Page 3 of The Friendship Study

He comes back with two plates and starts doling out slices. “And I told her about you, and she said you sounded great and how about this Saturday, and I said I’d set it up and now...” he says, breathless. “It’s Saturday.”

“What if I had plans already?” I ask, as he shoves a plate into my hands.

He snorts.

“I didn’t say Ididhave plans, justwhat if,” I grumble.

“Maybe if you’d answer your phone or text me back once in a while,” he hisses, his hand still gripping my plate. “We wouldn’t be finding ourselves in this predicament.”

George leans back, holding his plate up at his chest to avoid crumbs falling everywhere. He takes a huge bite of his pizza, grumbling around greasy pepperoni. I dump my plate onto the coffee table. My stomach has soured to the thought of food, and instead I worry; about how terribly my last date went, with a man I’d met through an app, who turned out to only want sex but definitely not sex with me; at how I used to be strong, capable, a firefighter, a man who trusted his body, and how now I’m not strong or capable of much at all, how I’m not a firefighter, how I’ve lost that trust.

I know, somewhere deep down, that this is probably anxiety. I know that I should probably do something about that but losing my job didn’t just affect my identity. It affected my access to things like therapy at anything close to an affordable rate.

Mostly, I worry about George’s supreme ability to meddle. And my inability to say no to him. Because he does meddle, but George also loves me, and he worries, too. And if he’s done this, knowing how I’d react, I’ve made him worry. A lot.

“I need to visit Pop,” I say, a little helplessly. A last-ditch effort at no.

“Lulu said you should meet her at The Pump at seven. You have lots of time.”

“Lulu?”

He shoots me a look. “Yes. Lulu.”

“Sounds like a cartoon character,” I mumble.

He shoves me, his shoulder to mine. With the difference in our size, I don’t move. “It’s short for Eloise. Don’t be rude.”

“I’m not,” I say. “I’m sorry.” I feel sheepish. “This is just...a lot.”

The match plays on, the Welsh accents on the announcers so thick I can only pick out every third word or so. But I don’t want to hear them talk. I watch since it’s better than not watching. If I can’t play anymore, at least I have this.

“Jess,” he says, softly. “I really am sorry for meddling.” George nibbles his pizza.

“I know you are.” The invisible fist wrapped around my chest loosens. Everything feels a little bit better now that I’m Jess again.

“It’s just cuz I want—”

“What’s best for me. I know.” I sigh. And I do know. I love him enough not to care...too much. “Next time could you just set up a dating profile without my permission instead, though?”

George throws his head back as he laughs, his dark curls flopping on his forehead, and it’s not until hearing it that I realize how much I’ve missed it. Laughter: his, Pop’s, my own.

“So, you’ll go?” he asks.

I sigh. “What’s she like?”

George lights up. He knows he’s winning and I hate it. “She’s smart and funny and a little quirky. Here.” He pulls out his phone and navigates to an Instagram account for someone named @luluvsyou.

And she may not be a cartoon character of the Saturday morning TV variety. More like my thirteen-year-old Sailor Moon obsession. Her eyes are big and blue, framed by winged eyeliner, her lips a shiny bubble gum pink. Her hair is a purple cloud around her head.

“She doesn’t have that hair anymore,” he says. “She just doesn’t update her social media a lot.”

So, we’re both lonely, bad at getting dates, and terrible at content creation. At least we’ll have something to talk about. “George, she’s...”

He won’t let me get away with saying she’s too pretty for me. But he can’t stop me fromthinkingit. And not even in an “I’m ugly” way. I know what I look like. But there’s more to a relationship than attraction and I’m not sure I can bring the rest.

“If you really, really don’t want to, I’ll text her right now and cancel but... I really do think you’ll like her. And at the very least, you could be friends.” His gray eyes are big and pleading. He’s got his palms pressed together like he might beg.

“It’s weird,” I say. “That my ex is setting me up on dates.”

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