Page 14 of So Thirsty

“Okay, sure. But it’s pitch-black and it’s snowing.”

She attempts to catch a snowflake on her tongue. “Not enough to eat.”

I look down at my phone. Still no reply from Joel, which has me sick to my stomach. I tap a frozen finger on the screen to open the weather app. “Great. Now the forecast is all snow. We could get hit with up to four feet. What if we get stuck here? I have a meeting Monday and I didn’t bring my laptop.”

“It’s New York in January,” she says, her tone shifting, going sharp. “It snows. There are plows. You always assume bad shit is gonna happen.”

“You always assume it won’t.”

She doesn’t say anything, just blinks at me. There are flurries caught in her eyelashes.

“This is what you do, Nay. You put me in this position. You make me feel like I’m crazy for being practical.”

She throws her hands up, shakes her head. “It’s some snow, Sloane. Not an apocalyptic blizzard. But you can’t see that because you’re always reading about the fucking Carolean Death March.”

I’m surprised she remembers. I told her about it a few years ago, after I fell down a Wikipedia rabbit hole.

“You’re obsessed with disaster. Right now it’s Chernobyl. Before that, Aberfan. Before that, the Hindenburg,” she says. I can’t tell if she’s teasing or being mean. “Remember when we went to the cape for June’s wedding? You brought a book about Columbine to the beach. You love a tragedy.”

“Maybe that’s why I’m friends with you.”

“Hey,” she says, eyes wide and glassy. Hurt.

“Well…” I mumble, looking down at the sidewalk. She called me out, and I got defensive. But I’m not walking it back.

The shuttle pulls over to the curb. We stare at each other as Todd opens the side door.

“Good evening, girls! Bringing you back to Whispering Woods?”

“Yes,” I say, stepping into the van. Naomi lingers on the sidewalk with her arms crossed, defiant. I give her a minute before I lean my head out the door and hiss, “Get. In.” Like she’s a stubborn toddler and I’m her exasperated mother.

“Maybe I’ll walk,” she says, digging a lollipop out of her pocket. “It is a beautiful night.”

“Naomi. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

She unwraps the Dum-Dum, gives it a lick. “No, I’m not. I’m embarrassing you.”

“Just get in the van.”

She laughs coolly and finally relents, climbing in.

Todd clears his throat and shuts the door. I’m sure to him, or any other outsider, it sounds like we hate each other, like we’re in some vicious fight. But this is a form of unconditional love. Of release. We gift each other the freedom to gnash our teeth, to growl and gnaw. Behave badly. Be terrible. Because we’ll love each other through it and no one else will. Because this ugliness is not permitted anywhere else. At least, not without consequence.

“Don’t be mad at me,” she says, resting her head on my shoulder. “Don’t be mean to me.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, staring out the window. “I thought you were being mean. And you left me alone all night to go flirt with that guy.”

“I struck up a conversation with a nice, handsome gentleman,” she says, doing her best Blanche DuBois. “I am terribly sorry.”

“Okay,” I say.

“That’s not why you’re upset, though,” she says, dropping the Southern belle shtick. “There’s something else.”

She’s right, and it’s so annoying. My skin feels like a straitjacket. “Don’t make me say it.”

“Talk to me. I’m right here.”

It’s Joel. Why isn’t he responding? What is he doing? Why did he send me on this trip? And why am I asking myself these questions when I know the answers?