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* * *
In creative writing, Kait takes her usual seat next to me. She replied to my text late last night: Hey sorry! I was wrapped up in some Planet Dread stuff. All good now?
yep was all I sent back.
If she can tell something’s off by my sweatshirt and leggings and messy bun, she doesn’t say anything. Instead, the first thing she tells me is:
“I’m switching my major to film. I’ve been thinking about it a lot, and I think my brand of storytelling might work better in a visual medium. I just have to get Miranda’s permission and then I can swap this for a film class.”
“Oh,” I say. “Wow. That’s big.”
She gives me a tight smile. “I’ll really miss you, though! I’m sure we’ll still see each other all the time.”
I can’t explain it, but somehow I’m not sure we will. I prepare myself for the loss—my first writing friend fading away after we bonded over so much, so quickly. But it doesn’t come. There’s a small sting, but I’m happy for her if film is what she’d rather be doing.
Maybe Kait wasn’t destined to be a lasting college friendship—just my first one. And maybe that’s okay.
“Rowan?” Miranda asks at the end of class later in the week, after Kait has switched out. “Do you mind if I talk to you for a few minutes?”
I nod, and she lifts herself to sit on the desk next to mine. “Sorry,” I say, drumming my fingertips on the cover of my notebook. “I know I’ve been kind of zoning out during the freewrites.” If I ever doubted Miranda’s assertion that I don’t have to be tortured to write, here is my proof: I am miserable and have no desire to put sentences together.
“It isn’t about that,” she says. “But I’ve noticed you haven’t seemed quite like yourself lately. So I wanted to check in with you.”
“I haven’t been doing great,” I admit, plucking a wayward strand of hair out of my bun. I haven’t washed it since I left for New York, and I’m a little afraid of what it looks like. “I told you about my long-distance relationship, back at the potluck?” Miranda nods. “We, um… we’re taking some time to figure things out, I guess. Only I’m not sure how much time we’re taking, or how we’ll know when we’ve figured it out, or—” I break off, a pressure threatening behind my eyes, because I do not want to almost-cry in front of my professor. Again.
“That’s really rough.” There’s no hint of condescension in her voice. “I was thinking, and only if you’re comfortable—my partner is a fantastic cook, and I’ve found that a good home-cooked meal can do wonders for the heart.”
I want to tell her that while I appreciate that offer, a home-cooked meal cannot possibility solve my relationship crisis, but I stop myself. Because maybe a home-cooked meal does sound kind of lovely.
“I’d love that,” I say. “But I’m a vegetarian, and I’d hate for anyone to go out of their way.…”
She waves this off. “That’s no problem at all. How about tomorrow night?”
* * *
When I show up the following evening, her partner answers the door wearing a wide smile and an apron that says BAHSTON TO ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS with a vocabulary list beneath it. PAHK = PARK. BEEAH = BEER. WISTAH = WORCESTER. I can’t help thinking Neil would find it hilarious.
“Welcome! You must be Rowan,” he says, holding out a hand. His beard has grown even bushier in the past month. “I recognize you from the party I was never at. I’m Jon, Miranda’s lesser half.”
Despite everything, I laugh. “Nice to meet you. Whatever you’re cooking, it already smells incredible.”
Miranda appears behind him, hanging up my corduroy jacket and offering me a drink—“water, seltzer, juice, whatever you want that’s nonalcoholic”—looking more casual than I’ve ever seen her in wide-legged jeans and a white V-neck.
“Thank you so much for having me,” I say as she leads me into the kitchen. The site of my breakdown. “Really. This means a lot.”
“We love entertaining.” Jon takes down bowls from the cabinet while Miranda lays out three sets of silverware. “When we were looking for a house, number one on my priorities list was a kitchen with an island and space for a massive dining table.”
I get a flash of literary events that must have been hosted here, New England writers whose names I’ve seen on spines. One day, I think to myself.
Dinner is a white bean and kale soup, perfect for Boston’s mid-spring cold snap, with a side of fresh sourdough from a local bakery. I must compliment the food a dozen times. Maybe the right soup on the right day really does have healing properties.
I thought this might be awkward—I’m not sure I’ve ever had a meal with two adults who aren’t family—but Miranda and Jon are relaxed and easygoing, asking me about my life in Seattle, how I like Boston, what I’ve been reading lately. I learn that Jon is a carpenter who sells his work at a few local shops.
“He never brags about himself, so I have to.” Miranda picks up the gorgeous wooden bowl that only has a couple hunks of bread left in it. “He made this, and pretty much everything we used for snacks during the party.”
A little bashful, Jon gestures toward the backyard. “I have a studio out back,” he says. “That’s where I was hiding out. And you’ve been enjoying Mir’s class? I have to assume she wouldn’t invite one of her troublemakers over for dinner.”
“Depends on who’s cooking,” Miranda says.
