Between Friends & Lovers

Chapter Twenty-Four

Jo

I awoke the next day, for the second time, in Malcolm Waters’s bed, except this time I felt like I’d been put through the

Olympic Trials. Which, in my defense, was not far from the truth. Apparently, sweet Malcolm Waters had been holding back,

and now that I’d given him the all clear to take whatever he wanted from me, he’d revealed himself for the beast I’d always

suspected him to be. I’d been pressed, folded, twisted, and tossed around like pretzel dough all night. In the best way. I

wasn’t even sure I had any endorphins left to release.

“You up?” he said, pressing soft, playful kisses to my shoulder.

“Mmm,” I managed, and Mal took that as a yes, diving under the covers and down my stomach. When he reached his destination,

he nipped at my inner thigh, and I threw off the sheets to watch. I liked seeing the full expanse of him: the broad back that

tapered to a slim waist, his round, firm shoulders, the crown of his lowered head. It made his teasing all the more potent,

to see the self-satisfied glint that appeared in his eyes right before he touched me. And when he finally did, his warm breath

becoming a wet, probing tongue— my god.

“You’re so happy,” I said when I came down from my high a few minutes later to find Mal grinning stupidly up at me from between my legs.

“Of course I’m happy,” he said. “You’re here with me.”

I rolled my eyes, trying to pretend that he hadn’t already won me over. Not that Mal wasn’t aware. He flopped onto his side,

his grin no less soppy, and pulled me into his chest.

“Okay, I’ve got an item on the agenda,” he informed me. “I’m tired of telling people that I’m ‘seeing someone.’ Was hoping

to just call you my girlfriend. Is that cool with you?”

My stomach lurched.

“That’s fine,” I said in a small voice. Mal tipped my face to his, raising an eyebrow at my lack of enthusiasm, and I huffed.

“Just... I might not be so good at the girlfriend thing right off the bat. So you’ll have to be patient with me.”

“What do you mean?” Mal asked, his tone neutral: not accusatory or angry, but curious.

I buried my face into his chest, embarrassed. My followers might have interpreted my videos on “consent” and “maintaining

healthy boundaries” as relationship advice, but I had no experience whatsoever in relationships. Mostly I’d gotten tired of

seeing young women who’d been pressured to forgo condoms by men who promised they were “clean” show up in my clinic with gonorrhea.

(Mal, bless him, had offered me his negative test results during our first night together, a gesture I found oddly romantic.)

And besides that, being somewhat responsible for Mal’s emotional well-being when my own was so tenuous was terrifying. I could probably be a halfway decent girlfriend when I was well. But when I wasn’t? When darkness infiltrated my thoughts, and it took all of my energy just to remember to eat, drink, and shower? Mal had already experienced my depression-triggered disappearing acts twice, and both episodes had hurt him. Could our relationship withstand more? The version of Jo that Mal loved was confident, honest, comfortable in her skin. Someone who made him want to be stronger. Someone he wanted to impress. But what if he met the other version: the one who barely believed she had a right to exist?

“I’m used to doing my own thing, I guess? Not really checking in with anyone?” I said, a half-truth. “Like, when I changed

my number. A good girlfriend would have called you right away, right? I didn’t really think about that. I just fell right

into a slump. And... I don’t know. There’s a lot of etiquette I don’t get. Do we have to see each other every day? Text

all the time?”

How long can I disappear for before you’ll be done with me? Twenty-four hours? Thirty-six?

“It’s not prescriptive. We just do what comes naturally, like we have been,” Mal said, kissing my hair. “What’s important

is that we’re considerate of each other. That we communicate. Keep each other in the loop.”

I hummed, apprehensive, but didn’t object. Mal had made me greedy and therefore selfish. I knew he had fallen for a facade,

but I couldn’t bear to push him away for long enough for him to notice. It felt too good to be in his arms.

“I’ll try,” I said, closing my eyes. But then I remembered something, and the corner of my mouth twitched. “Here’s something

I should probably tell you, then. I’ll be seeing Ezra at the health benefit this weekend.”

To his credit, Mal didn’t wince. Instead, he pulled me farther into him, and I would not have noticed the tension in his arms

if I hadn’t felt them bulge around me.

“I figured he’d be there. His mom’s running the event,” he said.

I closed my eyes in the safe space his body had created around me.

“I agreed to talk to him there,” I confessed.

“Hmm,” Mal said noncommittally. “About what?”

“Boundaries,” I said. I had a decent idea what was going to happen when I saw Ezra again. I would tell him that there was

no need to force things. That, in telling him that I had once had feelings for him, I hadn’t intended to declare that we could

only be in each other’s lives in a romantic capacity. I’d needed space to “find myself,” so to speak, and now that I’d accomplished

that, there was no reason not to return to how things were. (Mostly. Sharing beds was pretty out of the question now that

I was somebody’s girlfriend.)

When I told Mal this, he snorted.

“Wow,” he said. “You really are clueless.”

“What do you mean by that?” I said, pushing away just a little to make sure he could see my scowl.

Mal kissed the space between my eyebrows, smoothing out the furrow.

“Nothing,” he said. “Just that I trust you.”

We languished for a little while longer. I would have been content to spend the rest of the day in bed with Mal, being intermittently

ravished, but I had a hair appointment in the afternoon, and if I was even two minutes late, Fatou would let someone else

into her braiding chair. Mal offered to drop me off at home, and when we pulled up in front of my building’s sea-glass green

entrance, I mourned our imminent farewell. I sighed my way through my braiding appointment, not even getting annoyed when

Fatou took a forty-five-minute break to pick up Chinese food.

Liking someone is scary, I told Dahlia as Fatou flicked through the channels on a television that likely hadn’t been replaced since the ’90s. Because why am I smiling at myself like a dodo bird while this lady yanks out my hair follicles?

It’s that tru luv, Dahlia responded. You better make me a flower girl at the wedding.

With all the plucking, pruning, and preening I did over the next twenty-four hours, I certainly felt like a bride. It had

taken me until medical school to realize that beauty by and large came out of a box, one that I built for myself back when

I had nothing to my name but a paltry stipend and a vintage iPhone. My overnight transformation from a generous six to a humble

eight had been like something from the movies: all it had taken was a little eyebrow threading, some falsies, the right sew-in

weave, and judiciously applied makeup to turn me into someone worth looking at.

“You’re going to let Adelman see you like that?” Dahlia said, admiring me from her doorframe as I struggled to put on my heels.

“Ezra’s seen me in about a million dresses,” I said. Though, to be fair, this dress was different: red as sin, backless, figure-skimming.

The kind of dress that would have made my old female attendings pull me aside for a lecture on professionalism. I’d bought

it weeks ago, when I was still trying to hype myself up as a Hot Girl Who Was Totally Capable of Seducing a Certain Withholding

Writer. “Shit. My ride’s here.”

“Wait wait wait,” Dahlia said, whipping out her phone. “Are you an influencer or not? Let’s get some evidence that you look

good for the Gram.”

Laughing, I spun for her, falling quickly into three or four practiced poses.

“I really have to go,” I said when she started to push for a fifth.

“Fine,” Dahlia said. “Have fun! And don’t let Ezra mow you over!”

“I won’t.”

I blew her a kiss, and then flew out the door.

Operation Don’t Let Ezra Mow You Over started out as a success. Ezra had texted me earlier to suggest we share a ride: I was

on his way, after all, and Harold, Renata’s driver, had been asking about me anyway. But I’d turned him down. The concept

of spending twenty minutes trapped in an enclosed space with an Ezra who was clearly on the hunt was too obvious of a trap.

He knew where all of my buttons were, and I knew that he would spend the entire journey pushing them.

I arrived at the venue with my heart in my throat. The Knydus Nest annual health benefit regularly raised upward of $5million

for an underfunded disease of interest (this year, sickle cell anemia). Without an association with the Adelmans, I could

never have afforded a ticket. When I reached the grand doors of the entrance, a man in all black opened them to let me in,

another escorted me up the stairs to the event.

Renata wasn’t a big fan of red carpets outside of film premieres, so the Knydus Nest carpet was a rich velveteen blue that

ended outside the open heavy doors that led to the ballroom. I stepped into line behind a dashing older couple, my fingers

sneaking to my neck to check my thundering pulse. It’ll be fine , I told myself, as I waited for my turn in front of the expansive Knydus Nest logo. It’s just a conversation. You and Ezra have had a thousand of them. And a lot of them have been harder than this.

The older couple walked into the ballroom, and suddenly, it was my turn under the spotlight. I stepped into place, waving

hello at Felipe, one of Renata’s go-to photographers.

“Beautiful dress, Josephine,” he responded, snapping away. “Let’s get a few more—”

Suddenly, a hand fell on the small of my back. I recoiled, ready to smack my assailant with my clutch, but when I looked up

it was to a familiar set of smiling eyes.

“Hey,” Ezra said casually.

“When did you get here?” I said. Clean-shaven, hair artfully tousled, and dressed elegantly in a navy-blue suit that turned

his eyes cerulean, Ezra looked his part as the prince of the party. He grinned wolfishly, then gently nudged me into position

like he hadn’t just crashed my solo shoot. My smile faltered, but Felipe didn’t seem to notice. The flashes intensified; photographers

who’d been less interested in faceless donors and niche influencer types like myself were suddenly engaged by the arrival

of a real celebrity.

“What are you doing?” I hissed through my smile.

“What do you mean?” Ezra teased. “I’m getting my picture taken.”

We’d taken photos like this together a thousand times on a hundred random carpets: for benefits and retirement parties, premieres

and award shows. But this time, something was different. Maybe it was the placement of Ezra’s hands, just a touch too low

on my waist, just a touch too firm to feel like an accident, or the angling of his body into me, the heat of his front radiating

into my bare back.

“Is Josephine your date tonight, Ezra?” Felipe asked, stepping closer to get his perfect shot.

Ezra laughed, his touch on my back becoming a squeeze. Then, before I could comprehend what was happening, he pulled me against

him fully, wrapping his arms around me from behind.

“I don’t know,” he said, his voice a rasp at the corner of my jaw. “You ask her.”

Heat rushed to my face, and I tore myself out of his hold, fighting back my fury as I stormed off the carpet. Felipe had definitely

gotten that shot, and it was just juicy enough that I knew he wouldn’t be able to resist sharing it. God, what if Mal saw

it before I could explain? I unsnapped my purse, pulling out my phone to furiously text him: If you see a photo anywhere of Ezra hugged up on me, no, I did not want him to do that.

I didn’t have to look behind me to know that Ezra had followed.

“Who are you texting?” he asked.

I glared up at him. “My boyfriend,” I informed him, tapping “send.” Mal responded instantly with: Next time he does something you don’t want, punch him. I’ll bail you out. “I’ve got to do damage control for that stunt you pulled back there.”

“Your boyfriend,” Ezra repeated. He tilted his head to the side, like he would perceive me better from an angle. “Is it the

writer guy? Mom just bought rights to his book?”

“Yup,” I said, walking across the decadently decorated room toward the seating chart, Ezra trailing me like a shadow. As promised,

Renata had put us back at the same table, but she’d also added Boris on as a buffer. Brilliant woman.

“Do you like him?” Ezra asked.

“Obviously,” I said, then softer, “very much.”

Ezra nodded sagely. Then: “Is he better-looking than me?”

I scowled. “Stop that,” I said.

“Stop what,” he said.

“ Flirting with me,” I said. “You want to talk? Talk to me straight. Without all the fluff.”

Ezra’s smile dropped like I’d scraped it off.

“Sorry,” he said, waving away a waitress when she approached us with a tray of hors d’ouevres. “I just— You didn’t mind...

before.”

The room was beginning to fill, guests in floor-length gowns and tuxedos crowding around the seating chart. The noise they

created (clacks of heels against marble tile, boisterous greetings from people who had last seen one another at the previous

year’s event, all layered on top of an orchestral rendition of Mariah Carey’s “We Belong Together”) was giving me a headache.

“I always minded,” I confessed.

“I didn’t know,” Ezra said softly.

I swallowed against a tight throat, knowing that he was telling the truth. Our friendship had been full of boundary blurring,

and as much as I blamed Ezra for walking the line, I’d walked it alongside him. Whenever he reached for my hand, I’d held

it. I’d let him fall asleep on my shoulder, agreed to be his interim plus-one in his short, rare periods of singlehood, fell

asleep in his bed. When he told me he loved me, most times I said it back. And truthfully, I’d liked our closeness. Encouraged

it. It was only recently that it had become unbearable.

“Let’s sit,” Ezra said.

We were early, our table unoccupied. It was close to the raised stage, across from an ornate podium, kitty-corner from the

string quintet. Ever the gentleman, Ezra pulled out a chair for me, then turned his to face mine and dropped gracelessly into

it.

“Do you remember when we first met?” he said, bracing himself on his knees.

“You mean, when you broke into my dorm room?” I said with a snort.

Ezra smiled wistfully.

“First of all, I didn’t ‘break in.’ I was given a key,” he said. “And no, actually. It was in American Lit. The third day

of class. I asked to borrow a pen. Do you remember?”

“No, honestly,” I said. Those first few days on Elion’s campus were a blur. I’d been too preoccupied with getting a job outside

of work-study to pay attention to any of my classmates.

“I know you don’t,” Ezra said. “And that was the beauty of it. It wasn’t that you didn’t know who I was, it was that you didn’t

care. You didn’t try to make useless conversation or attempt to ingratiate yourself to me. You even made me give it back at

the end of class.”

“I used those really nice gel pens in American Lit,” I said with a small smile. I remembered them; they’d cost seven dollars

for the pack, my sole splurge during college move-in shopping. I told Ezra, and he laughed.

“You remember the pens but not me, huh,” he said. “But honestly... that tracks. You were refreshing. It felt like the first

time I was being judged for who I was, and you decided that who I was was kind of a little shit.” Ezra grinned, like my less-than-charitable

initial opinion of him had been a blessing. “Remember when we had that huge fight in the SSC? Because I called you my friend

and you basically told me I was delusional?”

“You were delusional,” I said. “But you weren’t a little shit. You were pretty great.”

Even then, I’d known that it had been fear that had caused me to keep Ezra at arm’s length when we first met, not dislike.

People like Ezra got do-overs; first, second, third chances; sympathetic letters from parents proclaiming his potential ; people like me weren’t supposed to be at institutions like Elion in the first place. I’d seen his self-destructive behaviors and thought of myself getting crushed in their aftermath. But I’d also seen his spirit. Ezra was kind to me, surprisingly sensitive. It had frustrated me, how he never seemed to hear the noise that followed him like a swarm of hornets, how insistent he was that we lived in a world where things like class and race and gender didn’t matter. He’d invited me into his family, into his home, into his heart.

“I was a little shit,” Ezra said quietly. “I still am, sometimes. But I’m a little shit who misses you.” He leaned in closer, his expression earnest. “Jo. You’re my best friend,

and you saved my life. I’m not willing to accept you not being in it. So I want you to tell me all the ways that I’ve hurt

you so that I can make sure I never do any of them again. And if that means I start by cooling off on the flirting, I can

do that.”

I sniffed to hold back the tears that were forming in the backs of my eyes. There wasn’t anything to say, because truthfully,

Ezra hadn’t done anything wrong . It had all been about my own perception of us. I had wanted him to look at me and me alone, to be the most important person

in his life no matter who else was in it.

But now that I had Mal, I understood. Because what I felt for Mal was different from anything I’d ever felt for Ezra. It was

comforting and safe in similar ways, yes, but it was also passionate, searing. I wanted to touch Mal in ways and places I’d

never wanted to touch Ezra, wanted to be held by him, but I also wanted to fight with him over the type of granite we wanted

for our countertops, wanted to sit proudly in the front row of his book events, wanted to bring him steaming cups of tea in

the dead of the night when he was typing feverishly toward a deadline. When I thought of Ezra, I thought of our past. With

Mal, I saw our future.

Maybe that was how Ezra had felt about Ashley, about every one of his eight ex-girlfriends. Maybe I’d minimized his relationships with them because I’d assumed they could never compare to the one he had with me. Maybe Ezra had just wanted to experience multiple kinds of love, just as I did now. Maybe I had been wrong to condemn him for that.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I... This wasn’t your fault. This was about me and figuring out my own shit. You didn’t do anything—”

A hand clapped me on the shoulder, cutting me off midsentence. I turned to find Boris Finnegan grinning down at me like he’d

just been handed his third Emmy. I sucked back my tears, rearranging my face into what I hoped was an inviting smile.

“Dr.Boateng, as I live and breathe! You look beautiful as always,” he said, then to Ezra: “Hello, Ezra.”

“Make it less obvious which one of us is your favorite, why don’t you, Boris,” Ezra said good-naturedly, and we both stood

to greet him, understanding that our time alone was over for now. As the table’s occupants arrived, Ezra and I split, making

all the requisite small talk—or, in the unfortunate case of Boris’s recently drained buttock abscess, very big talk—until the lights in the room dimmed. Then, when everyone shuffled back into their chairs, Ezra stepped in close, pulling

me in by my elbow.

“Check your phone,” he said. And then, with a genial smile, he took his seat.

Renata Kovalenko knew how to put on a show. She graced the stage in a baby-blue Jenny Packham gown, her hair fashioned into a low chignon that showcased the giant sapphire on her chest like a talisman. The speeches were short and to the point, the singular boring academic who stepped forward to accept the gala’s donations ushered offstage after only three minutes to make way for the live band.

I paid attention to none of it. I was trying my hardest not to crack up at Ezra Adelman’s less-than-charitable live commentary.

The thin, raven-haired woman who accepted the Knydus Nest award for the biggest donation in a pink feathered dress looked kind of like a flamingo . The sixteen-year-old son of a hedge fund manager who was seated at our table thinks he’s being subtle about staring at Boris’s girlfriend’s tits . Even his own mother was not spared: Somebody’s soul is trapped inside that rock around her neck, I swear.

Jo: You’re being an ass. Stop it.

Ezra: What was that? I have a cute ass?

Ezra: Oh. Sorry. Am I flirting again?

Jo: Yes. But I’ll let it slide. Just this once. Because you’re learning.

Ezra: I don’t know if I can get away with once. You know this is just how I communicate.

Jo: Yes, yes, you only speak Fuckboianese.

Ezra: Excuse you. What I speak is clearly Wastemanian. It’s a different dialect. Don’t be insensitive, Jo.

“You’re a disaster,” I responded out loud, when the night’s program concluded and the dance floor opened up. The live band

started the night off with a poppy rendition of Earth, Wind the last time he’d gotten one, it was to inform him that one of his exes was threatening to leak his nudes.

“I’ll be back,” I said, throwing my clutch under my arm and hightailing it for the exit. The music reverberated through my

body, pounding in my head alongside my heart. Had Denise finally gotten tired of me? Had her Saturday evening nightcap given

her the courage to drop me, her most elusive client? I was stupid to have not gotten a clinical job. The influencer life was

inconsistent even for those who were fully committed, and I clearly was not, and I had always known that when it came to money,

I couldn’t afford to take risks. My savings would tide me over for two months, maybe three, if I budgeted appropriately, and

I could always find a different agent, reach for my own contacts—

I was so lost in my thoughts that I didn’t hear Ezra’s footsteps behind me.

“You’re spiraling, Jo,” he said, turning me by my shoulders to face him. He pulled me into an alcove under the grand stairwell, tucking me out of sight. “We don’t know what’s happening yet, and whatever it is, we’ll manage it. Easy. Breathe.”

I followed his direction, taking a deep breath in, blowing it out.

“Okay, okay,” I managed, shivering. It didn’t matter how many times Ezra watched me lose my cool; I always felt naked afterward,

like a bird with its feathers plucked out. “I... should call her back. You should get back in there. Have fun.”

“And leave you out here to have the world’s most glamorous panic attack?” Ezra teased. “No way. I’m staying right here.”

I blew out a huff of air. “Fine,” I said.

And then I called Denise back.

“I’m so sorry, Jo,” Denise said. “I was just looking over my inbox, and I missed it. I’ll be more diligent in the future.

Again, I’m so sorry—”

“It’s okay, Denise,” I said numbly. I stared down at the email she’d forwarded me, five days after she’d received it. I heard

her apologies echoing as though from a distance, like she was shouting at me from a faraway shore instead of through my speakerphone.

I didn’t even notice when she hung up, too hypnotized by the email I was reading on my screen.

Dear Ms.Denise Gardner,

I apologize for multiple emails. I received your contact from Dr.Josephine Boateng’s website. It is imperative that we reach

her for urgent matters regarding her mother, Ms.Prudence Boateng, who is currently admitted to the Cardiac Intensive Care

Unit at Featherstone General Hospital. Please have her call me back at my personal cell phone, listed below, or provide an

alternate form of contact. Please be advised that I am on night shifts and will be available from 7pm to 9am daily.

Best,

Sahar Hosseini, MD

I read the email, reread it, tried to internalize what I’d read, failed to compute.

“Fuck,” Ezra said, vocalizing my thoughts.

“There you two are!” a musical voice rang out. “And together again! I take it this means that you’ve made up. Thank god, I

was starting to get worried—”

“Mom,” Ezra said sharply, but he was too late; at the sound of Renata’s voice, the tears I’d been trying to hold back dripped

down my face. I watched the shimmering hem of her dress enter my field of vision as I tried to wipe them away with the heel

of my hand.

“What’s going on?” Renata asked accusatorily. Even without lifting my head, I could imagine that she was glaring at her son.

He sighed.

“Don’t look at me like that. This is bigger than me, for once,” he said. “Her mom’s in the hospital.”

A hand lifted my chin, and I found myself suddenly at eye level with a frowning Renata. She didn’t say a word, just surveyed

my face for what felt like one long minute, then snatched Ezra’s pocket square out and, taking care to avoid my carefully

applied eye shadow, dabbed away my tears.

“Which one?” Renata asked me, all business.

“Featherstone,” I managed, as the pieces of information began to connect in my mind. I knew Featherstone. I’d rotated there

as a medical student. It was a nice hospital in the southwest suburbs, and far from the shabby one-bedroom apartment in Joliet

where I’d grown up.

“What do you want to do?” Renata asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. I’d spent so much time in therapy trying to elucidate what exactly I wanted from my mother and accepting

that I might never get it. It had been thirteen years since I’d last seen her, and in that time she had only attempted to

make contact twice. When she called me two weeks ago, had it been to tell me that she was unwell? I need help , she’d said, and I’d assumed that she needed rent money or bail or something else you ask only of family and never pay back

and had been furious. You were never my safety net , I wanted to respond. Why should I be yours?

But if she was dying? Would I feel differently then?

Renata dropped my chin, and suddenly I was reminded of the day that I moved out of her Gold Coast penthouse. She’d helped

me with my apartment search, curling her lips at every walk-up within my budget and trying, unsuccessfully, to convince me

to let her help fund something more suitable. When I informed her that I’d signed a lease and would be out of her hair within

the month, she’d feigned indifference. Congratulated me (“That’s lovely, Josephine, just make sure they don’t have a pest

problem, mice are just awful to get rid of.”) and went back to discussing the week’s meal plans with her chef. But as Ezra

and I were packing my last box into her driver’s car, she followed us to the first floor with tears in her eyes.

“I hope you don’t feel like we pushed you out,” she’d said. “You can stay for as long as you need to, you know.” And when I convinced her that moving was my choice, she’d insisted, “If you ever need to come back, for whatever reason, just say the word. This room will always be yours.”

True to her word, Renata had left my bedroom untouched. The only thing I’d ever found in it that was out of place was Mal.

My mother didn’t seem to notice when I moved out. I did so gradually, splitting rent in a three-bedroom house with two of

my coworkers at the sandwich shop where I worked, and when a month passed and she still hadn’t bothered to call to ask after

me, I filed for emancipation. Up until the day I stood face-to-face with the judge, I expected her to show up. Protest, even

just a little bit. She didn’t. She never had.

And yet.

“Don’t live your life with regrets,” Renata said now. “If you don’t go, you might ask yourself what if for the rest of your

life.” She reached into her clutch for her phone, sent off a message. “Harold will drive you.”

I blinked away tears. Renata was right. If I didn’t go and see for myself what had become of my mother, it would haunt me

forever.

“Thank you,” I said. “Really.”

“Anytime,” Renata said. She gave me a cool smile and a kiss on the cheek. “Now go.”