Because I believed him, and because I was nothing if not cool, I gave him my number, and we became instantly tight. Mostly we’d sit in bars and drink—or sit in one of our apartments and drink. But we also walked his dog, an ancient black Lab named Woody, and studied for the anthropology class that neither of us realized the other was in because we both blew it off so often, and went to see bands, and smoked an occasional bag of weed.
Our friendship felt unusual because it was. Not so much because of the guy-girl thing, but because we really didn’t have all that much in common, even back when everyone in college had a lot in common. Gabe was outside the mainstream and a little bit of a hipster, nothing like my girlfriends or the guys I normally gravitated toward. I found him refreshing, though he had a tendency to playfully put me down. I quickly lost count of the number of times he looked at me, incredulous, and said, “How do you not know that?” or “You really need to read that/see that/listen to that.” But I could tell he appreciated my straightforward simplicity, just as I liked his layers, and somehow we just clicked.
Over the years, Meredith and my other friends questioned our platonic deal, accusing us of covertly hooking up. At the very least, they thought Gabe had a thing for me—or I had a thing for him. I was always adamant that we did not. Yes, there would probably always be very fleeting moments of attraction between close friends of different genders, especially when drinking was involved. But with Gabe and me, it was never enough to trigger a lapse of judgment, or worse, an ill-fated attempt at an actual relationship. And it became an unspoken given that neither of us wanted to risk our cherished friendship in the name of lust, loneliness, or idle curiosity. In other words, we were living proof that guys and girls could, in fact, be just friends.
It also helped, of course, that Gabe wasn’t my type, nor was I his. I was curvy and blond and girl-next-door cute, and Gabe liked petite, rail-thin brunettes, the more exotic the better. His last two girlfriends had been Asian, and from the neck down, they both looked like teenaged boys. Meanwhile, I preferred broad-shouldered, clean-cut, blue-eyed jocks, a far cry from Gabe’s lanky build, dark eyes, and omnipresent five o’clock shadow, which often veered toward an actual beard (which I downright disliked).
“Don’t get me wrong,” Gabe says now, signaling the bartender for another beer. I can tell by his expression that he’s still on the subject of Will. Sure enough, he finishes by saying, “I’m glad you guys broke up.”
“Gee, thanks,” I say. “You’re happy I’m thirty-seven and single and desperate?”
He grins and says, “Kinda.”
I smile because I know what he means and feel the same. I’m always a little happier when Gabe is single, and felt total relief when he broke up with his most recent girlfriend, an insufferably snobbish, name-dropping gallery girl. It isn’t that we don’t wish the best for each other, because we truly do. I want Gabe to fall in love and get married and have a family (even though he isn’t sure he’s cut out for that), and I know he wants the same for me. But it is hard to deny an element of classic misery loves company, not an uncommon dynamic among close, single friends. As an aside—and a backstop—we have always vowed that we will never date someone who isn’t cool with our grandfathered-in friendship. In fact, Gabe once called it a screening device, a way to weed out unstable, jealous girls, whom he also calls “the psycho set.”
Interestingly, the only person who ever really had a problem with Gabe was Will, who called him “the depressed poser.” It was an unfair charge, as Gabe never tries to impress anyone, and really cares little what others think of him, almost to a fault. He isn’t exactly depressed either, just a little moody and caustic—which can sometimes wear on people. But he can also be really funny, with a generosity and sense of loyalty that offset his edges. There is no doubt in my mind that Gabe would do anything for me.
“So what’s up with Meredith?” he says, changing the subject.
I sigh and tell him the latest—that she and my mother have some big plan they’re working up for this December. “You know, it’s been fifteen years….”
An intent listener, he looks at me, waiting.
“They want to visit Sophie. In New York,” I continue.
“Sophie?” Gabe asks.
“You know, the girl he was dating.”
“Oh, right…” Gabe shakes his head and whistles.
“Exactly,” I say. “So unhealthy, isn’t it?”
“It’s a little strange…I’ll give you that.” I can tell he is treading carefully, the way he always does around any mention of Daniel.
“It’s very strange. Bizarre. They all need to move on with their lives, already.”
He raises his eyebrows and looks at me, and I can tell that he is thinking about Will again. I can almost read the bubble over his head: Isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black?
“What?” I say, feeling defensive.
“Nothing,” he says with such purposeful wide-eyed innocence that I’m forced to take drastic measures. I pick up my phone and bang out an email, both my thumbs flying.
From: Josie
Sent: August 18
To: Andrea Carlisle
Subject: Re: Room Mom
Dear Andrea,
Thank you so much for your kind note. Edie is a pleasure, and I can’t wait to get to know her better this year. I hope the Tooth Fairy is good to her tonight! Thank you for volunteering to be our room mother—I would love to accept your kind offer. Look forward to meeting you at Open House. And yes, it is a small world!