Friends Like These(10)

“Of course I didn’t know Finch was coming. Don’t you think I would have warned you guys?” Derrick said. “I was already at the gallery to get Keith when Finch showed up. He asked what we were doing— Keith had a weekend bag. And then he was asking to come like he always does. You know the only reason he wants to hang out with us is because we won’t let him. If we just said yes once in a while, he’d probably lose interest.”

“Did Finch know all of us were going to be here?” I asked— I couldn’t help it. “Or did he think it was just the three of you?”

“Don’t know. I definitely said it was Jonathan’s bachelor party and that Finch shouldn’t come. But you know Keith, Finch gets what Finch wants.” Derrick shook his head in disgust. “I would have pushed back harder, but I was worried Keith might get suspicious. If Finch finds out about the drugs, he’ll fire Keith for sure. Finch’s dad was a meth addict. We can’t do an intervention with him here. It’ll have to wait.”

Not that it mattered what Finch found out, because he’d already fired Keith. But I was the only one who knew that. And given the way I’d found out, it wasn’t like I could tell anyone.

“Except we can’t wait,” I said. “Keith has to get checked into Bright Horizons by Monday, or Jonathan’s dad is going to call in his loan.”

Derrick closed his eyes. “Great.”

I looked out the window. In the side yard a bunch of boards had been stacked in a tall triangle, like someone had prepped the site for a bonfire.

“What’s that?” I asked, tapping my finger against the pane.

Derrick kept his eyes on the boards. “I was just trying to figure that out myself.”

“What’s up with the pyre?” I called across the room to Jonathan.

Jonathan made his way over to look. “That’s— ” He recoiled, only for a split second, but it was unmistakable. “That’s . . . I have absolutely no idea what that is. They’re putting in a deck off the master bedroom at the back, must be related.”

“But, like, arranged like that?” Derrick asked. “It’s kind of . . . weird, don’t you think?”

“No.” Jonathan laughed awkwardly. “I’m sure Peter just forgot to tell me about it, whatever it is. He’s been working so hard on the house and his book. You know what that’s like, Derrick. He’s consumed— I mean, in a good way. A great way.”

“I thought Peter was a web designer,” I said. Before that I could have sworn I’d heard actor.

As far as I was concerned, they all had one translation: gold digger. Though I tried to keep that opinion to myself. Jonathan did seem genuinely happy, and Peter did seem genuinely devoted to him. There was a possibility I was being overprotective.

“Web designing was just a day job. Peter has always been a writer. And he is so talented,” Jonathan said, eyes still scrutinizing the wood. He turned to Derrick. “A big-name literary agent compared him to David Foster Wallace, and he’s not even finished with the first draft. Derrick, you have to read it— you’re going to love it.”

“Sounds interesting,” Derrick said tightly. Notably not saying he would read it.

Derrick would never actually say no, though. He’d admitted to me once that this was because both his parents had been alcoholics. His survival had always been predicated on accommodating people.

“Oh, good. I knew you’d be willing to help, Derrick. Maybe read it and pass it on to your agent?” Jonathan was as generous with his connections as he was with his money, even when those connections were us. “Peter was so nervous you’d say no. Anyway, thank you for helping him. You know how hard it is to break into the writing world.”

“Right, yeah. Definitely,” Derrick said with forced politeness. “I’d be happy to read it.”

“I’ll text Peter about those boards, too— I’m sure they’re nothing. He runs a very tight ship with the renovation.” Jonathan typed out a quick text, hit send, and tucked his phone back in his pocket. Then he leaned in close to whisper, “Now, come on. Help me get Keith stashed away upstairs so we can regroup. The clock is ticking.”





TWO WEEKS EARLIER


It’s strange being back on campus after all these years. It looks much smaller than I recall, which is the way of all things, I suppose— swelling to outsize importance in your memory. It’s more beautiful, too, the grounds so lush and leafy, the flower beds overflowing with red and pink blooms. That’s the thing about youth: beauty being so readily available, it’s easily overlooked.

I sit on a bench and watch the students walking this way and that, bright-eyed and fresh-faced. Hopeful. It’s only just after Labor Day, the start of a new semester. They are so naive and open still, rushing headlong with the reckless confidence of youth. They don’t know yet that danger will lie in the most ordinary places, tucked deep within the very best things. Like love and loyalty and friendship. Everyone thinks love will be the thing that saves them, and yet it leaves so much destruction in its wake.

But as much as I feel worried for all those young, eager, naive faces, I also feel sorry for myself. For what’s already been lost. What I could lose still. I didn’t ask for any of this, certainly not this sudden fork in the road. I know I can’t ignore it, but I’m also not quite sure what to do. And so I’m doing this: watching, hoping an answer will come.