We Were Never Here(70)
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But I had to be wrong. Paranoid, ridiculous Emily. As I spooned pasta into a bowl and carried it into the living room, I replayed the conversation in my head. Kristen kept popping up where she didn’t belong—my yoga studio, my therapist’s office, my front door. It was ironic: I’d felt gutted when she’d moved to Australia, but then I’d built a life for myself here. And now she was ramming herself into every part of it.
Kristen texted a hello as I cued up a show. Commercials at the beginning, employee pricing on SUVs and laundry detergent tough enough for toddlers’ stains. Mundane stuff for women with families, women with ordinary lives. Women without a browser history checking if their best friend was just a bit murdery.
“How’d it go tonight?” I hit Send, saw that she was typing back.
“Pretty good. She said she’ll refer me to someone else in the practice. Conflict of interest.”
I sent back a question mark, and she added, “She figured out I was the Kristen you talk about.”
A scattershot spray of fear. Shit—if Kristen wasn’t already worried about my blabbing, she would be now.
I spent a while rewording my text, trying to get it right. Finally: “Got it. I hope that doesn’t make you feel weird—I’m extremely careful about your/our privacy. But of course you come up, you are my best friend! ”
“I figured.”
A silence, no little typing dots, and I couldn’t think of anything to say either. After a moment I jumped up from the couch, shook out my hands, and lifted my phone once more: “Will you go again? With a different therapist?”
“Not sure yet. It was an intense session.”
Intense. I swallowed. “Adrienne’s a pro.”
“She seems smart.”
I stared at it. It probably just meant Adrienne is intelligent, she’s good at her job. But it could also mean: I don’t like her. She’s smart enough to read you—to read between the lines.
“I’m glad you gave it a shot. Super brave and awesome of you.” I added a few clapping emojis to underscore my point.
She was typing on and off for a while, and then a longish text came through: “We’ll see if I go again. I had to make up an excuse bc Nana and Bill would be so judgy about it. But thanks, and you too. Hey, remember what I said in my birthday card. Read it, remember it, believe it. We’re in this together.” She finished with a heart.
I thought it over, then decided she was talking about that PS: If you ever forget how amazing you are, you know who to call. Because I never, ever forget, and I’d be honored to count the ways. I responded with a kissy emoji and dropped my phone on the couch.
I turned off the TV show halfway through, unable to concentrate. Thoughts were churning, swirling like vultures. Who could I trust when I couldn’t trust my best friend? Could I count on her to keep us both safe? What would she do if I didn’t remain attached to her like a barnacle? Would she hurt those I loved?
Or would she…the thought made me ill, it was so repugnant, so verboten, more repulsive than incest or pedophilia or any gut-level taboo: Would Kristen kill me if things didn’t go her way? I thought of her pointed stare when I asked about Jamie—I don’t ever want to go through that again. I let out a whimper. For so many years, I’d seen Kristen as a constant, her love as undeniable as gravity. Now it was clear that she was more of a loose cannon than I’d realized. And that that cannon just might be zeroed in on me.
Focus, Emily. I had to review the evidence, come up with a plan. I dropped my bowl on the coffee table and marched into my room. The email from Westmoor was still open on my computer. I loaded the pictures I’d taken of Kristen’s yearbook and photos, the ones with poor Jamie’s face scribbled out. I pulled up the scant articles I’d found about the fire, about Jerry and Anne Czarnecki’s untimely end.
There were options I hadn’t exhausted yet, avenues I hadn’t explored. Like Nana—I’d try harder, see what she’d offer up about her granddaughter’s mental-health history. Or I could call Second Chance Antiques and beg Greta for more stories.
But when I snatched my phone off the sofa, Kristen’s text still stared back at me: “Hey, remember what I said in my birthday card. Read it, remember it, believe it. We’re in this together.”
Something had been bugging me about the card—it read a bit stiffly, especially toward the end. Less like how Kristen normally talked, and more like one of her…
What had I done with it? I dug around in the pile of mail on my kitchen table, then found it in a tote bag in my bedroom:
Dear Emily,
HAPPY BIRTHDAY! It’s hard to believe we’ve been friends for 10+ years. I can’t imagine my life without you—in a way, I guess I owe those douchebags in our Stats 101 class a thank-you. I’m so proud of the smart, strong, independent woman you’ve become. And I count myself so lucky that, after 2 years apart, we’ll finally live in the same city again!
I’ve been thinking back to those late nights when we’d sneak out at 4 or 5 am and splash in the water and then watch the sunrise over Lake Michigan together. Remember that? When we’d feel like we were the only ones awake in the whole world. When we’d feel like not just Evanston but the entire world was ours. When we would dry right off—perfectly, boldly ourselves.