Page 22 of We Are Okay

I don’t want her to list all the reasons I should go back to San Francisco, back to her parents’ house, becauseI know that they’ll all be right. I won’t be able to fight against them with any kind of logic. I’ll only look foolish or ungrateful.

“I want to say yes,” I tell her.

“But you can. You just have to let yourself. You used to spend half your time over there anyway.”

She’s right.

“We’ll be able to see each other on all our breaks, and you’ll have a place you can always go home to. My parents want to help you with things when you need it. Like money or just advice or whatever. We can be like sisters,” she says. And then she freezes.

A drop of my heart, a ringing in my head.

I smooth my hair behind my ear. I look at the snow.

“I didn’t...” She leans forward, cradles her head in her hands.

And I think of how time passes so differently for different people. Mabel and Jacob, their months in Los Angeles, months full of doing and seeing and going. Road trips, the ocean. So much living crammed into every day. And then me in my room. Watering my plant. Making ramen. Cleaning my yellow bowls night after night after night.

“It’s okay,” I say. But it isn’t.

Too much time passes and she still hasn’t moved.

“I know what you meant,” I say.

Our plates of food appear on the table. A bottle of maplesyrup. Ketchup for my home fries. We busy ourselves with eating, but neither of us seems hungry. Right as the check comes, Mabel’s phone rings. She drops her credit card onto the bill.

“I got this, okay?” she says. “I’ll be right back.”

She takes her phone to the back of the restaurant and slides into an empty booth, her back to me.

I abandon our table.

The snow is falling harder now. The pet store clerk hangs aCLOSEDsign in its window, but I’m relieved to find the pottery studio’s door opens when I push it.

“Again!” she says.

I smile. I’m a little embarrassed to be back, but I can tell she’s pleased when I set the bell on the counter.

“I didn’t want my friend to see it,” I explain.

“I could wrap it in tissue and you could stick it in your coat?” she says.

“Perfect.”

She moves quickly, knowing I’m in a hurry, but then pauses.

“How many hours a week would you be looking for?” she asks. “For the job.”

“I’m open to pretty much anything.”

“After you left I was thinking... I reallycoulduse a hand. But I could only pay minimum wage, and only a couple shifts per week.”

“That would be great,” I say. “I have classes, so I need time to study. A couple shifts would be great.”

“Are you interested in making pottery? Maybe we could work something out where you get to use the kiln. To make up for the fact I can’t pay very much.”

A warmth passes through me.

“Really?”