“Her kids and grandkids don’t really want to take over,” Nia said, “so none of them have really tried to learn her craft. But Annette! She’s a savant. She trained in France like fifty years ago, and so she’s all about the details, you know. She makes me better. And she thinks I’ve got a good foundation.” She looked up dreamily. “She asked if I would work for her, and I said yes in a heartbeat. I never thought I could be a pastry chef. I’ve looked into it before; you need six months of unpaid internships before you’re allowed to do anything. I feel like I’ve found a cheat code or something. Even if she doesn’t end up keeping me on for the long-term, I could start my own business! It’s just . . . It’s been a dream, honestly.”
I could see it, then. I’d walked into this room with my shoulders tensed with worry, but Nia seemed light as a feather. This was not a Nia mired in regret, this was one who finally felt free. It was the same look I’d seen on her face when she watched Shae walk toward her at the improv show, the look that had made me put aside my grievances with Ricky.
“That’s incredible, Nia,” I said. “I’m really happy for you.”
I meant it. I was so happy for her. For so long, Nia had seemed a bit lost. She’d graduated college with dual degrees in communications and education but no real plan. For the first three months after graduation, she contemplated applying to culinary school, but couldn’t afford to take on any more student loans. After that, she worked at the front desk at an orthodontist’s office, but the pay was abysmal and her boss was a creep, and she came home from work every day a deflated version of herself until I begged her to quit. Then, at a medical school party, one of my classmates mentioned a gig tutoring some rich high school kids in the south suburbs. The pay was twice what she had been getting at the office, the hours significantly better. Nia leapt at the opportunity but swore that it was temporary. Until I open my catering business, she would say, or Until I get a real teaching job. But until never happened, and over time, we simply stopped discussing whether it would.
Nia’s smile wavered on her face.
“Angie,” she said. “I’m sorry. I said all of that stuff, about you treating me like I didn’t matter to you, because . . .” She swallowed, grabbing one of the throw pillows and squeezing it against her chest. “Honestly, the truth was that I was treating myself that way.”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “You weren’t totally off. It’s okay. I know I was being self-absorbed—”
“Stop,” Nia said, interrupting me. “I’m going first, Ange.” When my smile faltered, she reached over and flicked my cheek. “Look, I’m not an idiot. I know that you and Michelle are going through the ringer this year. And it wasn’t right of me to make you feel bad about telling me about your experiences. Or to quiz you about people you’ve never met to prove a point.” She squeezed the pillow tight. “I still think about what you told me, about the kid in the trauma bay. And how messed up that was. The fact that you two are able to get up and go back to the hospital after seeing something like that is wild to me. And . . . I think it made me feel like my problems were small in comparison. Like, what does my quarter-life crisis matter when you’re out there watching people die?”
“It’s not the same,” I said. “Your problems are different, Nia. Not less.”
“I know that,” Nia said. “And I know that if I’d said something, you would’ve told me as much.” She gave me a small smile. “I think, because you aren’t around as much, it was easy to fix a narrative on you. I felt stuck, and instead of figuring it out, I painted you in my head as selfish.” She shook her head in disbelief. “Which is wild, because you’ve never been selfish. A bit melodramatic, maybe,” she allowed, giggling when I gaped at her in faux outrage, “but not selfish. I created another version of you that sucked, and I got mad at it instead of just getting my shit together.”
“But you did get your shit together,” I said. “This is how it started, right? You’ve always loved baking. You’ve always loved talking to people. And now you’ll get to do both! And you’re so freaking talented that you practically got scouted for a job.” I looked down at my hands; she’d gotten the job before our fight. Was the set of papers she’d been grading at our dining table on the day she told me she was moving out her last? How many times had she wanted to tell me about the big moves she was making in her life, only for me to interrupt her to talk about the wards or the boy instead?