Like a Best Friend | ✓

chapter one

My mom used to tell me that if I sat too close to the TV screen, my eyes would go square. This was back when we lived in a tiny one-bed apartment and my dad split the living room in half with an old panel screen so I could have my own space, and the only way to watch TV was to sit too close, or squint across the room from the little table in the kitchen with its wonky leg and mismatched chairs from the thrift store. But I couldn't see from there, so I liked to sit on the floor in front of the couch, my nose inches from the glass as my mom despaired. This was also back before anyone realized I really needed glasses.

Now I see there's some truth in her warning all those years ago because I've been staring at my computer screen all day and I can feel my eyes changing shape, the words blurring on the page. I push away from my desk with a dramatic sigh, pushing my fingers under my glasses to rub my eyes.

"Right, that's it, I've had e-fucking-nough. I need a break."

Sally — deskmate; work wife; spreadsheet extraordinaire — peers at me over the top of her computer screen. "I've been telling you that for five years. You know, the whole point of unlimited PTO is that you're supposed to use it every now and then."

"Nuh-uh." I shake my head at her, her face rendered a blur when I take off my glasses to clean the smudged lenses on the hem of my shirt. "I'm pretty sure the whole point is to make us never take a break because we're overwhelmed by the lack of fixed vacation days so we never take any because they'll just get declined anyway." I put my glasses back on. Sally's frown comes into focus.

"Except that's bullshit and you know it," she says. "Jason's never said no to a single one of my requests. You're just a workaholic in dire need of a vacation."

"Whoa, whoa, no need for the character assassination." I hold up my hands, scooting away from the desk. "When I say I need a break, I mean I'm gonna take fifteen and grab a coffee from Tatte." I wind a scarf around my neck, pulling my punch-pink hair out from under the navy wool. "Want to come?"

Sally purses her lips as though she has to think about it but I know she'll say yes. She always does. "Okay, sure. It's your turn to buy after all."

Every day I bring my own lunch to work to save money, a remnant from my childhood of scrimping every penny, and every day Sally and I end up going to Tatte for a coffee and a pastry. Occasionally I have to save my packed lunch for dinner because I can't resist the tartines. The summer farro bowl is my current obsession, but it's only eleven thirty. Too early for lunch. Coffee only.

It's a typical September day in Boston, which means the sky is slate gray and the rain is pouring, heavy droplets bouncing off the sidewalk as Sally and I huddle under a shared umbrella. Not that it does much good when the rain is coming down sideways. Sally, ever prepared, has a raincoat and sturdy shoes despite the day starting out at a balmy sixty-five degrees. You can tell she has four kids. The woman's always ready for anything, whether it's inclement weather, a hungry coworker, or a call from the school to tell her that one of her sons has been suspended yet again. She's probably more like my work mom than my work wife, seeing as she's practically twice my age and older than my actual mom. Don't tell her I said that. I don't care that I'll be thirty in a couple years but Sally is still upset about turning fifty, and that was three years ago.

The walk is only a couple minutes from the office to the cafe and the wind is high, but it's no match for Sally's determination with a lighter. She gets a flame, lights a cigarette, and inhales deeply. I don't smoke, never have, but I've always liked the smell, never minded when she lights up every time we leave the office. I hold the umbrella while Sally smokes until we reach Tatte, where she stubs out the cigarette, blows through the filter, and saves the rest for the walk back.