“I am so sorry about this!” I manage, clumsily pulling the plant upright. I don’t know if I should hug her or keep my distance and awkwardly wave. So naturally, I do neither and drop to hands and knees and begin sweeping the dirt with my bare hands.
“Please don’t clean. I’ll get a broom.” She dashes to the hallway closet, swiftly returning with a broom.
I’m still on my hands and knees when she finishes sweeping the soil. She sets the broom against the wall and extends her hand to help me up. When her hand touches mine, my eyes well.
“Oh no.” Her eyes widen, and she quickly pulls me into a hug.
She still smells like sunshine and vanilla. She still feels familiar. Because she is. Just yesterday, Kassie was my best friend. I don’t know how to act like a stranger. And I don’t know how to reconcile all the time that’s passed—well, allegedly.
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
Everything in my body urges me to scream, EVERYTHING! But I can’t summon a coherent response through my snotty sniffles. What comes out sounds like a dying rhinoceros. Mortified, I pull back, praying that I didn’t snot all over her shoulder. “Ugh. I’m sorry for showing up at your work like a total freak.”
Her eyes dim as they search my face. “I mean, I’m a little surprised, to be honest. Can I ask why you’re here? Based on your . . . outfit, I’m gonna guess it’s not for my beginner yoga class?”
Half of me is tempted to word vomit the entire strange story of my time travel. But if I were Kassie, I’d call the police and have me dragged out in cuffs. So I settle for, “I just missed you.”
She tilts her head and winces, eyes dropping to my shoes before sweeping back to my face. “I missed you,” she says simply. She’s being genuine. She never looks anyone in the eye when she’s lying. But despite the admittance, there’s a distance between us I can’t quite place. It’s like a magnified version of that tiny crack in my heart I feel when she ditches me for Ollie. When she snubs my texts or isn’t there for me like she should be.
“Why aren’t we friends anymore?” I ask, though the reasons are starting to become clearer.
She goes quiet before forcing a smile. “Hey, I’m starving. Want to grab a smoothie from next door?” This kind of avoidance is typical Kassie. I can’t say I’m shocked.
“Oh, um, sure.”
We head to the shop next door. It’s called Banana, with a bright-yellow sign in puffy, cloudlike font. The menu is complicated, full of various options to add almond butter, wheatgrass, matcha, all sorts of überhealthy ingredients to your concoction.
Kassie rattles off her order (dragon fruit pomegranate splash with two shots of wheatgrass, extra spinach, and a half scoop of plant-based protein powder). The freckle-faced employee turns to me, and I utter, “Um, something with strawberry?” out of panic.
Minutes later, we’re sipping our smoothies in silence on the patio. Finally, we make stilted conversation about the weather like retirees. Is this how old people converse? Forced conversation about the hourly forecast? Kill me now. It’s uncomfortable, but at least the June sunlight feels nice against my skin.
“You still chew your straw,” Kassie points out, the corner of her mouth curving upward in a small smile.
I look down at my straw with a nervous chuckle. “Yeah, old habits.”
Another long stretch of silence as she takes her ponytail out and fluffs her hair like she used to.
“How long have you had the studio?” I ask, slurping the remainder of my smoothie.
Her eyes trail two young girls skipping down the sidewalk ahead of their mom. “Um, about five years now?” She says it like a question, probably because she assumes I already know the answer. I’m not the type of person who asks questions for fun.
“Sorry again for showing up at your work, by the way. I didn’t know where you lived and—”
“I’m still in my place on Crystal Street,” she says.
Again, another detail I don’t know. Have I stayed at her place? Have we had sleepovers? Have we had horror movie marathons where we can’t fall asleep unless all the lights are on? Have we talked all night surrounded by junk food? Have we made up stupid dance routines to oldies playlists? How long has it been since I’ve been there?
As if she can read my mind, she says. “So you and J. T. Can we talk about how adorable your engagement was? When I saw it on online, I actually squealed in my Uber.” She must be referring to the photos I have on my phone of Renner proposing on some tropical beach. There were rose petals, because of course there were.
I squeeze my eyes shut, in denial that my best friend would find out about my engagement on social media. “Did you really find out we were engaged on social media?”
She looks confused. “Are you okay?”
“I, uh . . . I hit my head. A stupid accident, really. My memory has been fuzzy lately,” I say. Technically, it’s the truth. I’ve only omitted one small detail—transcending time. “I guess it just struck me that you weren’t at my bachelorette last night.” My eyes dropped to my engagement ring, glimmering in the sunlight. “You were supposed to be my maid of honor. We promised we’d be each other’s maids of honor.”
She stares down at her now-empty smoothie cup. The straw scrapes against the plastic lid as she moves it up and down with an impish smile. “I know. We practically made each other do a blood oath. And I made you promise you’d never make me wear a yellow or beige dress.”
“Are you engaged? Or married?” I blurt, desperate for crumbs about her life. I feel pathetic asking, especially seeing as Kassie looks so blissful in her life without me.
She wastes zero time responding. “Oh hell no. Settling down is not for me.”
My slack jaw gives away my shock. Since we were nine years old, I’ve walked a step behind her and her various boyfriends on narrow sidewalks, through the hallways. Kassie in a relationship was simply the norm. In fact, I can barely remember a time when she was single. This Kassie feels like a whole new person I don’t know. And I tell her so. “But you’ve always been in a relationship. The day we met, you proudly told me you already had a boyfriend—a kid who lived across the street.”
“Oh my god. Timothy Smith. Guess what? I saw him working at a booth selling cell phone cases a couple years back,” she blurts with a laugh. “Anyway, that’s exactly why I’ve been single for a while. Even in college I kept getting myself into these all-consuming relationships. I just got lost in them. I promised myself a couple years ago that I’d start dating more casually. And I haven’t gone back since. I’m too busy building my business. And I love the freedom to just do my own thing, have my own schedule. I have my friends, my dog. I don’t feel like I need someone else to complete my life, you know?”
I can’t help but well with pride over the person she’s become. I think she could take over the world if she really wanted to. “I’m proud of you. Though who would have thought it would be me engaged and you happily single?”
“Well, either way, I’m glad you’re happy. With J. T. Last time I saw him, he seemed so . . . dedicated to you.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
She bites her lip, perplexed. “Um . . . that would have been . . . last year at your dad’s funeral.”
TWENTY-TWO
My dad’s funeral?” I repeat.
“I mean, we didn’t really talk,” she says, shrugging. “You hugged me . . . but you were pretty busy running around, making sure everything was okay. Being your usual organized self.”
I repeat the words to myself. Dad’s funeral.
Dad is dead. Dead.
I’m too numb to move. To do anything but sit here, white-knuckling my smoothie until my fingertips dent the cup. It doesn’t feel real. How can it? Dad is dead, I don’t know what happened, and I can’t ask Kassie without her thinking I’ve lost my mind.
She gives me a pained expression. “I’m sorry. I know it’s probably still really hard.”
“I wasn’t close with him anyway.” The words don’t feel good coming out, but it’s the truth. Especially since I’ve lost the last thirteen years.