I smile at Nissa, my neighbor. She and her husband, Mark, are our only really close friends. Since neither Nate nor I have many living relatives, and none that are actually close to us (emotionally or geographically), our neighbors are like family.
She is my best and only close friend and has been since Nate and I moved in next door to her. We bought this place two years after we got married, when Nate landed his first job as a financial analyst at a big bank in Charlotte, North Carolina. On our third night in the house, Nissa came to the back door, like we’d known each other all our lives, carrying an armload of casserole dishes containing every Southern-fried family recipe she could make. She was as different from me as night from day and we took to one another like bees to honey. Or like flies to shit, as Nissa is fond of saying. She never specifies who the shit is, though.
“What? A girl can celebrate, can’t she?”
“Of course,” she responds, enthusiastically draining most of her flute in one long gulp. “I’d just like to know what we’re celebrating. Since it includes champagne, I know you didn’t bring me here to tell me that you finally got pregnant. Although, as weird as you’ve been acting for the last few weeks, I wouldn’t have been surprised.” I swallow the lump in my throat, making sure to maintain my placid expression as I watch my friend. “So, what’s going on? Spill.”
I hold Nissa’s blue eyes with my own light brown ones, committing to memory the way this feels—to be sitting in my kitchen on a quiet morning, chatting with my friend as effortlessly as leaves fall from the trees in autumn.
It would be so easy to tell her. We’ve always shared that type of relationship—open honesty, no holds barred—but this is different. I won’t give my sweet friend this burden to bear. Because it is a burden and I love Nissa too much to hurt her.
I’ve spent the majority of my life protecting others from pain in any way I can. Some things never change. Not even when I’ve so desperately needed someone else to help carry the load.
“Nate brought it home last night so we could celebrate. We just didn’t drink much of it.”
Memories of our lovemaking drift through my head, easing the tension in my mouth and turning my smile into a genuine curve of the lips.
“Celebrate what?”
“He left the bank,” I say carefully, my eyes darting nervously from Nissa’s sharp periwinkle eyes down to my untouched mimosa and back again.
I knew Nissa would have a thousand questions—she knows Nate and me too well not to—and I thought I was prepared to field them all. I only have a couple of days before we leave and I thought surely I could keep the truth from Nissa for that long.
Maybe I was wrong.
I’ve always been a terrible liar. But this is so important…
“Left? Left like quit-his-job left? Or left like I’m-taking-a-long-lunch left?”
I chuckle. Three months would be a very long lunch. “Left like quit. Left like left left. Permanently left.”
“Why?” Nissa asks, seconds before her eyes widen in understanding. “Oh God, he’s not sick again, is he?”
I gulp down the wave of nausea that swells behind my tonsils and I shake my head. “No. He’s taking me to Europe. For three months.”
Nissa’s mouth catches up with her rounded eyes and she squeals. The sound is so loud enough it sets Mr. Johnson’s dog, Radley, barking.
“Shhhh,” I chastise lightly, unable to stop my grin. “You’ll wake the neighborhood.”
To understand Nissa, you have to know that she’s vivacious, outspoken, and Southern to the bone. And loud. Very loud. She’s the type of person who is of the opinion that if she is awake, everyone else should be, too. Although normally she keeps her decibel level in check so as not to disturb her children, there are times when she simply can’t contain her exuberance. Right now—when an impending extended dream trip abroad has just been announced—constitutes one of those times.
“I don’t give a damn!” she exclaims. “If we have to be up, everybody should have to be up.”
I laugh outright. As I suspected.
That’s Nissa for you. But I love her like family.
Nissa and I have suffered from insomnia for years. We have this routine where we watch for the other’s kitchen light to come on. It’s a silent invitation to come on over and enjoy not sleeping together. We alternate houses and today was my turn. And just as well. I’d hesitated in turning on my light at all. If it had been up to me to go to Nissa’s, I’d probably have chickened out altogether. But I’d done it. I’d turned on my light and forged bravely ahead because it’s not my nature to take the easy way out. I’ve always been a fighter. A quiet, steady, reliable fighter.
“We leave on Friday.”
“Friday, as in the day after tomorrow?”
“Well, this is Wednesday,” I say, counting on my fingers, “tomorrow is Thursday, which means the next day must be Friday. One, two, three…” I tease.