“And after?”
“I want to go home.”
“Okay.”
We spent another hour talking.
There was nothing dramatic about it.
Nora hated raisins. She wanted a motorcycle when she turned 16. She believed rules in board games were “suggestions.”
When we eventually returned to Claire’s apartment, the green dress had been folded neatly over a chair.
“Do you want me to return it?” she asked.
“No.”
Claire looked at me.
“I bought it because you wanted it,” I said. “That part didn’t change.”
Then I went home.
Four days later, I went back to the library by myself and checked out the book Nora and I had once argued about.
The ending was terrible.
I texted Claire.
“Nora was right. The ending is awful.”
Her reply arrived almost immediately.
“She was unbearable when she was right.”
I smiled.
“I’m still at the library if you want to come argue about it.”
Claire arrived 20 minutes later.
We sat together at the same small children’s table.
As I read, her hand automatically moved toward the page.
I put one finger down.
“Hey. I’m not done.”
Her hand stopped.
“Sorry.”
She pulled it back.
And waited.
I finished the paragraph.
