What Are Friends For?: The will-they-won't-they romance of the year!

by Lizzie O'Hagan

  ‘You’re doing the right thing.’ Becky turns to me now, still struggling to comprehend what I mustered the courage to tell her last night. That I am actually considering quitting my steady job at the paper to go freelance, to write the stories I know I have within me, and just hope to God someone will be willing to pay me for them. It’s not like I could tell her Tom’s messages were the catalyst. But after he reminded me of why I wanted to write in the first place, my mind has slowly started to splutter into motion. Expanding its vision beyond my well-thought-out plans for the first time in years.

  ‘Two spaghetti carbonara for the señoritas in the corner.’ Leonardo moves his hips in time to the music as he makes his way across the restaurant floor towards us.

  ‘Dad, you’re Italian, not Spanish.’ Becky laughs, reaching out to accept one of the piled-up plates with glee. I gratefully receive my own, putting it down on the table before me. I’m suddenly less hungry.

  ‘So what did you want to talk to us about, Eve?’ Sofia pulls a chair up to our table, coming to join us.

  It was Tom’s message that planted this thought in my mind. A ridiculous thought but one I couldn’t shake, one I finally shared with Becky last night in shards of sentences: if I go freelance . . . need to find money to pay the rent . . . at least for the first couple of months . . . don’t want to risk losing our home . . . mould and Matilda and our stupid back-front-door be damned . . .

  It was Becky who asked whether I had heard from my dad. Who suggested I reach out to him. The news of his letters was still on the tip of my tongue. From his second one, it sounded like he was financially stable, maybe even in a position to give me a loan. But after years of him coming to me for cash, I didn’t want to resume our relationship on that rocky footing again – that’s if we resumed it at all. It didn’t take long after that for Becky to suggest the two people I reluctantly had in mind all along.

  ‘I mean . . . it’s a bit awkward . . .’ I look to Sofia, only now realising that this is ridiculous. I can’t ask Leonardo and Sofia for a loan even if Becky says they’ll want nothing more than to help me out. And isn’t that what Tom said in his messages? That they think of me as one of the family, that they’ll do anything for me. I let the memory soothe me as I stare into Sofia’s wide eyes. If I ask them this and they take it the wrong way, it could change everything. After all, love had always come with conditions in my life until the moment I moved in with Becky.

  ‘Eve’s writing again.’ Becky beams from me to her parents, laying the groundwork like the sibling I never had.

  ‘Oh Eve.’ Sofia puts a hand on her chest as Leo pats my back in support. ‘That’s wonderful. We’ve been so worried, so worried.’ She throws her arms around me, and it’s only then that I realise they really have been. Each time I’ve come into the restaurant or they’ve been round to ours since the job announcement, they’ve asked after me, about the job, about what I might do next.

  ‘And she still hates her job.’ Becky’s eyes widen at me as if to say: come on, Eve, you can do this. Take control. But haven’t I been trying to stay in control for too long already? Note to— No, I don’t need to control this, don’t need to keep myself in check with mental Post-it notes any more. This is about letting go, taking a risk for once.

  ‘As do we.’ Leo nods in solidarity. ‘I mean . . . don’t get me wrong, we love Makena too, but that role was made for you, Eve, anyone could have seen that.’ He smiles at me.

  Was it? Or was that just what I’d told them so often, told myself so often, that we’d all started to believe it?

  ‘Makena’s doing a wonderful job.’ I smile back at him. ‘But I don’t really want to stay stuck in my role much longer. I’m thinking of maybe dropping my hours . . .’ my eyes dart to Becky, who’s shaking her head, ‘or even quitting completely.’ Becky nods. Her vote has always been to go all in. And like she always used to say, I’m not one for doing anything by halves. Thank God I have her here to remind me of that. Well, her and Tom.

  ‘But that’s obviously a little risky financially, until I start making money, and freelance jobs usually pay invoices one or two months after delivery.’ Becky rolls her eyes playfully: I’m beating about the bush. ‘And I just wondered, if it’s not like the cheekiest, rudest thing in the world . . .’ I stall for a second. This is crazy. I spent the whole of my adolescence giving my dad money. Why on earth would it work the other way now? With two people who have no ties to me apart from the fact that I’m their daughter’s best friend? ‘I wondered whether I could ask you for a loan to get me set up.’ I say the words so quickly I swear I may need to repeat them. ‘I’d pay you back as soon as I’m able to, honestly. It’s just I love living where we are, just down the street from you, and with Becky, and like—’

  ‘Yes.’ Sofia puts her hand over mine before looking at Leo. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Of course, it’s a yes.’ Leo pats my back again. ‘And if it feels right to quit completely, you should quit completely.’

  ‘Isn’t that too much of a risk?’ I say, looking between them.

  ‘It is a risk . . .’ he says slowly. ‘But risks are much easier to take when you’ve got people to catch you when you fall.’

  ‘That’s very poetic, darling,’ Sofia murmurs, and I swear I see a tear in her eye. But then again, they’re starting to gather in my own.

  ‘I’m telling you, Romeo and fucking Juliet.’ Becky rolls her eyes again, but it’s clear that seeing her parents’ love story doesn’t make her feel like she’s lacking any more. Like me, she’s beginning to realise just how much love has been in her life all along.

  ‘Language, Rebecca!’ Sofia tuts.

  ‘I’ll pay you back soon, I promise,’ I say again, hoping to God that’s true.

  ‘It’s okay, darling.’ Sofia’s smile is warm and soft. ‘We trust you.’ It’s then that I can’t help the tears from falling. They trust me, Becky trusts me. And yet I’ve still been messaging Tom. I have to stop it now, I should have stopped it weeks ago – maybe I shouldn’t even have started.

  The Amatos beam back at me, excited for my new adventure, cheering me on, carrying me forward. And for just a moment, I know that regardless of what happens, regardless of what difficulties I’ll face, the love of Becky and her family, and writing the stories that matter, will get me through. It’s a love that I’ve built around me, firm and stable, and it will take more than a few storms to break it.

  ‘Your parents are amazing,’ I say to Becky for the thousandth time since Sofia and Leonardo agreed to give me the loan.

  ‘I know, but so are you.’ She smiles back at me, taking a sip from her third glass of wine. It’s nice to have an evening together without either one of us staring at our screens. ‘They wouldn’t do that for just anyone, you know.’

  ‘I know that.’ I smile back.

  ‘You do know they’re not going anywhere, right?’ she says.

  ‘I should hope not.’ I laugh. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without Ciao Becca at the end of the street. I’m going to need a lot of free spaghetti if I’m going freelance.’

  ‘No, I mean . . .’ Becky tries again. ‘If, say, your dad was back on the scene, they’d still behave exactly the same way. Your part in this family is not dependent on your relationship with your own.’

  ‘That’s very poetic, darling,’ I echo Sofia’s words from before, mostly in an attempt not to cry again. I’ve been doing far too much of that recently.

  ‘I’m serious.’ Becky smiles.

  ‘Well, thanks. But I’ve told you, I’m still not sure about reaching out to my dad.’ And I’ll probably never tell you about him reaching out to me . . .

  ‘I know that.’ She sighs. ‘But I can’t help but think . . .’

  This again. Why is Becky so convinced that I’m missing him? Though to be fair, I have been doing a fair amount of messaging and moping and drifting aimlessly around the house
. But I can’t tell her that the reason for that wasn’t my dad. It was Tom. But that’s over now. He’s given me the confidence I need to move forward. Yes, letting go of whatever we almost shared will hurt like hell, but I can’t keep risking my friendship with Becky for the sake of a guy.

  ‘I really hope you don’t mind . . .’ Becky looks at me, a little nervous now. ‘But I’ve invited . . .’ She looks behind me, guilt personified.

  No, no, no. She wouldn’t invite my dad. How would she? They’re not even in touch. She doesn’t know about the letters.

  ‘What? Who . . .’ And it couldn’t be Tom, could it? Max? No, why on earth would it be Max? But for the briefest of moments, my heart leaps at the thought.

  ‘Hey, bitches,’ I hear Makena boom behind me, and I sigh in something like relief.

  ‘You know, it’s not very woke to call each other bitches.’ I stand up to hug her, and for the first time since she told me about the job, it doesn’t feel awkward and weird.

  ‘We’re reclaiming it.’ She beams at me, her hands gripping the tops of my arms, not letting me go. She must notice that I’m not frosty any more, that I’ve finally thawed.

  ‘Well, it’s not working,’ I laugh.

  Makena takes a seat at our table and we all watch as Lola is spun around the restaurant by Leo.

  ‘How we all doing?’ she beams as she finally, rather dizzily, pulls out her own chair. Leo has handed her two empty glasses somewhere mid dance and she begins to pour wine for herself and Makena.

  ‘We’re good, thanks,’ I say, realising how much I’ve missed them, missed this.

  ‘Eve’s quitting her job!’ Becky may as well shout it across the restaurant.

  ‘Considering it,’ I correct, looking at Makena, whose delight has been replaced with concern. ‘I’m thinking about going freelance,’ I explain.

  ‘This isn’t to do with me, is it?’ she asks, almost in a whisper.

  ‘No, no, I promise.’ I reach for her hand across the table. ‘And I’m sorry for how the whole job thing went down . . .’

  ‘I should have told you they’d asked me to apply.’ She looks genuinely sorry. ‘You were so sure the role was for you, and I wasn’t even going to apply for the longest time, but then I thought, well, I’ll probably not get it anyway . . .’

  ‘I’m glad you did,’ I say. Becky practically snorts into her wine. ‘Well, I’m glad now, anyway. And going freelance is the right next step for me. I think deep down it’s what I’ve wanted to do all along, I just couldn’t imagine it without the stability of a salary . . .’ I look at Becky, who smiles knowingly across the table.

  She’s my stability. This family is my stability. Becky, Leo and Sofia. Lola and Makena. The family I’ve built around me.

  ‘But I think I’m ready to let go now and kind of just see what happens,’ I say as the girls surround me with smiles. And I also know I have to let go of Tom. That I’ve already messaged him for the very last time.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Max

  Tom work: Hey, dude, what you up to today?

  Max: Currently?

  Max: Sitting with a flat white in Mud.

  Tom work: Book in hand?

  Max: Yep.

  Tom work: Looking wistfully out of the window?

  Max: Yep.

  Tom work: Oh man, I used to love doing that.

  Max: No you didn’t, ha.

  Tom work: Nah, never.

  Max: We just made it look like you did on your profile.

  Tom work: What were we thinking?

  Max: Yeah, I guess that profile was always going to find someone like me.

  Tom work: Nah.

  Tom work: There’s only one of you, dude.

  I look up from my phone, my book discarded to one side. There’s only one of me. And I guess my being here, in my usual spot in my usual coffee shop, back to my usual weekend activities, is me trying to get back to just being me. But then there was another thing I’d usually do on a Saturday afternoon: visit Peggy.

  My gaze drifts out of the window to the weekend wanderers thronging towards the common, my mind drifting into memories of her. I’m not going to keep them in a box like I did with my grandma. I’m going to let myself remember, to feel them, even when it hurts.

  An elderly woman walks slowly down the street, and my eyes follow her just to check that she’s okay. I’ll go and visit the care home again soon, see Amy and the others. Of course I will. Most of them will be joining me on the walk in a couple of months anyway, many more logging in or reading about the event with befrienders by their sides. The press release has gone out, the internet copy is live. A handful of journalists have said they’ll be there but I know none of them will capture the story as well as Eve would. Becky said she’d ask, but then it’s not like we’re talking to each other any more. I look at the lush green trees, summer now in full swing. It’s probably for the best that she’s not replying, that I might never speak to her again.

  Tom work: You heading to the care home this afternoon? Want me to come with?

  Max: Nah, think I’m just going to hang at home.

  Tom work: Cool. You deserve a rest.

  Rest. It’s probably what I should do. Create better boundaries. Finally achieve that work–life balance that every baby boomer seemed to chase after before we came along. But who am I kidding? I’m a messed-up millennial with blurry boundaries, not content to keep my passions in neat boxes but allowing them to spill out at all hours, every aspect of my life merging into one.

  My eyes drift to my phone, always half expecting it to ring. The other managers told me to be careful, that it’s too easy to get attached in this line of work. But what’s the point in trying to guard your heart from getting hurt? It has a way of bruising anyway. To love is to be vulnerable. I guess if this thing with Becky has taught me anything, it’s that. Even behind screens, hidden behind someone else’s identity, letting someone in and then letting them go is always going to hurt like hell.

  Max: Self-care and all that?

  Tom work: Yeah, you been reading Eve’s supplement again?

  Max: Ha, no.

  Well, maybe. I look down at her name on my screen, eyes stalling on those three little letters. Tom hasn’t mentioned Becky or Eve in over a week, not since that moment after Peggy’s funeral when he told me that he and Yvonne had broken up and that he wasn’t going to go back to Becky. One relationship going up in flames, the other just fizzling away, but both ending all the same. I was planning to let my messages with Becky fade out too, but it turns out I didn’t have to. It’s been nine days since she’s been in touch. Not that I’m counting. I’ve wanted to ask Tom about her all week, about whether she’s contacted him some other way. But I guess part of me worries that if I do, he’ll ask for his old phone back. That said, he’s been marvelling at his uncracked work screen for weeks, wondering why he didn’t switch phones sooner.

  Reaching into my pocket, I hold his phone in my hands. Can’t blame him for not missing it. Not missing Becky’s messages, on the other hand? That I’m struggling to comprehend. At least he doesn’t seem to be missing Yvonne any more.

  Max: Still no word from Yvonne?

  Tom work: The odd drunken text.

  Tom work: She just wants what she can’t have.

  Can’t imagine what that’s like.

  Tom work: But I’m over it, dude.

  Tom work: Don’t know why I didn’t see it sooner.

  Tom work: I know Becky and I weren’t the perfect match.

  No, because she was the perfect match for me.

  Tom work: But I did like her. And I think spending my time with someone I could potentially have a future with made me see that’s what I want one day.

  Tom work: Not chasing women I know deep down it could never work out with.

  Tom work: Thank
God for Becky, eh?

  Yeah, thank God for Becky.

  Tom work: See you back home then, dude?

  Max: Yeah. Be back soon.

  Just as soon as I’ve deleted this app. Deleted all trace of Becky from our lives.

  I turn Tom’s old phone over in my hands. Just delete it, Max, delete it. But no, my fingers find their way to the dating app, the one that got me here in the first place. Heartbroken to lose something that has never been mine in the first place.

  I look through our messages for the thousandth time, wondering what it was that made her stop replying. Maybe it was the fact that Tom hadn’t seen her in weeks, that she’d finally got the message that if his actions didn’t match his words, he just wasn’t that into her.

  Or maybe she figured, like Tom, that they didn’t have that much in common in the first place. But how could she think that? Our messages have anchored me through so many storms: losing Peggy, losing my grandma. In talking to her, I’ve kind of found myself again.

  I reread our final messages: You said they think of Eve as one of the family, right? And her last reply: Did I? Did I say something she’d never told Tom? Was it Eve who had actually said that to me? I can’t remember. In any case, it’s not like it matters now. I have to delete the app. But first I just need to say goodbye.

  Tom: Hey, Becky, I know it’s been over a week and you’ve probably got bored of waiting for my work to die down, but

  ‘Max?’ I hear her voice behind me, like I’ve dreamed her into reality. Slowly I turn, Tom’s phone still clutched in my hands, to look at a face I’ve imagined before me so many times. Though never once here. Never once looking at me like this: angry, hurt, confused.

  ‘Becky!’ Part of me wants to throw my arms around her. She’s finally here. But now that she is, her presence jars, and I remember how the in-person Becky never felt like the real thing. It always felt like she was putting on an act. A little like me.