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“Mom, we just want different things. I’d be ruining a friendship for nothing.”

“Ah, sure, so she doesn’t want to be married. I didn’t realize that was so important to ye.”

“It’s not, but I do want kids, ideally with a woman who wants them, too. And I like being friends with Louisa. I don’t want to fuck it up.”

“I see. Ye tink ye’d only break each other’s hearts then.”

I laughed ruefully, holding the square tight against the edge of the wood. “I think she’d break mine.”

I didn’t remind her that Lou and Has were moving in together, but I couldn’t forget. I needed to move on eventually, but I wasn’t convinced casual sex was the answer anymore.

She perused one of the drawers in my workbench—touching my father’s things reverently. “What about this Nathalie Eilidh’s been tellin’ me about?”

Nathalie and I still sat next to each other in class twice a week, but we hadn’t hooked up since Lou moved to Boston. I’d been surprised to hear that Louisa had found the courage to apologize to her last week. Nathalie guessed Lou wouldn’t mention it, and she’d wanted to make sure I knew.

I winced. “We were only ever friends, Mom.”

She clicked her tongue and ran her fingers through her hair before rubbing circles on my back while I lined up a cut. I put the coping saw down and hugged her instead.

“I’m just frettin’ about ye leavin’, Liam. I can’t help it.”

“I’ll keep a clear head,” I reassured her. “Don’t worry about me.”

Seven months in the sandbox would hopefully give me the space and distance I needed to move past my feelings for Lou, so that I could come back and be her friend without constantly wanting to bend her over the nearest table.

If not, at least I’d be able to weigh the consequences of acting with more time on my side.

29

The Cookie Metaphor

Boston, MA

Louisa

The studio was dark, and the day had finally given up on making decisions. The storm was still pressing its palm against the windows, alternating between snow and rain.

I’d heard Rachel come in and set her things down. I didn’t move. She didn’t call my name, but she knew I was here.

Rachel stopped at the opening of the tent and crouched, ducking her head inside.

“Oh,” she said softly. “There you are.”

I was lying on my back on the sleeping bag, arms spread to the side, staring up at the nylon ceiling. There was a darker patch where condensation had gathered, a blurry little continent slowly shifting shape.

“I wasn’t hiding,” I said.

“I didn’t think you were.” Rachel didn’t come all the way in, just sat at the threshold, one knee up, one hand braced on the floor. She looked at me for a long second. “You look like shit.”

“Thank you.”

“Like… emotional shit. And like you need a physical shower.”

That got a breath of a laugh out of me. Fair.

Rachel climbed in and lay on her back next to me like Will had the night before, her hands on her stomach. “So,” she said, no doubt staring at the same wet patch I was. “I heard Marisol had her baby.”

“She did. He’s beautiful.”