Page 7 of Just Friends Forever
LYLA
That slow, huh?
TROY
Just about. You sure you have to work tonight?
LYLA
Yeeeeah. But not tomorrow night *wink-face emoji*
I stare at her text for a minute. Should I feel more bummed out that she’s busy tonight—and more excited to see her tomorrow? I haven’t seen her in a couple days. It’s not like I’mnotexcited. I’m probably just tired from my late-night escapades. Maybe tonight Iwillsnuggle up with Austin’s cardboard cutout. Or put on my boxing gloves and punch it to smithereens.
I open social media and check my notifications out of pure boredom. It’s quick because there are none; I don’t really post. I fall solidly under the category of casual lurker. I navigate back to the main page, but my thumb pauses before swiping out of the app.
A photo of Stevie and her husband Curtis stares back at me. It’s a few days old, and I’ve already seen it, but I stare at it anyway. The tagged location is Maui, and it’s a sunset shot of the two of them on a yacht.
She’s got her head on his shoulder and a soft smile on her face. It simultaneously makes me feel better and worse. She and Curtis met in the lobby of an LA hotel, and when I met him a couple days later, I thought he was all wrong for her. As her best friend, I found it almost impossible to balance supporting her in what she wanted and watching out for what I thought was her well-being. Maybe if I hadn’t been rejected by her already and wouldn’t have come off as the jealous best guy friend (which, to be clear, I was, 100%), I might have said something. Instead, I kept my mouth shut. Pretty sure she knew anyway.
ButIwas the one who was wrong—not just wrong for Stevie but wrong about Curtis. It’s been almost four years since they got married, and they still ooze wedded bliss. If you search #couplegoals on social media, Curtis and Stevie—or Cursteph, as they’ve been affectionately dubbed—will show up in over fifty percent of the posts.
I’m genuinely happy for Stevie. All the attraction I struggled against for so long is gone. I just miss our friendship. She’s got Curtis, but I’ve never found anyone to take her place in my life.
I tap on her husband’s account and scroll through a few rows of pictures. It’s nothing I haven’t seen. A lot of travel, a lot of glitz and glam from awards ceremonies and banquets and galas.
Visually, Stevie fits right in, but I’ve always felt like she was too good for Hollywood. She and Curtis have been media darlings from the get-go, so, once again, I was wrong. I can’t go to the grocery store without seeing their pictures plastered all over the tabloids at checkout. She looks like she was made for the red-carpet life.
Apparently,Iwas made to stand around in nice homes that don’t belong to me.
I scroll up to Curtis’s most recent post. It’s one I haven’t seen—another candid shot—and I pinch my fingers to enlarge it. Curtis is smiling in the background, pushing Stevie on a swing. She’s leaning back, her legs stretched in front of her, her blonde hair pulled up in a ponytail as she laughs with her eyes shut. She looks… happy.
The picture brings back memories of summer nights at the local elementary school playground when we would see who could get higher on the swings. We’d jump off and mark who landed the farthest. She always lost, and the time I offered to help her, she went flying like a frisbee.
I smile. Those were great times.
I hesitate, then navigate to my text messages. It takes a lot of scrolling to find the thread with Stevie. Our text conversations since she got married are never long or deep, but I like knowing she’s doing well. We were best friends for so long that even though things are different now, I’ll always consider her in that light.
That’s part of why I feel a check-in is long overdue.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I open the thread and start typing.
3
STEVIE
“You’vegotto eat, Furzy.”I offer my virtual dog some cheese, but, no dice. He just stares at it, unmoving. I let out a huge sigh. “When did you become such a picky eater?! I don’t have time for this.”
Lies. I have all the time in the world. So. Much. Time.
There’s a knock, and I hop off the leather couch and hurry to answer. An enormous grin is plastered on my face before I even open the door. “Joyce!”
“Hello, Miss Stephanie,” she says with her kind, wrinkly smile. She’s holding her usual crate of cleaning supplies, but she sets it down for our customary greeting hug. She calls herself my cleaning lady; I call her my paid friend.
“You could have taken the day off, you know,” I say, picking up her supplies and bringing them inside. “I’d still pay you.” Even through my socks, the black tile is cold. It’s also perfectly shiny. If I hid in one of the three walk-in closets, Curtis’s West Hollywood apartment could pass as uninhabited. I call it Curtis’s because he’s the one who will keep it when all is said and done—assuming allisever said and done. After being on the path to divorce for almost a year, I have my doubts.
Doubts and a whole lot of restlessness.
“I work for my pay, Miss Stephanie,” Joyce says in a firm voice, taking the supply basket from me and walking it to the kitchen.
