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I want to tell Mel . . .

That Naomi called me honey.

I want to tell Mel that I never got over her oldest son.

I want to tell Mel that I lied to her, that we lied to her.

I want to tell Mel that she saved me, that she cared about me when it seemed like nobody else did.

I want to tell her that I’m sorry. There’s a whole list of things I’m sorry for, and I’d start at the beginning and go through it.

I’m sorry that the day we met, when she put me and Ro in the minivan and drove us to her house for our first playdate, I purposely spilled the root beer she bought me, because I think root beer tastes like toes.

I’m sorry that a couple of years later, when my dad took me to the clinic because our babysitter canceled, I saw Dr. Cohen walk by the store window, laughing with a blond woman, and I never told anyone. I thought she was beautiful, and I’m sorry for that, too.

There’s so much that I want to tell Mel, but when I sit down beside her and hold her hand, all I do is cry.

Cry, whisper “I love you I love you,” and choke on the rest of my words.