She makes a choking sound and sets down her mug. “Are you about to propose?”
Her eyes are big, and looking alarmed, like she’s bracing herself for bad news. I can’t help it: I laugh. “No.”
She relaxes.
“So flattering, Tay.”
“Wouldn’t you freak out if I suddenly got cryptic and talked about marrying my best friend?”
“Also no.”
Her eyes narrow. “I don’t believe you.”
“All right, let’s start with the best friend thing.” I shift so I’m facing her, but she stays facing the fire. “Are we best friends?”
“Yes.”
No hesitation, and I smile. “Making me feel hugged on the inside again.” It’s true. I love that even after not seeing her for four years, even after only keeping up with each other casually via texts, it’s still her response. “What makes me your best friend?”
“I’ve known you my whole life.”
I shrug. “I’ve known Sara my whole life. She’s not my best friend.”
“But you and I are the same age.”
I lean over and place a finger under her chin, turning her face toward me. “I’m here. I’m showing up. I want you to be here too. Will you?”
She holds my gaze for a long time. Seconds go by. Then she nods and turns to face me. “You’re my best friend because you know me better than anyone else but you still like me. You make me laugh. You know what causes my headaches. You know my pet peeves. My favorite books. My strengths and weaknesses. What scares me. What makes me happy. All of that adds up to someone who you want to be around. Or did want to.”
“Still do. But we’ll get to the four-year gap.” I set my mug down and rest my forearms on my thighs. “You’re my best friend because however big of a goal I set, you always say it’s a great idea and cheer for me to get there. You just believe I’ll do it. You think the weird facts I know are interesting, and you never think I’m bragging when I share them. You think of fun things to do when I’m too serious, and I’ve puked on you twice in our lives and you didn’t make me feel bad about it. And none of that scratches the surface.”
She nods. “I’m a pretty great best friend when you spell it all out like that.”
“That kiss four years ago is when everything changed. The realest part of me knew that it was something I’d wanted to do for a really long time, and it scared me. Terrified me. I couldn’t acknowledge it. So I took off and didn’t come back.”
She stares at me, her lips slightly parted, silent.
“Taylor?”
She clears her throat. “Oh.”
I reach out and rest a hand on each of her knees, not to hold her there but to connect us. “That’s all you’ve got?” I say quietly.
She takes a deep breath. “This is what you figured out when the Obvious Truck ran over you?”
“Yes. Four years ago what scared me was figuring out that it was something I’d been wanting forever, maybe. That was so big, I couldn’t absorb it. Literally didn’t know how to let that all in, because . . .” I trail off, frustrated that I don’t know how to explain this part better. I’m not a blurter, and the biggest part of my job is finding the right words for intense experiences.
Words don’t often fail me, but from the second I stepped off the bus and walked straight to Bixby’s Café, I’ve been operating on instinct.
“Because what?” she prompts me, her voice soft.
“Because I wasn’t ready.”
“But now . . .”
“Now I am.” If this was a Hallmark movie, I think this is where she’d say “Same,” and we’d get to make up for all the kissing we haven’t done in the last four years.
In real life, she only watches me, her eyes roving over my face. Her expression looks more stressed than anything.
