We Are Not Like Them(104)

“I might have a white bestie on one side and a white boyfriend on the other. Talk about Oreo. Ugh.”

There’s a split-second pause where Jen looks at me to see if she’s allowed to laugh, and then she does. “Well, the ones with chocolate crème always were my favorite.” We crack up again. And we might as well be tucked into sleeping bags in my parents’ wood-paneled basement for how much it feels—blissfully—like old times.

“What’s that?” I nod at the paper in her hand, distracting us before we can get too deep into Corey, and the future. As excited as I am, it’s all still too fragile to bear the weight of too much scrutiny of what the future will bring. Baby steps.

Jenny unfolds the rectangle of paper. It’s a check, with my name on it in Jenny’s neat block letters.

“Jenny, you don’t have to…” I stop her hand as it slides along the table. I never expected that she would repay me. I don’t need the money, and she needs it now so much more than I do. I’d rather we just forget about it altogether.

“Riley, let me do this. I owe you—this and so much more.”

“Where did you get—” There’s no way Jenny had five grand lying around. Especially with Kevin’s legal bills, and the lawsuits that may be coming, and now the move.

“Don’t ask. Just take the money, Rye. Please. If you love me, you’ll take it. I don’t want to owe you anything. I want a clean slate.”

And I do too, so I take the check and tuck it into the back pocket of my jeans. I told her I would take it, but I don’t promise to cash it.

And now it’s my turn. I didn’t know if it would feel like the right time to do this, but it is. It has to be. Especially now that Jenny is leaving. It sinks in now. She’ll be gone in a couple of weeks. It’s a punch in the gut, but also maybe a relief. I love her. I’ll always love her, but maybe distance is what we both need. It’s what we’re used to. Maybe the miles between us haven’t been a barrier but a way to maintain our connection despite how different our lives have become. I can picture us sitting on a beach in Florida, side by side, a giant pitcher of frozen margaritas on a rickety table between our beach chairs—the mandatory best-friend getaway. How had we gone our whole lives without a real beach trip? The time Lou took us to Atlantic City and then left us on a dirty strip of sand while she gambled at Harrah’s and made me swear I wouldn’t tell my mother doesn’t count. This trip will count. I’m determined to carve out three days for this. Soon.

“Well, I have something else for you too, actually. Hang on, it’s in my bag.”

“You already got me the Lexus of strollers. You have to stop!” Jenny calls out as I run into the foyer, return with the dark vinyl jewelry box.

“Are you proposing? If so, the answer is yes. I’ll be your sister wife. Can I get on your health insurance?”

But Jenny’s laughter catches in her throat as she opens the box. Inside is the delicate bracelet of pearls and the note from Gigi.

Jenny’s lips move as she reads Gigi’s last words to her, words I have already read dozens of times. She slides the string of iridescent beads over her still-swollen fingers and onto her wrist.

“I never want to take it off.”

“I have a necklace too. It’s a set.” My hand floats to the milky strand peeking from beneath my purple cowl-neck sweater.

“Now we don’t have to get those half-heart friendship necklaces. This is much classier.” Tears are streaming down Jen’s cheeks. We stare at each other, appreciating this moment, the fragile peace. It makes me think of the little bean seeds we planted in Dixie cups in fourth grade—when the minuscule bright green sprout peeked out from the dark soil, fragile but promising, striving for the light.

“Can I show you something?” Jen asks me.

“Of course.”

Jen goes over to a box and pulls out another piece of paper and hands it to me. It’s not Jenny’s block letters, but a crisp perfect cursive.

I read silently, lips moving, and when I finish I start at the top and read it again. Then I look out the window to the backyard. I can see, just barely, the shadows on the fence, three letters hidden behind white paint—M-U-R. I can fill in the rest. Jen is staring at me, waiting, biting her lip.

“It’s… nice.” Kevin clearly spent time with this letter; it’s the most emotion I’ve ever seen from him. But it’s also completely inadequate and maybe even a little selfish. He wants to unload his burden, but that’s impossible. When I imagine Tamara reading this letter—But who am I to judge? How do I know what she needs or doesn’t need?

“Do you really think so?”

“Well, nothing will make it better, but sometimes you want to know that the other person sees you and your pain.” This is all I can offer.

“Can you…” Jen starts, but I know what she’s going to ask before she even finishes.

“Yes, I can get it to her.” I tuck the letter carefully into my bag. I check on Tamara once a week. Sometimes she’s up for talking, sometimes it’s just a text back. I will keep checking on her. In time, maybe she’ll be up for lunch or coffee. In time, maybe we can be friends. I think of all the stories I’ve covered and the people I never hear from or speak to again—the man who single-handedly brought his daughter’s rapist to justice, the woman who lost all three of her kids in an apartment fire, the couple who adopted triplets with severe special needs. They touched my lives and vice versa, and then, after a few weeks of interviews and minutes of airtime, they were gone. It’s the nature of the beast. But Tamara is different; this story was different. This story changed everything, including me—especially me.