time I punch Stevie for an airplane, she says, “That’s enough of this game.”

I have to press my lips together to keep from laughing, but it spurts out anyway, and before I know it, they’ve both joined in.

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