“Why do you have to fly down there? Why can’t you just talk to her on the phone?”
“Is that what you would do for a close friend?”
“An extremely vulnerable male friend? Yes. Absolutely. A thousand percent yes.”
I roll my eyes. “C’mon, Nic. Do you really think Hannah’s on the prowl right now?”
“I have no idea. What I do know is that flying down to Atlanta in the middle of a huge trial in order to comfort a female friend is just too much. It’s beyond the pale. And yes, it makes me uncomfortable. You asked me how I feel—and that’s how I feel.”
“Why does it make you uncomfortable? Do you not trust me?”
“It’s not about trust. It’s about respect.”
“Please explain to me how my going to help a friend is disrespectful to you?”
“You don’t see how flying down to Atlanta on a rescue mission—”
“That’s so condescending.”
“Condescending to whom? You or Hannah?”
“To both of us.”
“Oh. Us. I see.”
I don’t take the bait, and after several seconds of silence, Nicole says, “What about Lainey?”
“What about her?”
“Why can’t she go to Atlanta?”
“She is going. She’s on her way there now.”
“So why do you have to go, too?”
I take a sip of beer, debating how much of the truth to share. Nicole knows about Summer, generally, but not about our promise to be there for one another in the worst of times.
“Because she’s my friend,” I say. “And she needs me.”
“Well then,” she says with a passive-aggressive shrug. “You gotta do what you gotta do.”
“Yes,” I say. “I do.”
She nods, then says, “Once you get back? You might want to go talk to someone about the underlying issues here.”
“Underlying issues?” I ask against my better judgment.
“Why those girls have such a strong hold on you.”
“Nobody has a hold on me,” I say. “Nobody.”
“The framed photo in your bedroom says otherwise,” she says, referring to the only photo I have of the four of us.
“It’s just a photo,” I say, bristling.
“A photo you keep next to your bed.”
“Who cares where it is? You want me to move it to another room, I will.”
She stares at me for several seconds, and I can tell she’s debating whether to say something. She finally does. “Look, Tyson. Do what you will, but if you fly down on this rescue mission, we are done.”
“Are you for real right now?”
“Yes, Tyson. I’m very much for real,” she says. “If you go, it’s over.”
An uncomfortable staring contest ensues, a tough feat on side-by-side barstools. I wait a beat, expecting her to back down, at least a little. She does the opposite, grabbing her purse and throwing the strap over her shoulder. “Okay. I’m out. Let me pay for my drink.”
“It’s okay. I got it,” I say, wondering why she’d start paying for things now. To be clear, I’ve never minded paying for Nicole, but at times, it does feel contradictory to her feminist position. Especially given that our salaries are the same.
“You’re too kind,” she says, getting to her feet. “But we already knew that, didn’t we?”
—
Later that night, after I eat takeout from the bar and pack my bag for Atlanta, I crawl into bed, exhausted. I think about Hannah, of course, and my thoughts quickly move to our pact and Summer. It’s been a long time since I’ve gone there, and the memories hit me like an avalanche.
Throughout college, people asked me what was up with my three best friends. I know what they were getting at, and it annoyed me the way so many assumed I had to be hooking up with one of them. Most people suspected Lainey, as she was gorgeous and well built and turned heads everywhere she went. She was also a huge flirt. Some suspected Hannah, though—the cute blond, blue-eyed girl next door.
Summer was the least conventionally attractive of the three, but I liked her strawberry-blond hair, warm freckles, and intense green eyes. And I loved her strong legs and sleek, effortless stride. Sometimes I couldn’t believe how fast Summer was.
