Page 29 of Never Not Friends

She disappears into the laundry room for one second then reappears, pushing a plush, leather chair on wheels.

“Ta-da! It’s a new desk chair for your classroom.”

I gasp. “What? Why?”

“You know how you’ve been complaining that your back hurts? Well, I remember seeing that dinky chair in your classroom that they give all the teachers. And I just feel like it’s causing your back problems. So”—she swipes her hand in front of it—“this is for you!”

“Jules, you didn’t have to do that. I could’ve bought my own chair.”

“I wanted to do it!” She smiles big. “It was selfish, really. I can’t have my favorite person having back problems. Who’s going to go to a reformer class with me if you’re injured all the time?”

I walk over to the chair, brushing my fingers over the soft leather. It’s big. Like, rocket ship big, but I can already tell that it’s going to be so comfortable. “I think this is the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

“Please don’t let that be true. Besides, it was a floor model, so I didn’t even have to assemble it.” Behind us, the pot bubbles, causing Juliet to run over to the stove again. “Let me take this bowl of soup to my mom, and then I can help you load it into your car.”

“I just…thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Her smile shows years of genuine friendship and love. “Okay. I’m going to go and be a nurse for two seconds. I’ll be right back.”

I watch her leave then take a seat in the chair. The lumbar support alone could change lives. My feet push against the floor, sending me whirling around in a circle. Gifts have always been Juliet’s love language. She’s a showerer—showering the people most important to her with thoughtfulness. Today, I’m the lucky beneficiary.

Ten minutes later, we’re wheeling the chair across her driveway to mine.

“Do you really think it will fit in my car?” My eyes narrow at the tiny backseat of my Honda Civic.

“Sure it will!” Juliet, ever the optimist.

That optimism didn’t get us far. We’re both sweating, trying to maneuver the giant leather chair and its legs into the backseat, but no matter what way we pivot, it doesn’t fit.

“I always say if something comes in a bigger size, get the bigger one.” Juliet pants as she looks at me. “But I think, in this particular moment, I overestimated how big the chair was.”

I laugh. “Maybe just a little bit.”

“How about free delivery?” Her grin widens. “I’ll bring the chair to you tomorrow. My backseat is bigger than yours.”

“Between the wedding and your mom, you don’t have time for that right now.”

“Pfft.” Her lips vibrate. “I always have time for my best friend. Now, I say we watch Love Island and yell at the TV every time one of the girls falls for a stupid guy. You in?”

“Where’s the remote?”

“I knew you’d be down. This season is an absolute trainwreck.”

After rolling the chair back to her mom’s garage for safe overnight keeping, we sit next to each other on the couch with a blanket and a bowl of popcorn between us.

“His goatee⁠—”

“The first sign that he was going to cheat on her,” Juliet cuts in, finishing my thought.

“And did you see the way he talks out of the side of his mouth when he’s nervous?” I say over the kernels in my mouth. “That man is hiding something. Or he’s had a stroke.”

“Stroke patients don’t cheat. Or at least only half of their body cheats.”

My laugh comes out before I can stop it. Loud and unending.

Juliet starts laughing because I’m laughing. A small piece of popcorn flies out of my mouth and lands on her cheek, and honestly, it escalates everything. She falls to her side, laughing so hard she rolls off the couch. I cross my legs; I shouldn’t have drunk so much matcha before I came. Liquid and laughter are not a good combination.

And for a small moment, nothing hurts.