The warm light above the booth I shared with Caty is glistening off the tip of my nose -- I can see it in the bottom of my peripheral vision. I want to wipe it clean of the shiny oil that seeped from my pores but it seemed like it could be a rude interruption of Caty’s chatter. She’s talking about “some serious shit” -- that’s how she phrased it when she texted me not five minutes after my body was melting into my couch.

The high notes of the text alert wooshed through my ears like it was Tinkerbell herself and my spine stiffed as I lifted it to see the illuminated screen. An onlooker may have assumed a message had come through demanded money or a loved one’s body would be sent to me--piece by piece. But it was simply a text from my friend of twelve years asking me to meet her at our go-to Mexican food joints some she could vent about “some serious shit.” Even though every cell in my body sobbed at the aspect of movement after a ten-hour shift of giving shots and pain meds and helping ailing people to restrooms, I stood onto aching feet and began to yank off scrubs soiled with sweat as I texted back “be there in 15”. After putting on civilian clothes and spraying myself with air freshener, Hawiann Breeze, I was a quick car ride away from one of the strangest moments in my life.

She tilted her head on the lamp in a way that made her eyes unreadable but I could tell from her complexion like the blood drained from her face and a layer of wax-coated her skin, she was not her usual, cheerful self. The kind of woman who clapped eagerly at the aspect of margaritas the size of carnival fish bowls. I suspected it had something to do with her marriage--a marriage she had been trying to escape for one year out of the seven she was in it.

“I asked him for a divorce today,” she said, her voice steady and low. I did my best to frown sympathetic and mimic and whale with a small groan.

“I’m sorry. I know that was hard,” I said. “But you had to tell him eventually. Now you can start the process--”

“He said ‘no’,” she grunted. She looked up and I could see swollen bags under her eyes like she had been crying. A cry of frustration, like a two-year-old crying over candy.

“Well, I’m sure it was hard for him to hear but once he sits on it he’ll come to understand your feelings,” I said as soothingly as I could manage.

“He refuses. He is smothering me, Ann. He is suckng the life out of me.” As her volume rose I could hear the harshness of her voice like she had been screaming--screeching, even.

“Adam isn’t like that,” I assured. Her red eyes glared at me.”Not maliciously at least. Look, obviously I can’t put myself in your shoes--”

She scoffed. “Obviously.” I pretend not to hear the thick sarcasm oozing from her smirking mouth.

“But you’ve been married for seven years. I’m sure he just doesn’t want to give those seven years up. He wants to stick to the vows and--”

“And I don’t want to stick the vows? I’m the bad guy for not just suffering through a loveless marriage?”

“Caty, that is not what I’m saying and you know it. I’m just trying to show both sides--play Devil’s advocate.”

“I don’t need a Devil’s advocate, I need a friend!” she was loud enough to turn heads from tables near us. At this time our waiter brought out my plate of enchiladas and her taco salad. I turned to them, not knowing what to say, and stuffed the sauced tortillas into my mouth. Caty stabbed at her lettuce and beef, breaking the shell on the tortilla bowl in the crossfire. I mused on the best words to say as I chewed.

How do you tell your best friend of twelve years that her husband deserves better than her? That you’ve always felt a connection that you can’t feel with every guy you’ve met online since their marriage? And you tell people who you think are suspicious that you “love him like a brother” because if your friend even suspected you might be in love with him she would never forgive you? And when your best friend came to you and admitted she hated her marriage and wants a divorce it was the happiest moment of your life--so happy that you bought champagne and drank the whole bottle alone in your living room while dreaming of the day they signed the papers and you can finally tell him that you were the one he was meant to be with from the beginning? How do you say that?

“I’m sorry, you’re right,” I said after a pregnant pause. “I’m your friend first and foremost. I shouldn’t be thinking of the other side.” Caty flicked out tiny pieces of onions from the bowl onto the table with her fork without looking at me. “So, what are you going to do?”

Her eyes flickered up to me as if she was confirming my apology was foreal. I gave a small smile to prove my allegiance, my eyes begging for her to forgive the mutiny, and she pushed her hair from her eyes with a heavy sigh.

“We’re going on a cruise,” she said. “Next week. Like a couples retreat to mend the marriage.”

“So there’s a chance you might work it out?” I tried my best to keep my voice optimistic, not wanting the green venom to slip through.

“No way. I’ll never love, Ann, I just won’t. And I don’t want my years to waste away being married to him. So…” she paused. Her lips tightened like she didn’t know if she should let the words spew out or if she should swallow them and hold them inside. “So, I think I have to...become a widow.”

“Uhm,” I blinked, confused by the phrasing. “What do you mean. Widow like Adam dies?” I laughed but stopped when I felt a swift kick to my shin.

“Keep it down,” her voice was hushed. “If I want to be single within the next decade, I believe that’s what I should do.”

A wall had surrounded us, the chatter and clanging of plates and knives and forks being silent. It was just us in the restaurant, sitting across from each other, speaking unconscionable things. I was no longer in the real world. I couldn’t have been--something like that wouldn’t happen in the real world. If it was the real world, my reaction would be the worst way to react to something like that.

I asked for the cheque and left Caty sitting there, staring at her broken salad bowl and scrambled lettuce. Without a word.

There were no calls or text between me or Caty since that night. But the conversation with myself bloomed like a rose with thorns so long it stabbed its’ own fragile petals. Should I call someone or let it settle itself? I was sure I was the only one who Caty told of her desire so she would know who snitched immediately. I drove past their suburban home nightly as if the windows would be sprayed red with blood or at that moment a flash of light would spark along with the ring of a gunshot. But, all seemed peaceful in the suburban home leading up to the cruise.

I didn’t see them get onto the towering ship in person, but their socials were filled with smiling pictures and pink sunsets above a blue sea. They wrote words of a tender romance being scooped from the frozen ground and warmed back to life. My worrying thoughts silenced into relief and once again slivering envy that wrapped my throat as I liked each picture they posted of their rekindled marriage.

It was a Friday morning when there was a knock on my door. Through the peephole, I saw the stiff shoulders of one uniformed man and a man in a black coat and straight tie. I opened the door.

“Yes,” I said through the net screen.

“Are you Miss Ann Peterson,” the man with the tie asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“You’re friends with Catherine Busch and Adam Busch.”

“Yes,” I answered, though it sounded more like a statement than a question.

“Do you mind if we come in to ask a few questions?”

“Why, did something happen?” I asked as if I was following a script. The men exchanged looks, the uniformed man nervous under the other’s stern glance.

“I’m sorry, I was told you were informed. You’re friend Catherine Busch,” he started and I held my breath. “She’s gone missing.”

“What?” I tried to say though it came out like a whisper. This wasn’t the script I was given.

“I’m sorry. A search is being conducted, she went missing during the cruise she was on. You know about that correct?”

I can only nod.

“We just want to ask you if Catherine or Adam said anything before they left. About their relationship or about anyone they felt unsafe about. Does that bring anything to mind, Ann?” Through the mesh screen, I can feel his brown eyes scanning my face for any twitch or bead of sweat--anything that might indicate the truth.

But I just found out my best friend of twelve years has gone missing. How do you respond to that? How can you manage to stand across from a detective and a cop and answer their questions as if nothing is off? How are you supposed to suppress the smile that wants to stretch across your face?

By Lauren Michelle

From: United States

Twitter: Coacobanjo