The morning after they kissed for the second time, Edith made breakfast. The night of the snowstorm had been languorous and warm; the sheer pleasure of being together under so many blankets instead of alone under too few. No words were needed to end up in Tessa’s bed. They didn’t have sex, only kissed more. They stared at one another, darkness bright with snow’s reflection. Edith slipped from the dawn-soaked bed to make coffee, decant orange juice, fry bacon until brittle. Quiche with a crust from scratch. A bowl of sliced apricot, blueberries, apple. Tessa woke and watched from the doorway. If I knew you’d cook like this, she laughed, I’d’ve kissed you a long time ago. Kissed you again, I mean.

Christmas of their senior year, all three of them had gone to Tessa’s home in North Carolina. Edith’s family never made much of the holidays; Val usually stayed at school. C’mon, Tessa insisted. We should do one Christmas together.

North Carolina was unmagic—gray and wet and all the leafless trees scrabbled anxiously in the howling wind. Tessa didn’t care to give them a tour. There’s a reason I got as far from here as I could, she said.

You could’ve managed farther.

But we’d never have met, darling Val, and then where would I be?

As they drove to the town’s one coffee shop or bar (the same place, different times of day), the record shop with dusty windows, the pizza place, Tessa might point through the car window and say, There’s where I took trumpet lessons in sixth grade, or, That’s the field where they’d build a bonfire for Halloween. There’s the library, I had my first gay kiss pressed up against the Michael Crichton shelf. The past could not help coming in.

Edith always tried to picture people’s homes—the cracked floral linoleum, the paving stone walkway leading to the back door—and her imagined spaces were never right. They were always an amalgam of her own childhood home, the books she’d read, the TV shows she watched. Usually, when she saw the thing itself, this old ideal faded. The real crowded it out. With Tessa’s home and hometown, this fading never happened. Every image a double image, ghosted with Edith’s version. Coeval like a song and its cover.

Their last night, they stayed up late, drinking wine in the basement and watching Gossip Girl.

I can’t believe this show ended, Valerie said. This show kept me from killing myself when I was a teenager.

That’s not funny, Tessa said.

It’s not meant to be. I’d think about it, listening to the trains at night. And I’d think, “Oh but then you’d never know who Gossip Girl is.”

It’s better knowing, Edith said.

Of course you think so.

Dan Humphrey, the sensitive writer slash Brooklynite outsider, created the Gossip Girl blog to write himself into the story of the beautiful, popular kids.

No one in this basement is allowed to die, Tessa said.

On the TV, mentally ill teens bullied each other. Burned their dresses, poured yogurt on their shoes.

Why does the episode where Serena’s brother comes out always make me cry? Edith said.

Same.

It’s melodrama, Valerie said, but it’s effective melodrama. It’s like if someone starts playing “Good Riddance (Time of Your Life).” We’re programmed to have a feeling.

Not a real feeling, though.

Tell us, dear Joni, what a fake feeling is.

Valerie turned in first. She had an early train. Tessa opened a second bottle of wine.

What do you think? Edith asked. Good Christmas?

The best. Tessa settled deeper into the couch, sliding closer to Edith. When Edith breathed in, their arms brushed. Our own little family of freaks.

Good of your parents to put up with us.

This was not what she meant to say.

Do you ever think about next year? Tessa’s eyes slipped closed. Edith’s head heavy with wine. Breathe in, the softest touch, breathe out. You’ll be writing the Great American Novel.

If I ever so much as whisper “Great American Novel,” please beat me to death with a rake.

And Valerie will be off on her Valerie adventures. Dancing with the Moscow Ballet or being a spy.

Or both. And you’ll be writing your plays, saving the world.

Like a little La Bohème, but slightly gayer.

You mean like—­

If the next word out of your mouth is “Rent” I swear to god.

Breathe in, breathe in. The warmth of a body beside you. In a pitch-dark room, Edith would know how close they were. Breathe out.

It’s all—did you ever think your life would look like this?

Edith shook her head. You?

Yes. But I never believed it. Tessa’s head on her shoulder.

Love you, Joan. Tessa made a small, sleepy sound. You need to go to bed?

Not yet.

Limbo. If they sat long enough, Edith would get used to the waiting. She could get used to pretty much anything.

Joni.

Yeah?

Edith looked at Tessa, or Tessa looked at Edith. Tessa moved to kiss her first.

You know you love me, the TV said. XOXO.

Back on campus, Edith tried to talk around it. Don’t overthink it, Joni, Tessa said. Well, mistakes happen.

They were barely a year wiser in Boston. A week passed without talking it over. Only that reliable warmth, reliable joy each evening.

Okay, Tessa said over her Styrofoam clamshell of pasta. We need to process this. What we’re doing.

Doing? Present progressive?

Don’t try to grammar me through this. Seven nights of sharing a bed. Seven nights of softness. The brawl in her chest as Tessa’s mouth matched her own.

Edith began, If you want—­

Shut up for a second. The scuffed kitchen table between them. A forkful of chicken cacciatore. This was the end of something. There’s a lot I don’t want to think about.

Okay.

But if we do this, we have to accept that it might destroy our friendship. Not only ours.

More vague terms. Shouldn’t they talk about what “do” and “this” meant? Edith didn’t press her luck. She shoved as much garlic bread as would fit into her mouth. They’d figure out the rest later.

I believe in us, she said once she’d swallowed. I can’t imagine either of us living without the other.

Okay, well, it might be worth stretching your precious writer’s imagination, because I need you to tell me: is it worth that chance?

What a question. What impossibility. A fat stack of alternate universes to pick over in her idle hours, all facts forking from opposite possibilities. A coin flipped, a cigarette unsmoked. If it had played out another way—if they’d never spoken again after she left—it would not have been worth it. That’s the absolute truth of it.

What about—I don’t know how to ask this.

Tessa was gay. Tessa had dated one guy when she was fourteen and it was miserable. It didn’t matter that Edith was a good and sensitive man. She was the slightly in their gayer La Bohème. She was, irreparably, a man. More forks, more coins flipped.

That’s one of the things I don’t want to think about.

They finished eating. Nina Simone on the stereo. The apartment decked in twilight’s blue organza. Hand in hand they retreated. Shut Tessa’s bedroom door as though there were something to keep out. Edith never slept in the twin bed again.

(“How did you get to be here? What was the moment?”)

*

Edith had been in love before. There’d been her high school girlfriend, the one who’d assaulted her. There’d been Ellie, the quiet chem major freshman year. There’d been books at Christmas and brunch on weekends and trips to the city for museums and shows. Inevitably, her feelings reached a limit. There were only so many mornings she could wake next to Ellie before wishing she were alone. Nights they’d made plans when she’d rather be somewhere with Val and Tess. Later in college, she’d hook up with lesser friends, and there came a moment before sleep where she’d catch herself thinking, What if I did this for a long, long time? That tenderness was banished by the sun. She stumbled to the bathroom to scrape the night from her tongue and wash her face before finding her real friends and a hot bagel.

What if part of me is broken, she wondered. She knew that period of early love—where every song is your song, where fires all burn twice as hot and the donut shop never runs out of your favorites on Saturday morning. Where did it go?

Did you know you talk in your sleep? Edith asked one morning. She’d spent the past hour watching Tessa’s face in the velvet sun, each hair drawn in gold across the pillow. The weather was getting warmer; Tessa promised Boston would be unrecognizable after winter.

I know I used to. Her face scrunched, puffy with sleep. What did I say?

“I have hands with which I, in theory, see Jeff.”

Hard to argue with that.

Tessa picked up exotic fruits from the health food store. Plantains they’d fry and eat with vanilla ice cream. Spiny dragonfruit with insides like a poppyseed muffin. Lychee, rambutan, durian.

People say it’s an acquired taste.

Oh yeah? What do they say about the smell?

They were lost in the other’s gaze. Recycling piled up. Clouds of dust clotted the corners. Soup-caked dishes. What did these things matter when they could be together on the couch, reading and napping and watching Kirsten Dunst movies.

Edith’s old room looked so small, so fragile. This life brought north in Tessa’s car and abandoned. Sick of traffic, Tessa sold the car that winter. Easier to stay home.

The refrain of those early months: Did you ever think your life would look like this?

Never. Edith still didn’t believe. How long have you known?

Not forever. But long enough. Fingertips tracing the length of Edith’s hand. I should have gotten here sooner.

We almost did.

The softness of Tessa’s skin erased any memory before this. Lying here with their legs forked together.

That was stupid, she said. To kiss you without thinking.

What changed?

I’m not sure. I don’t care. Her eyes full of dying afternoon light. You’re so beautiful.

Edith thought she really might be.

Charlie was the first person Edith told. On a rainy Sunday afternoon they browsed CDs at Newbury Comics. Charlie grinned at her across the shelves. That’s great, dude.

Thanks, Chuck. Jewel cases snapped by, glimpses of cover art. You don’t think we’re making a mistake, do you?

You’ve both had like a million years to think about how you feel. It’s what you want, right?

It is. Edith studied the back of a Fleetwood Mac album. Charlie ignored her shaking hands. It’s only that, um, I really love her.

Aw, dude. Charlie came around the wide bins and wrapped Edith in a hug. I’m so happy for you. And not just because Valerie’s going to owe me fifty dollars.

You guys made a bet?

No actual money’s trading hands, don’t worry.

Val bet against us?

Charlie waved her off. It’s a stupid standing bet from college. I doubt she remembers. He went back to browsing; Edith mis-shelved the copy of Tusk. It was SpringFest, everyone was wasted. We went to get food and came back and you guys were napping on the picnic blanket, curled up together. Mostly we were happy we didn’t have to share our fries. There was nothing wrong with betting on your friends’ relationships; she’d made a half dozen similar claims over the years. A shot called out of a desire for her happiness, and Tessa’s. Every bet required that people divide into for and against.

Still the nagging thought: Valerie didn’t believe in them.

Look, dude, it’s great. Don’t sweat it. Charlie held her by the shoulder, put Tusk in its proper place with his free hand. You guys are getting the ending everyone wants. Only three years out from those bar nights, asking: Why are there so many pretty girls. What is wrong with me. A perfect love story.

Edith knew within five minutes when Tessa had told Valerie. Val called her work phone.

Comp Lit department.

Oh my god you little scamp. Val’s voice cut apart by wind’s static. Who knew you had it in you!

Love the confidence my friends have in me.

None of that, I’m thrilled for you both.

Thanks, Val.

Just—Her voice cut out.—know when you’ll have this happiness.

What was that?

Enjoy it, babe. Enjoy all of it!

The six months that followed might well have been perfect, might well have been paradise. What did the small flaws, the early seeds of doubt matter? They had each other; that was all.