3
By mid-afternoon, everyone knows. And by everyone I just mean NASA because they are everyone to me.
Well, I mean, I do have parents. But they don’t need to know yet.
In fact, I’d much rather tell them in a week or two—or in the case of my dad, possibly never—once things are firmly squared away.
If I called my mom now she would just worry, and there would be nothing she could do, and why make her miserable for no reason?
But the important thing is Nolan and Lia know, and they have never stayed out of anything ever, so of course they’re here.
Not that I’m complaining. They went to my old place and literally packed boxes for me so I wouldn’t have to see Elliot.
Not everything, obviously. Not the furniture since I’ll only be here temporarily, but enough to last me until I get my life in order.
Clothes, shoes, coats, sticky notes, toothbrush, the book I’m in the middle of, my computer and charger—things like that.
The two of them huff into Andy’s apartment noisily, each carrying a box and a bag with a few more waiting in Nolan’s car.
I point them to the spare bedroom off of the kitchen—formerly Andy’s home office until he unflinchingly handed it over to me a few hours ago.
(I still can’t get over how quickly he agreed to that, by the way.)
“I love you guys. Thank you so much,” I say as they set everything down. “Really, you didn’t have to do that. I could’ve dealt with seeing him.”
“Shush,” is Lia’s response, and she literally puts her index finger over my mouth. “Stop that. We wanted to.”
“Yeah, it’s nothing, Soph,” Nolan insists. “Why don’t you and Lia just hang out while Andy and I get the rest from the car, yeah?”
I think about arguing, but Nolan pulls me into a bear hug that physically silences me. He kisses me on the top of the head like the most softhearted big brother anyone could imagine (even though he’s not really my brother) then pats Andy on the shoulder to cue their departure.
The moment Nolan’s body breaks contact with mine, Lia’s replaces it, arms wrapped tight around me. I bury my chin in her shoulder, praying she won’t ask me about it but knowing she will.
“What happened, Soph?”
There it is.
I mean, she had to. She’s being a good friend. I just hate that I’m bringing everyone down with this melodrama.
“I’m fine, really,” I force out, but she doesn’t loosen her grip. “It was just time to call it.”
“Well he’s a fucking loser who never deserved you, and you’re going to be so much better off without him.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” I agree, white-knuckle gripping my tears because I am not going to cry with everyone here. I’m not.
She doesn’t let go of me until the boys come back in with the final boxes.
One thing I love about NASA? Most of our boundaries were completely torn to shreds by about year three of our friendship.
Nolan doesn’t even bother to ask if they can stay for dinner, he just opens one of Andy’s cabinets and asks, “What kinds of pasta do you have? Should I just make it from scratch?”
And boy, between the friend who’s letting me live in his lovely spare bedroom, and the friends with generations-old Sicilian recipes in their back pockets, I’ve got it made.
What do I bring to this friend group? Not much—I’ll tell you that for free.
With the boys getting to work in the kitchen, I pull Lia into my new bedroom to help me unpack.
My room is right off of the kitchen, so normally the four of us would be able to chat at a normal volume through the open door, but Lia cannot exist with even a moment of silence so she’s already playing music on her phone with the volume on max.
“Hey Andy,” she calls, “can I have a cup?”
He brings her one, and she shoves the butt of her phone into it as a makeshift speaker.
(Which works surprisingly well.) The sounds of rhythmic guitar float from the bedroom to the kitchen, mingling with the sounds of bags unzipping, packing tape tearing from cardboard, and frying pans clinking against each other.
We fold shirts into drawers while the boys argue.
“Cayenne pepper and red pepper flakes are literally the same food, dude. They should be next to each other.”
“Nolan, I don’t know how to make this any clearer. It’s in alphabetical order, and C and R are not next to each other.” Andy sounds exhausted, like they’ve had this conversation before.
“Who alphabetizes their spice rack?” Nolan demands. “I would understand grouping them by like… flavor profile or country of origin, but alphabetical is insane.”
“Who groups their spices by country of origin?” Andy asks, incredulous.
“Yeah, Nolan,” Lia shouts over the music through the open bedroom door. “You’re telling us you don’t have time to wash your sheets but you have time to organize your spices by country of origin?”
“I wash my sheets!”
“Occasionally…”
I take it upon myself to pop into the kitchen and end the debate. “Andy, do you have a Sharpie?”
“Um yes…” He shuffles around in a drawer before turning to hand me one. I then pluck the red pepper flakes out of Nolan’s hand and scrawl a big “C” on the front.
“Cred pepper flakes. Yup, that’ll do it,” Nolan nods, placing them back on the shelf next to the cayenne.
And I know I’m in trouble even before Andy’s eyes lock with mine.
I try to dart away around the kitchen table, but he lunges for me and he’s too fast.
He fakes left and I fall for it, then his freakishly long arms are wrapping around my middle and lifting me straight into the air.
I can barely catch my breath from how hard I’m laughing as he carries me away, depositing me on the couch in my room and pointing a finger in my direction.
“You stay here. You’re banned from the kitchen.”
“Just tonight or forever?” I wheeze. “Does that mean you’ll cook all my meals while I’m here?”
He offers a wry look before heading back.
Already know the mood: werewolf, vampire, or billionaire?
Search Lokepub on Google and go straight to the good part.
With dinner in the oven, the boys come into my room to help pull out the couch, and it doesn’t take very long before we’re all draped across it. It’s like we have a mutual gravity—being near them just makes me want to get nearer.
(And anyway, I’m pretty sure anything with mass does have its own gravity, so there.)
Andy is the first to sit on the pull-out couch AKA my new bed, perching himself in the top corner with his arms crossed.
Lia lies across the middle, perpendicular to Andy and taking up far more than her fair share of space.
Andy rests his socked feet across her calves, which does make her yell “Ew! Man feet!”
but doesn’t make her move. Nolan sits on the floor, leaning against the dresser, and I arrange myself cross-legged in the space next to Andy and above Lia.
“I love those earrings, Soph,” Lia says—definitely not throwing out any compliment she can think of to make me feel better about the breakup. “Are they rubies?”
“Um… I don’t know.” I say, touching one. And I really don’t know what they are, but I do know I love them. Small, tear-shaped gems hanging from gold posts. I only realize I’m smiling after it’s started.
“Yeah, they’re rubies,” Andy says confidently from my left, which prompts Lia to jab, “What, are you a jeweler now, Andrew? Oh my god, you know what they look like?”
She flips onto her stomach to look squarely at her brother.
“They look like that ring of Nonna’s. The one you gave that girl on the second date and then she ghosted you.”
“Nolan!” I laugh. I can’t help it. It’s so classically him.
“Dude.” Andy shakes his head.
“Oh, that’s what we’re doing today, Lia? Okay, I’ll remember this next time Nonna wants to see pictures of your art.”
“You wouldn’t,” she hisses. “Nolan, the woman is 91, she doesn’t need to see fiber art nipples. Let her live her final days in peace.”
“Would you rather I tell her about the Ragu in your fridge?”
“Are you trying to kill the woman!?”
When the Mercado siblings start bickering, it’s best to let it die a natural death. So I leave them to their devices and turn towards Andy, whispering, “When I’m 91, I’m confident I’ll still want to see fiber art nipples.”
“I’ll inform your descendants,” he replies seriously, and I feel a rush of gratitude for him that’s completely disproportionate to the situation.
I’m grateful for the room he’s giving me in his apartment, of course.
But somehow I’m even more grateful for his company on this couch during this unremarkable conversation.
I know that doesn’t make sense. I’ve had a hard day—cut me some slack.
The night goes on much the same. Nolan serves a delicious homemade lasagna, which we eat while chattering about nothing across the kitchen table.
“I’ve never had lasagna with peas in it before,” Andy says, “but it’s really good.”
“That’s the Sicilian way,” Lia explains.
Nolan doubles down, declaring, “It’s the only real lasagna.”
But he’s such a goon with his little posh act that when he takes a sip of his wine I reach out and squeeze his cheeks.
Red liquid spurts from his mouth all across the table, covering the lasagna we’re still eating, and everyone groans and laughs and I think maybe this is why they keep me around—a spot of levity every now and then.
But I’m also not a total jerk, so I get up to grab paper towels for the mess I made. And people still serve themselves more lasagna, because we all have each other’s germs already, so it’s fine.
Once we’ve eaten our fill, Andy pours us each a second glass while I load the dishwasher. (I live here now, remember! I’m a hostess!)
“I’ve decided I’m definitely going to get tattoos,” Lia is explaining as Andy fills her glass. “I just keep changing my mind about what and where. But I definitely want—”
“That makes no sense,” Nolan cuts in. “How do you know you want them but don’t know what you’d even want?”
“Did you guys know I have a tattoo?” Andy asks, and all three of our heads jerk up. I’m about to go into full-blown psychosis because I didn’t know my best friend has a tattoo, when he shakes his head and says, “You all are too easy.”
I slap his arm, but he’s smiling with two dimples so how can I be mad?
Oh, I haven’t told you about the smiles!
Here’s the thing: Remember how I’m a professional Andy interpreter? A big part of that is in his smiles.
His default smile would not even be considered a smile for most people. It’s a twitch of the lips. Nigh on imperceptible, unless you have my years of grueling fieldwork.
Then he has his polite smile. This is the only one I don’t care for, because it’s usually fake. I met his brother Owen last year, and the poor guy got only polite smiles from Andy all night (and it was Owen’s birthday too—yikes).
Then there’s the one-dimple and two-dimple smiles. Physically self-explanatory, those, but let me describe them to you anyway:
The one-dimple smile I gladly accept with open arms.
It’s a genuine show of Andy’s happiness, and is worth its weight in gold.
Likely to be seen when someone tells a joke that’s actually funny, a person he likes walks in a room, he completes his 95th marathon with a personal best, etc. (I’m pretty sure he hasn’t actually run 95 marathons, but basically.)
But the two-dimple smile… that’s my kryptonite.
The two-dimple smile shows up when Andy forgets himself and is just purely, unabashedly happy.
It’s hard to put into words unless you know him.
Like… you know when dogs wag their tails with excitement and it just melts your heart because they have pure souls, and you want to do everything in your power to ensure nothing bad ever happens to them?
It’s like that. It’s a glimpse into the pure part of his soul that’s never been hurt or let down. And I love it so, so much.
Not like… love love. I’m not in love with him. But I definitely love him like a best friend, because that’s what he is. My best friend in the world.
(Don’t tell Lia I said that.)