“Everything changes eventually,” I say, and then, at her odd expression, force a smile and thread my arm through hers. “Remember when the lobster rolls here used to be like six dollars?”
She’s not falling for the false cheeriness. A divot forms between her winged brows. “You okay?”
“Hard to breathe in this dress without worrying about the seams splitting,” I say, “but otherwise good.”
She still looks unconvinced. Cleo’s always been able to see through me. When we lived together, I used to watch her paint for hours and think, How does she always see things so clearly? She knew what colors to start with and where, and none of it made sense to me until, suddenly, it all looked exactly right.
Wyn brushes past us, swims through the crowd toward the too-small table Sabrina’s already claimed at the back of the room. Cleo catches me watching him.
“We had a little argument,” I admit, surprised by the relief I feel at sharing this tiny sliver of truth with her.
“You want to talk about it?” she asks. “Let me rephrase that: maybe you should talk about it.”
“It’s fine,” I say. “I don’t even know what it was about, really.”
“Oh, yeah.” Cleo nods. “The am I hungry/tired/stressed or are you actually being the worst fight. I know it well.”
I snort. “You and Kimmy don’t fight.”
She drops her head against my shoulder. “Harriet. I’m a sober introvert homebody, and my girlfriend is a human party bus, complete with flashing lights and spinning dance poles. Of course we fight.”
Across the bar, Sabrina waves us over.
“Well, whatever’s going on between you and Wyn,” Cleo says as we start across the packed bar together, “you’ll figure it out. You always do.”
My stomach sinks guiltily. “Anyway, how are you? I feel like we haven’t had a single second to talk yet.”
“I’m good,” she says. “Tired. Not used to this schedule. Kim and I usually get up between four thirty and five.”
“Excuse me,” I say. “That just brought my hangover back.”
She laughs. “It’s not that bad. I actually mostly love it. I love being up before anyone else and seeing the sunrise every day, being outside with the vegetables and the sunshine.”
“Sometimes I still can’t believe you’re a farmer,” I say. “I mean, it’s so cool, don’t get me wrong. I just really did think you’d have art in the Met someday.”
She shrugs. “It could still happen. Life’s long.”
That makes me snort with laughter. “I don’t think anyone says that.”
“Maybe not,” she says, “but if they were truly present, maybe they would.”
“So wise,” I say. “So deep.”
“Read it on the inside of a Dove chocolate wrapper,” she jokes. “What about you, Har? How’s the residency?”
“Good!” I know I’ve said it too brightly from the way her brow lifts. I forge ahead anyway, with the spiel I give my parents every time we talk. “It’s busy. Long hours and a lot of work that has nothing to do with surgery. But the other interns are nice, and one of the fifth-years has kind of taken me under her wing. It could be a lot worse. I mean, I’m helping people.”
Thinking of the hospital always floods my body with adrenaline as if I’m there, scrubbed in, someone’s skull open on a table in front of me.
Happy place, I remind myself. That’s where you are. The Lobster Hut. Knott’s Harbor.
“I always knew our girl was going to save the world,” Cleo says. “I’m so proud of you, Harry. We all are.”
I glance away, chest cramping. “Same goes for you,” I say. “A whole-ass farm.”
“And we maxed out our CSA.” She clarifies, “The crop-sharing subscription we do for locals? We officially can’t grow enough for everyone who wants in.”
“In three years!” I cry. “You’re incredible.”
“And to think,” she says, “a mere decade ago, we were dancing on these tables to that one MGMT song that played every fifteen minutes.”
“You,” I say, “never danced on those tables. I distinctly remember Sabrina commanding us to get up on them, and you calmly saying, No thanks.”
Cleo laughs. “There is nothing my parents drilled into me like good boundaries.”
“God, that must be terrible,” I say. “Miles and Deandra must lie awake every night, in their matching houses, wishing they could do it all over again.”
“Oh, I’m sure,” she agrees. “It probably kills them, knowing how many baby showers I’ve had to miss, simply because I had no interest in going to them.”
“Brave,” I say. “I spent my last day off at my new hairdresser’s daughter’s bat mitzvah, so I don’t relate.”
“Oh, Harry,” she says, wincing. “You deserve to honor yourself.”
“Well, I toasted myself at the bat mitzvah,” I say.
She grins, but her brow remains lifted skeptically. I don’t think she’s ever totally understood why I find it easier to fulfill other people’s expectations than to set my own.
Underneath her tiny frame and button nose, Cleo’s always had a spine of steel. Back in college, she could drink the better part of a bottle of Tanqueray, and you still wouldn’t convince her to do anything stupider than continuing an in-depth conversation about nihilism with a wasted field hockey player.
And then one day, she decided she didn’t like how she felt when she drank, so she just stopped. It was the same way when she changed her mind about going to an MFA program and announced she found a job on an urban farm instead.
When Cleo knows her mind, she knows her mind.
As we reach the table, I ask Sabrina, “Did you know Cleo and Kimmy’s co-op maxed out?”
“I did,” she says. “Not that I’ve been able to see it in action.”
Cleo slides onto a chair beside Kimmy. “We’ll find a time this winter.”
“You name the date,” Sabrina replies, almost like a challenge.
“We live too close to each other to go this long without hanging out,” Parth puts in. Cleo doesn’t reply, and Kimmy casts her a quick sidelong look, the kind of temperature check that passes between two people who know each other inside and out. Cleo’s getting irritated.
“Remember coming here with Kimmy for the first time?” I pipe up.
Cleo lifts her girlfriend’s hand to kiss the back of it.
“That’s right,” Sabrina says. “This is where we fell in love with you, Kimberly.”
“To be clear,” Cleo tells Kimmy, “I was in love with you well before that.”
“Awwh! You guys!” Kimmy instantly tears up. “You’ve always made me feel like I belong.”
“Of course you belong,” I say.
“You were our missing link.” Parth settles into the chair beside Sabrina’s. “We needed a redhead to round us out.”
“Keep your eye on those blue-haired ladies, by the way,” Sabrina says, looking toward the women nursing sodas at the next table over. “When they go, we’ll grab one of their chairs.”