Shattered Constellations

I didn’t mean to kiss Laura. I meant to tell her she had spinach in her teeth.

But she was laughing, head tipped back, the streetlight catching the curve of her throat, and I was already too close. We’d been walking for hours, the way we did when the city got too loud and we needed to remind ourselves we were real. Past the bodega with the flickering sign, past the man selling tamales from a cart, past the couple arguing in Spanish on the corner. Laura’s hand brushed mine and I didn’t pull away.

“You’re not listening,” she said.

“I’m always listening.”

“You’re staring at my mouth.”

I was. I couldn’t stop. Her lips were chapped from the cold and she kept biting the bottom one when she thought. It was a nervous habit. I’d catalogued every one of them over three years of friendship. The way she tapped her fingers on tabletops. The way she said “fuck” under her breath when she was frustrated. The way she smelled like sandalwood and the cheap lavender soap from her apartment.

“I’m not,” I lied.

She stopped walking. Turned to face me. The street was empty. Just us and the hum of a distant train and the wet asphalt that smelled like rain that hadn’t come yet.

“Lua.”

My name. She said it like a question.

I leaned in. Slow enough that she could have stopped me. She didn’t. Her lips were cold and then they weren’t. She tasted like the mint tea we’d shared at the diner. Her hand came up to my jaw, fingers cold, and she pulled me closer.

It lasted maybe four seconds.

She pushed me away. Not hard. Just enough.

“What are we doing?”

“I don’t know.”

“We’re friends.”

“I know.”

“We can’t.”

“I know.”

She looked at me like I’d broken something. Maybe I had. She turned and walked. I followed. That’s the thing about Laura. She always walked when she was upset. Walked until her legs ached and her lungs burned. I’d followed her through three boroughs on bad nights. I’d follow her anywhere.

“Laura.”

“Don’t.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No you’re not.”

She was right. I wasn’t. I’d wanted to kiss her for eighteen months. Since the night she showed up at my door after her boyfriend broke up with her. She’d cried on my couch and I’d held her hair back while she threw up and I’d made her toast she didn’t eat. I’d wanted to kiss her then too. I didn’t. I was a good friend.

Good friends don’t kiss their best friends on empty streets at 2 AM.

But I did.

She stopped at the corner. The light was red. No cars coming but she waited anyway. Laura was like that. Followed rules even when no one was watching.

“I’m seeing someone,” she said.

I knew. She’d mentioned him. Some guy from her office. Mark. Matt. Something with an M. She’d told me about him over drinks and I’d smiled and said he sounded nice and wanted to throw my glass at the wall.

“I know.”

“Then why?”

“Because I’m selfish.”

She laughed. Bitter. “At least you’re honest.”

“I’m not trying to be.”

The light turned green. She didn’t cross. She stood there, arms crossed, looking at me with that expression I couldn’t read. The one that made me crazy because I could usually read her. I knew when she was hungry, when she was tired, when she was about to cry. But this. This was new.

“I need space,” she said.

“How much?”

“I don’t know.”

“A week?”

“Maybe.”

“I can do a week.”

“Can you?”

No. I couldn’t. We talked every day. Sent each other memes at 3 AM. Met for coffee before work. She was the first person I texted when something happened and the last person I said goodnight to. A week without her felt like a year.

“I’ll try.”

She nodded. Uncrossed her arms. For a second I thought she might kiss me again. She didn’t. She turned and crossed the street, walking toward the subway station. I watched her go. Her jacket was too thin for November. She’d catch a cold. I’d text her tomorrow to remind her to take vitamin C.

No. Space. Right.

I walked home alone. My apartment felt wrong. Too quiet. Too empty. I sat on my bed and touched my lips where hers had been. Still there. Still warm.

My phone buzzed.

Laura: I’m not mad.

Laura: I’m confused.

Laura: Give me a few days.

I didn’t respond. I wanted to. I wanted to call her and talk it out and fix it and make everything okay again. But I’d broken the rules. I’d crossed a line. And now I had to sit in it.

Three days passed. She didn’t text. I didn’t text. I went to work, came home, stared at my ceiling. My friend Carlos asked what was wrong and I said nothing. My mother called and I let it go to voicemail. I ate cereal for dinner because cooking felt like too much effort.

On the fourth day, I got a text.

Laura: Drinks tonight?

Laura: The usual place.

Laura: We need to talk.

My stomach dropped. We need to talk. Four words that never meant anything good. I typed and deleted and typed and deleted until finally I just wrote:

Me: What time?

Laura: 8.

Me: I’ll be there.

I showed up early. Sat at our booth. Ordered a beer I didn’t drink. Watched the door. She walked in at 8:03. Her hair was down. She was wearing the red sweater I’d bought her for her birthday. The one she said she loved. The one I’d never seen her wear.

She sat down across from me. Didn’t smile.

“I ended things with Mark.”

“Matt?”

“Whatever. It wasn’t serious.”

“Why?”

She looked at me. Steady. “Because I kept thinking about you.”

The words hit me in the chest. I didn’t know what to do with them. I’d wanted to hear them for so long and now they were here and I didn’t trust them.

“Laura.”

“I’m not done.” She leaned forward. “I’m scared. Okay? You’re my best friend. If this goes wrong, I lose you. I can’t lose you.”

“You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

She shook her head. “You can’t promise that.”

“I can promise anything I want.”

“That’s not how it works.”

“Then tell me how it works.”

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Looked down at her hands on the table. Her fingers were shaking. I reached out and covered them with mine.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I said.

She looked up. Her eyes were wet.

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

She squeezed my hand. Hard. Like she was testing if I was real.

“Okay,” she said.

“Okay what?”

“Okay, let’s try.”

The bar was loud around us. People laughing. Glasses clinking. Music I couldn’t name. But all I could hear was her. All I could see was the way she was looking at me. Like I was something worth having.

I didn’t kiss her then. I wanted to. But I wanted to do it right. I wanted to take her somewhere quiet and slow and make sure she knew I meant it.

So I just held her hand and smiled.

“Finish your drink,” I said. “Let’s get out of here.”

She smiled back. Real. Warm.

“Yeah,” she said. “Let’s.”