“Adam is going to break up with me,” she says, after I’ve gotten out of bed and handed her a wad of toilet paper to clean off her face. The floor undulates, but I can power through this hangover for Scar.
“Why? I mean, what makes you think that? He seems so into you,” I say, because he does. Before they made their not-so-subtle escape to the laundry room, he kept glancing at her, checking to see her reaction each time he made a joke. Wanting not only to see her laugh, but reveling in being the one to make that happen.
“I just, I don’t know. Partially it’s the sex thing.”
“Which sex thing?” Does she not even realize that she hasn’t yet told me they’ve slept together? Have we drifted that far apart without my even noticing?
“You know, that we’re not having it yet. Like, Deena had this big pregnancy scare last year, and I’m just, I’m not ready. It’s embarrassing, but I’m scared. I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“No one knows what they’re doing the first time, right?”
“And I’m just so—” She stops, pulls the blanket over her head. This new Scar is unrecognizable. The Scar I know is fearless, certainly not like me, afraid of the inconsequential things in life, like guys and their silly, dangling parts.
I pull the blanket off her, force her to face me.
“Tell me.”
“I’m so into him, I can’t even take it. I didn’t expect to even like him a little bit, and now, holy crap. I don’t know what to do with myself. All I think about is him,” she says, and I know exactly what she means. That’s how I think about Ethan—damaged, impossible-to-date Ethan. All the time, even when I don’t want to. Even when he is completely irrelevant to whatever I’m doing, like drinking with annoying Joe and wondering how Ethan would fit in. He’ll never come to Chicago. Never see Scar’s basement. But he was there anyway, in my mind.
And as stupid as it is, I admit I think about SN that way too. Not Caleb, not the real-life version of SN, but the one on my screen. The one who is always there for me.
He’s not real, of course. We’re all better versions of ourselves when we get that extra time to craft the perfect message. The SN I know and obsess about can’t translate into real life. He’s a virtual soul mate, not a real one. I do realize that.
“Scar, that’s amazing.”
“No, it’s horrible. I feel like an idiot. It’s Adam, for God’s sake. Your-old-neighbor-the-worst-kisser-in-the-world Adam. Though he’s a great kisser now.” She pulls the blanket over her head again, and I rip it off.
“Look at me. He’s into you too. Seriously, he’s been working out. I can tell. Why else would he suddenly start working out? And he can’t stop touching you and looks at you all the time. I mean. All. The. Time.” I throw my arms around her, because I’m so happy. She deserves a good boyfriend and everything else she could possibly want. Certainly, she deserves the happy ending of the romantic comedy about the boy next door, even if, technically, he was my neighbor, not hers. Close enough.
And she’s right: I did leave, and I didn’t for a second worry about what my moving would mean for her. I haven’t asked enough about Adam, about her new life, have only been focused on complaining about mine.
“I’m so sorry for not being here for you. I was an asshole. But I’m here now, okay?”
“Okay,” she says, and snuffles into my shoulder.
“So tell me everything,” I say, and she does.
—
Later, we eat Scar’s mom’s tofu noodle soup with hot sauce, which Scar promises is an ancient cure for hangovers. The food is staying down, so I consider it a win.
“Adam wants me to make him some tattoo stickers for his computer,” she says, and I smile at her. She really has it bad. No matter what we’re talking about, she finds a way to work him into the conversation.
“They’re awesome. You should totally sell them on Etsy.”
“Yeah, he’s already picked out what he wants if he ever gets real ones, but I want to make one that means something. That symbolizes him, or us. But I don’t know. It’s probably too soon.”
We slurp our soup, stare into our murky bowls. I don’t know if it is too soon. This is not my area of expertise, and I don’t want to screw things up for her.
“Is that your phone that keeps beeping?” Scar asks me. Since we sat down, I’ve clocked at least ten messages, but it could be more.
“Yeah,” I say.
“And you don’t want to check it?” I have purposely left my phone in my bag. An intentional, not an FAA-mandated, untethering. When I powered it on this morning, I already had a bunch of messages that I was too afraid to read. A few from Agnes and Dri, but I figure if they want to drop me as a friend, it can wait till Monday. Perhaps most terrifying of all: one from SN. I can’t believe I was stupid enough to IM drunk. I need to get a phone-locking Breathalyzer. Does that exist? If not, I’m going to invent it, disrupt the industry, and make a bajillion dollars.
“Not really.”
“It could be an emergency,” she says.