Chapter Twelve
Nic
Kira is still asleep in my bed when I sneak out to go to work the next morning. At 6:30 a.m. Which is... slightly earlier than I’d normally leave. For no reason at all.
It’s the kind thing to do, really. Yesterday she got bad news, cried a lot, stayed up late despite being exhausted, then passed
out from all of the above plus orgasms. Today, she has to report to work at 8:00 a.m. for a twenty-four-hour shift. She needs
all the sleep she can get and no distractions so she can get out the door on time.
See? Kindness!
Is it also slightly cowardly? Maybe. Yes. I don’t know. For once, I am refusing to overthink.
I don’t regret it. I know that much. We had a good time, and Kira is an incredible person. And hey, I left a sticky note on her phone telling
her to help herself to anything she wants in the kitchen and to text me later. Sadly, great sex and a beautiful girl in your
bed isn’t a legitimate reason to call out of work. Probably. I still considered it, though.
My phone buzzes on the passenger seat—ah, maybe that’s Kira now, just waking up. I don’t text and drive, because I want to
live, but I do glance over just long enough to see Skylar’s name on the glowing notification. My pulse shifts into high gear.
Skylar. I didn’t think about her once last night after things with Kira kicked off. I feel weirdly like I’ve cheated on her or something, like I’ve betrayed Operation
Flying Fox and my feelings for her by forgetting to think of her for twelve hours. The second I pull into the parking lot
at the lab, I snatch my phone from the seat and swipe to see Skylar’s text.
Skylar: Hey friend, I want to come to your place tonight to talk about something important. Okay?
Instant . Panic.
Who does that? Who does that ? That’s borderline deliberately provoking a panic attack. Bad text etiquette. You can’t just drop a “I have something to
tell you later.” Everyone knows this. My brain instantly breaks into stressed-out gymnastics: Is she finally giving up on this whole Fiji thing? Is
she staying? Did our shenanigans finally have some impact?
Or is she maybe... going to tell me she wants to be with me?
My stomach becomes a circus contortionist at the thought. It’s what I’ve always wanted. It’s what I moved back here hoping
for. It’s what I’ve been dreaming of since I was eighteen.
So why does the thought make me so uneasy ?
The entire workday is a bust. It’s a good thing today was a research-and-writing day, not a meetings-and-setting-fires day,
otherwise the professor who oversees my lab would have had some serious words for me. As it is, when he comes into my office
to ask a question and I talk to him like my head is in a cloud, he assumes it’s the usual—a researcher who’s been staring
at a computer screen for way too long, their brain a soup of numbers and graphs and jargon.
My brain is actually a soup of all the things Skylar might possibly say to me, and Kira’s skin, and PhD applications, and... everything. I
manage to drive myself home on autopilot, though I don’t remember getting in my car or making any of the turns. That should
maybe worry me more than it does.
But it’s nothing compared to the sight of Skylar standing in front of my apartment door when I arrive, two bags of Heartbreak
Takeout dangling from her hands.
Heartbreak Takeout has been our traditional “sad times” meal ever since Skylar’s longest-ever girlfriend (six months) broke
up with her in our senior year of college. I ran out and picked up every form of fried cheese available at this little diner
near campus, plus a whole-ass chocolate pie from our favorite bakery, and we’ve had that exact combination of foods a dozen
times since then. Jobs we didn’t get, academic advisers being jerks, phone calls from my dad, and every other bummer in life
was soothed with cheese and chocolate. But not in a fancy French way—in a greasy American way.
All my hopes of this being good news come crashing back to reality.
“Hey, Nic Knack,” she says, her voice gentle. “Sorry I’m early. My last client canceled, so I figured hey, might as well beat
the traffic! Let’s eat. I’m starving .”
I was starving. Now my stomach feels like there’s a boulder sitting inside it. I unlock my door and let her in, putting away my
bag and shoes in a daze as an uncharacteristically quiet Skylar unpacks the Heartbreak Takeout on my coffee table. Should
I light candles? I always light candles when I get home, but in this context, it would feel romantic, and this is... apparently
not a romantic conversation.
The boulder of dread in my gut has little boulder babies until I feel like I might fall to my knees from the weight.
“Come sit down,” Skylar says, patting the cushion next to her. Playing host in my own house. That sounds about right. I do
a zombie shuffle over to the couch—the couch Kira and I had brilliant sex on last night, awkward—and drop into its overly
squashy embrace. When I look up and force myself to meet Skylar’s eyes, she smiles sweetly.
“Take a bite of pie,” Skylar commands. I do as I’m told. I dig a spoon directly into the middle of its pristine chocolaty
surface and scoop out the perfect amount of silky-smooth mousse, letting it slowly melt on my tongue. Perfection. It’s even
a little soothing, just like Skylar knew it would be. I take one more bite, then sit up straight and take a deep breath.
“Okay. Get it over with,” I say, squeezing my eyes shut.
A hand curls around mine and squeezes, and Skylar waits to speak until I open my eyes.
“I know what you and Kira are up to,” she says, and the words are like a lightning strike to my heart. Which thing is she
talking about? The Fiji shenanigans... or the sex?
“I know,” she says again. “And I need you both to let it go.”
My confusion deepens. Let what go? The shenanigans or the sex? I can’t ask without revealing whichever thing she isn’t talking about.
“Oh,” I say, hoping that will be enough to make her talk again. Thankfully, talking is one thing you can always count on Skylar for.
“I’m going to Fiji. It’s happening. And I need you and Kira to be okay with it and support me.”
My breath leaves my body all in one big rush.
What... am I feeling?
It’s so tangled. There’s sadness. Grief. I expect those. But also... I’m weirdly relieved? Maybe relieved that this isn’t
about Kira?
There’s also a healthy helping of guilt over getting caught.
“I... I’m really sorry, Sky,” I say. My body finally catches up and floods my eyes with tears. I try to turn away, but
Skylar pulls me into a sideways hug, my ear resting on her shoulder and my nose pressed into her neck as my tears drip down
her collarbones.
“It’s okay, love. I understand it. I just need it to stop now before you spend more money on another scheme. I want to have
an awesome last month and a half together, and we can’t do that if this secret is hanging between us,” she says, running her
fingers through my hair.
I sniffle and lean back, wiping my eyes. This is humiliating. I gotta pull myself together.
“Can you at least tell me why?” I ask, voice watery. “I just... I don’t understand how you could leave—”
Me , I think.
“—all of us,” is what I actually say.
She smiles, and it’s not the smile I expect. Not sad, not pitying; it’s the Proud Skylar smile.
“I will tell you if you can swear to keep it a secret from the others for now. Well, everyone but Kira, I suppose. I wanted it to be a surprise
I could announce at the party, but I can see that the two of you need to know to be able to let this go. So... are you
ready?”
She sounds... almost nervous. What does Skylar ever have to be nervous about? She takes a deep breath in through her nose and blows it out slowly between pursed lips.
“I’m going to admit something that scares me, and it will sound unrelated, but just hang with me, okay? I... have...
a paper being published in a major psychology journal!”
I blink, my mind completely blank. Her words speed as her excitement spills over.
“Two years ago, around when you left for grad school, I started up a new research project with my old adviser from my PhD
program. The project and paper were on the effects of climate change on interpersonal and community relationships, and I loved
it, and it put me in touch with other researchers around the world, studying similar things. I wanted to continue the work,
so we all applied for a joint grant together. And we got it. We’ll be looking into the psychological needs of people under
the direct stress of climate change... in Fiji.”
“Wow,” I say, still too stunned to fully process. “So it’s... not a whim. You aren’t just moving out there to start a vacation
rental farm thing?”
She laughs. “No, no, that’s just a pet project. You know I always have to have a pet project!”
Tragically, yes, that is true. Her pet projects have nearly killed us both plenty of times.
“There are six of us, and we’re using Fiji as a home base for the research team,” she continues. “But we’ll be traveling between
lots of small island nations that are the most impacted by climate change. Since the house will be empty so much, I may as
well make some money from it, right?”
That sounds really great, actually. I’m fully on board with the idea behind the project. Which leaves the question...
“Why didn’t you tell us?” I ask.
She gives me a self-deprecating grin.
“I was too afraid,” she says with a shrug. “Look, I know what you all think of me. I know I have a lot of disasters on my
résumé. I thought you all would think I’m too much of a mess to take this seriously. And... I kind of feel that way about
myself sometimes. Especially since I graduated from my PhD program.”
“No!” I say, even as I visibly wince. It sounds so bad when she says it out loud like that. Maybe we’ve all been shitty friends.
But she really does fall into disaster after disaster.
She waves my protest away. “It’s okay, I get it. School was so easy for me because there were specific goals and deadlines,
all set up by someone else. After graduation was just... a mess. I couldn’t focus on any one thing. So I did the social
media because I was good at it, and the radio because it was offered to me, and the pro bono work for the city because I felt
like I needed to do something good with my degree and it was flexible.”
Skylar’s mouth presses into a thin line, and she blinks over and over again—chasing back tears, I realize with horror.
“I just wanted to make sure this wasn’t going to become another big public Skylar failure,” she whispers. “I wanted to make
sure I could do it.”
And now I’m crying for a completely different reason. I throw my arms around her and squeeze so tight, like I can force those
bad thoughts out of her, like I can make up for all the times I’ve been too focused on my own feelings to see how much my
best friend was hurting.
“Oh God, Skylar, I’m so sorry. I’ve been a completely shit friend. I’ve been so selfish, so focused on my own bullshit... but you just always seemed
unaffected by everything. Every time something went wrong, you just bounced right back, kept on going, like nothing could
ever get you down. Nothing could ever stop you.”
“And I worked really hard to make it look like that,” she says simply. “So don’t blame yourself for not seeing through my cover-up. There’s a
reason every therapist has a therapist of their own, you know? Very few get into this field because we’re perfect examples
of mental health ourselves.”
I huff a laugh, flipping back through my memories of Skylar in college. I knew this about her. She had terrible anxiety in
our freshman and sophomore years, but has always been able to muscle through it with a single-minded determination, like it
was a thing she could physically beat. I never questioned it.
I should have.
“I can’t believe I’ve been calling you my best friend for almost ten years and didn’t realize you were struggling,” I say,
squeezing her hand. “I’m so sorry. I should have been there for you, and I wasn’t.”
“You had your own things you were struggling with,” she says, flopping sideways against the back of the couch. “You’ve always
had much more working against you, considering your family situation. I never thought badly of you for it. And that brings
us to the other thing I have to say.”
Oh god, there’s more? I don’t know if I can handle more. Skylar folds her hands in her lap and frowns, rubbing one thumb over
the other.
“There’s no easy way to say this, so I’m just going to say it and know we’ll be okay afterward. You and I are family, and
we’re stronger than anything, right?” She takes a deep breath and meets my gaze with red-rimmed eyes. “In the interest of
clearing the air and making sure we’re on the best possible terms when I leave, I have to tell you, Nic: I don’t see you in
a romantic way. I love you deeply... but we are never going to be together in that way.”
I shove fried cheese in my mouth. In this moment, I truly don’t know what else to do.
I... knew. I’ve known all along, apparently, because there’s no surprise in the pulpy, beaten mess where my heart lives.
Just hurt. Grief. Sadness. A thousand other bitter things, all bleeding together.
The fried cheese doesn’t help. It goes down like a mouthful of gravel.
Skylar grabs my chin and tilts my face up until I’m looking at her.
“Here’s what I don’t get, Nic Knack,” she says, letting me go once she knows I’m listening. “I honestly don’t think you see
me romantically, either. I’m not trying to discount your feelings here, or tell you about your own emotions, so if I’m completely
off base, feel free to shut me down. I know you like staring at my boobs and all, but can you really tell me the love you
feel is romantic?”
“I... I just...” I cover my face with my hands and groan. This whole conversation might be the worst experience of my
life. “I don’t know, Sky. I just want to be family, you know? I want us to be in each other’s lives forever.”
“I want those things too, Nic Knack. And the great news is, we already have them! You are part of my family. My mom texts you more than she texts me! She’s worried to death over you, by the way. Please call her. And you spend every holiday and birthday with my family. My mom is already dreaming of your grandbabies, since
she knows you want them and I don’t. You don’t need to be with me romantically for those family ties to be real. And I don’t
need to live in Seattle for them to be real. So, why, Nic?”
“Because if we were married, then...”
Oh no .
The bottom falls out of my world as I look the truth right in the face for the first time. It’s lurked in the corners of my
mind, only ever spotted in flashes from the periphery of my vision. But now that I’m forced to put words to it, it’s undeniable.
“Because if we were married, then my family couldn’t leave you,” Skylar finishes for me, so quiet and gentle I feel like I’m
made of glass. “Then you’d officially and legally be family, and they couldn’t walk away. And neither could I. Oh, Nic.”
“Don’t,” I warn, swiping angrily at the tears spilling down my face. This is humiliating . This whole fantasy life I’ve built in my head, where Skylar and I get married and Mama Clark cries at our wedding and we’re
in each other’s pockets forever... it’s all crumbling to ash and dying embers. And I have no idea what to replace it with.
The yawning emptiness feels like it wants to swallow me up.
So of course, the fire alarm chooses that exact moment to go off.
We both groan, slumping against the couch in despair.
“Are you fucking serious? Now?” Skylar shouts. “I swear to God, if someone chose now of all times to burn their popcorn...”
“Grab the pie,” I say. “We can eat it in the parking lot.”
We shuffle into the hallway with a dozen other irritated residents, wincing at the strobing lights and pointedly ignoring
the looks we get. Yes, we are red-eyed, covered in snot and tears, and carrying a chocolate pie. What of it? Mind your own
business, Brad .
“Last time it only took half an hour to get back in,” some girl my age with a baby on her hip says to her neighbor, covering
the squalling baby’s ears as we stomp down the steps. “Maybe we’ll be lucky.”
Our herd pours into the parking lot and walks the requisite distance from the building, some people heading straight for their
cars to go somewhere else for the evening. I open my mouth to suggest the same thing to Skylar...
But then I see the very real flames pouring out of a first-floor window.
Not so lucky after all.
Considering the way my life is currently going down in flames, I deeply do not appreciate how literal this metaphor has become.