“I hear what you’re saying,” I say and suddenly it’s desperately important that Debbi believes me

I’m deep in a bowl of oatmeal sprinkled with brown sugar when the doorbell rings. Since Libby is engaged, not incapacitated, I allow her the great pleasure of answering. I’d hate to have to guilt her about cold oatmeal.

“Knock knock.”

I almost choke on a blueberry as Debbi sits down across from me.

“Libby let me in,” she says.

I nod, coughing.

She pours me a cup of water. “Thanks,” I say hoarsely.

She nods.

We sit in silence and then, “I got your letter.”

I nod again.

“I really appreciated it,” she says quietly. “Like, really. And I honestly never expected to get anything like that from you.”

Oatmeal has a tiny window before it turns from good to gross. I stir it, but it’s too late. Pushing the bowl aside, I look down at the table and then up at her.

She looks great, bright and refreshed. And pretty. I’m suddenly conscious of my oversized sweatshirt and messy bun. I shake off my insecurity, wait for her to speak.

“I can’t help wondering, though,” she says at last, a slight hitch in her voice, “if you’re just using me to fill in the best friend role now that Shan is going home.”