Page 8 of The Ripple Effect

I invited her out for coffee. She was as careful a conversation partner as she was a lover, almost seeming to count the words I spoke so she could answer with the exact same number. In retrospect, her autism should’ve been diagnosed a lot sooner.

Obviously, we were perfect for each other. As friends, of course. A dozen years later, she’s as ride or die for me as I amfor her. The way she refused to take shit at her former job gave me a big chunk of the courage I needed to quit my own.

But our relationship has been getting more and more uneven since I crashed at her place for a month after fleeing Brittle Rock, right when she’d gotten back with her husband after a dicey separation. I owe her big time, but she seems to need me less and less. She made half a dozen new friends when I was away. She does improv comedy—gross—with them on nights when I’m grinding at my minimum-wage jobs. She won’t take any baby gifts that cost money. We always joked about me delivering her baby, but three weeks ago she told me she and Tobin decided to have just each other in the birthing room.

I know she doesn’t keep track of our friendship balance sheet like I do. She’d tell me everything’s fine, and she’d believe it. But there’s a distant early-warning bell ringing in my heart. Jen—the ex I was sure I was going to marry—found ways to not need me less than a month after I left for Brittle Rock.

So here I am, ready to build a crib. I’d assemble twenty cribs for my honorary nibling if that’s what Liz needed.

“You’re still calling it ‘the kid’? Babe,” I say, gently chiding. “What if yesterday had been the real thing and you had no name and no crib?” I head upstairs, Liz following more slowly with the weebly, rolling gait of late pregnancy.

“Well, it wasn’t. And a crib isn’t strictly necessary. Newborns sleep in boxes in Denmark. Or is it Finland? Somewhere progressive where people are happy because their marriage didn’t have to withstand an IKEA build.”

In the nursery I tear open the flat-packed box and sift through cardboard flotsam for the instructions. The first page shows a pictogram of a human holding a broken piece of wood, making a sad face. Should be fun.

No, itwillbe fun. Liz still needs me for this.

“You should charge me your hourly,” she says. “You’re over here when you could be working.”

“No way. I still owe you for last year’s extended stay.”

Her face darkens. “You don’t have to pay me back for that forever. You could take my help. If you need money—A loan, okay?” she says when I stiffen. “Or a gift. Ow. I need to sit down for a second.” She arches her back as she settles onto the glider in front of the window.

“Your husband’s trying to start a business; I’m not taking your cash. I’ll figure something out.” I toss the Allen key, catching it with a flourish and a smirk to detract from the bags under my eyes. Last night I took a deep dive into the parts of my finances I usually try not to look at. I’ve dipped into my line of credit for twenty bucks here, fifty bucks there, hoping it wouldn’t matter. But actually, the laws of math are still in effect and that shit adds up.

Unless I stumble across an unmarked duffel bag of cash, my next rent check is going to bounce. A loan from Liz could get me by for now, but then what? I’d be one spiral farther from the drain, but still getting flushed.

Anyway, I’m here for her, not me. “Where’s Tobin?”

She tries to balance a smile on top of a worried expression. “He’s at base camp with McHuge. You know, trying to finish as much as he can before I pop. He says thanks, by the way. I’ve been so superstitious about putting the nursery together or packing my hospital bag or doing any of the things you’re supposed to do. Yesterday it felt like I’d be pregnant forever and never see my cankles again. Now the baby could come any second andnothing’sready.”

The skin under Liz’s eyes reddens with the threat of tears. The unspoken question of yesterday’s interview buzzes along the silent channels of communication we’ve forged throughyears of friendship. Maybe I can avoid answering until the build’s at least partway done.

“That’s why you texted me about the crib,” I say in my most soothing voice. “And I’m here. The room will be ready by lunchtime. Besides, first babies are notorious for coming late. You probably have more time than you think.”

She shifts uncomfortably in the chair and pushes a fist into the place where her pelvis meets her spine. “I guess the interview didn’t go well if you’re not bringing it up.”

So much for avoidance. “It went fine,” I lie, running one hand through the back of my undercut while sorting through pieces of white painted wood. “Tobin and McHuge can do better than someone who’s been out of the doctor game for a year. They should look around a bit. Consider their options.”

Her mouth crumples—alarming, considering how restrained her usual range of facial expressions is.

“I mean, I’ll definitely do it if they can’t find anyone else,” I rush to add.

“It’s not that. It’s my stupid back. The websites that say pregnancy is miraculous and glowy are alllying.” She shifts in the chair, wincing. “I’d never push you into taking the job, Stellar. I was hoping you’dwantto.”

Maybe I should’ve told Liz I slept with McHuge, because now feels like the wrong time to confess why I don’t want the job. I pick up a bag with a dozen different types of fasteners. How a person is supposed to build this with pregnancy brain is beyond me.

“They’ll find someone,” I say, making my voice bright and chipper. “The Love Boat should advertise on medical Facebook groups. I’m sure there are tons of doctors who’d fly in for a working vacation.”

“I wanted this foryou,” she snaps, voice tight. “Not for meor Tobin or McHuge. I’m worried aboutyou. It’s like you’re disappearing. You won’t let yourself have anything nice. You could get a better job, you know. One with decent hours and a livable wage. It doesn’t have to be the Love Boat.”

I put down the wood I’m unsuccessfully trying to match to the diagram. “You may be overestimating the job market, babe. My MD is worthless in the real world.”

I can’t count how many Grey Tusk employers have said I’m either underqualified or overqualified for their openings. One guy had the balls to tell me I was both. The crushing drudgery of the gig economy never feels more endless than when I get turned down for decent jobs.

I have no money and no prospects. And I’m so afraid I’m about to have no friend, although she’s much more than my friend.

“No,” Liz says, that sharpness still in her voice. “You could do a lot of things, but for some reason, you’re pretending you can’t. You like to think you’re a machine”—she gestures at a series of gears inked down my forearm—“but how long can you keep this up? Financially? Emotionally?”

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