If I watered plants, she was suddenly outside watering hers. If Caleb grilled, she appeared with extra buns or corn or a bottle of wine she “could never finish alone.” If I left for work at three in the afternoon, she waved from her porch and asked how late I’d be gone.
Once, laughing, she said, “I just need to know when to stop blasting music and pretending I’m twenty-two.”
Her eyes stayed serious.
Caleb began mentioning her casually.
“Tessa said the HOA might start fining people for bins left out.”
“Tessa thinks our porch light is too dim.”
“Tessa invited us over for wine Friday.”
Us.
That was how the door opened. Not I’m going to Tessa’s. Not Tessa texted me. Us. A harmless little word that made me feel unreasonable if I questioned the frequency. If I said no because I was exhausted, Caleb accused me of never wanting fun.
“You work too much,” he said.
“As opposed to the mortgage fairy paying our bills?”
He rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean.”
Tessa laughed when he repeated that line in front of her. “Girl, you do deserve fun.”
Girl.
Always girl.
Always friendly. Always with a tiny undertone that made responsibility seem like a personal failing.
The small moments accumulated.