I got a reservation. Only available time was 5:30 on Thursday—you think you can make that?
I glanced at my phone, smiling in spite of myself. After our disastrous study date with my sister, I’d expected Ricky to distance himself. Instead, he took the experience in stride, waving off my apologies with a chagrined smile. “She clearly would kill for you,” he’d said. “I’d probably be the same, if I had an older sister.” Then he’d moved on to excitedly sending me articles about a new Peruvian restaurant opening in Logan Square.
“You realize we haven’t gone out on a real date yet,” Ricky surmised. “You know, where we get dressed up and spend too much on cocktails.”
Frederick and I had only ever done “real” dates. My singular ex-boyfriend had taken pride in taking me to restaurants with atmosphere, as he called it, places that felt opulent without all the pomp and circumstance. My wardrobe of evening clothes had expanded during the six short months of our courtship, and then rapidly contracted after our breakup; every dress I’d purchased to look good for Freddy had gone straight into a donation pile.
We’re pre-call Thursday, so should be fine, I texted back, then immediately opened a window into an online retailer with a fast shipping time. Just as I was typing bodycon midi into the search bar, a text banner dropped from the top of my screen.
It was Nia.
Hey Angie, it said. I was hoping to stop by the apartment tonight. Can we please talk?
I froze in my chair, my grasp on my phone tight. Fifteen days. It had been fifteen days since Nia and I had last spoken, a fact that was confirmed by the time mark of our last exchange before this one. In that time, so much had changed that I almost felt like a different person. My past concerns, which had previously been focused on my rotations, my feelings about Ricky, and the direction of my research project, had since dissolved, but my feelings about her reaction to them had had time to fester. Because the longer I replayed our last conversation in my head, the more convinced I was that Nia hadn’t been fair to me. We were supposed to be ride-or-die. Neither hell nor high water should ever have come between us, let alone something as asinine as a misunderstanding. And even though I missed her, even though I still couldn’t open the door to her empty room without feeling like I was about to be sick, I felt skittish. After all, even when we clashed, we understood each other. I knew Nia better than I knew myself, and our arguments were short-lived because we could see the other’s point of view as clearly as we could our own. But every time I tried to parse what could have compelled Nia to abandon me, I came up empty. It felt as if Nia had taken a decade of trust and cracked it like a kola nut.
Still, I texted her back right away.
Okay, I said. I should be done by 5 today. I’ll meet you there.
After ten hours of rounding, calling disgruntled consultants, and chasing after outside hospital records on the Harland wards, I turned onto my street to find Nia’s car already parked in front of the apartment. The sight of it made my palms clammy.
“It’s Nia,” I reminded myself. “Your best friend, who you love, who loves you.” I repeated this silently to myself as I trudged up the stairs of my walk-up. The more I said it, the truer it felt, and so I kept going. “Your sister from another mister. The sun of your stars. The moon of your life.”
The sweet smell of chocolate hit my nostrils before I was halfway up the stairs. As I got closer, I could hear Nia’s voice, smooth and low, singing along to Lauryn Hill. In my mind’s eye I could see her swirling around the kitchen, the apron she had left behind tied around her waist and flecks of batter on her cheek. It was a routine I was used to because I’d seen it once a week for years. It was home.
I closed my eyes, breathed in, and unlocked the door.
“Ange?” Nia cut the music off. She emerged from the kitchen looking exactly as I’d expected her to, with her hair piled into a messy bun on top of her head and her flouncy blue apron secured around her waist.
“Hey,” I said cautiously.
Before I could mutter another word, Nia crossed the room and enveloped me in a tight embrace. Surprised, I stiffened, and she squeezed me tighter. On cue, my throat clenched with emotion. I’d imagined multiple iterations of our reunion, and most of them began with Nia and me awkwardly shuffling in front of each other and stumbling over our words like strangers. But here Nia was, holding me as if nothing had happened. As if the fifteen days of our separation had been but one.
After a long, quiet moment, she released me.