She sits down at the edge of the bed, facing the long mirror. I can see her face in the reflection; a long, pretty nose anchors her features. She pretends not to see me, but just for a moment, her brown eyes flick to make contact with mine through the mirror.
She flashes a half-smile.
She touches the heart-shaped locket on her collarbone; I reach forward to help her unclasp it, but then I realize the distance between us. The bed splits us apart, ocean-wide.
I crawl forward and unclasp her necklace, my fingers seeming to light up whenever I brush her skin.
She thanks me with a murmur and places the locket on my dresser. I try not to think about how the heart-shaped metal must feel, touched by the warmth of her skin.
I scoot halfway back to my place, eyes still locked on the mirror.
She raises up both long-fingered, spidery hands and pulls her hair tie loose. Hair cascades down from her ponytail; she shakes her head to let it fall.
I look on in wonder as black waving rivers spring from her scalp, flowing down and down until they reach the blue waves of our--no, my--blankets. From the mirror, she blows me a kiss.
"Stop that, Liz," I joke, and the spell is broken.
I can't keep the smile off my face. I burst into embarrassed giggles.
She starts giggling, too, and before I know it we're lying back on the pillows, clutching our stomachs from the laughter. Her on my right side, us lying atop the old quilt my great-grandma knitted for my mother's wedding. It's almost like old times.
But it isn't. Something's changed.
Okay, a lot's changed. We're adults now, for one--this isn't some sleepover at my parents' house from when we were both 13. And even though it's the same quilt, same full-size bed I grew up having to share with my sister, I'm in a different place. New apartment, new city.
But not everything's changed, I reason, looking over at her. She's still the same girl I grew up with: laughing, daring Eliza, with waves of black curls and a beautiful smile and bronze-brown cheeks and soft hands--
I shake myself out of it to find her staring at me. "What?"
"I like your new hair," Eliza says, glancing over at me. She makes eye contact just briefly, then looks up at my forehead.
"Thanks." I buzzed it off last month. My mom had a fit when she found out. Now my hair's growing back a little, but I think I'll keep it short.
She reaches up to ruffle the short strands. She's careful not to scratch me with those long pastel-pink nails. The pads of her fingertips touch my scalp so softly, and I stop breathing for a second.
Ah. So that's what's changed.
"So you like it? Nursing school?" she asks.
"Yeah," I say, hoping the heat in my face doesn't show. "I think I might be able to make a difference in the world, y'know?" I hardly hear the words coming out of my own mouth. I find myself drawn to her eyes, soft deep brown like the earth after rain. She murmurs, affirmative.
Eliza doesn't meet my gaze, her eyes fixed intently on my hair. But I get the feeling she knows I'm looking at her.
"So, uh, how's your boyfriend?" I ask.
She chuckles. "What boyfriend?" Flat and hardly a question. "I left him half a year back, and I guess I've been trying some dating apps, but just nothing feels right. You know?"
"Yeah." I pause again, relishing the feel of her fingertips. "I haven't had any luck either. But why didn't you tell me? About him."
"I was in love with someone else. I didn't want to explain everything...it was too complicated." She lets the end of her fingernail trace the borders of my widow's peak, the edges of my hairline. It makes me shiver.
"Oh."
"Get under the blankets, Ana. You'll be cold," Eliza says.
I roll my eyes. "Okay, okay. Y'know you don't have to stay here, though. I don't want you getting stuck with me," I lie.
"Where else would I go? The pullout couch? It was your brother's. I know all the stories about that pullout couch," she says.
"Shut up!" I say, bursting into nervous laughter.
The pullout couch sits in the other room, all ready for her. I fluffed the pillows and set up the sheets with extra care this morning, knowing it was all for her. I even put a little lavender inside her intended pillowcase.
"Nah, I think I'm just fine with you." She cracks a smile.
I laugh, giddy, warmth bubbling up in me as I burrow under the covers.
She joins me. I pull the lamp cord and leave us in darkness.
We chat, side-by-side, lying on our backs. We talk about whatever comes to mind: old high school stories, Eliza's job at the mall, my crazy siblings, the TV show we're both watching, what's new in our hometown.
Eventually our voices trail off, and Eliza rolls over onto her side, murmuring "Goodnight."
I roll onto my side, too, facing her back. I bunch together a handful of blankets to hold. It feels like my breathing is the loudest sound in the whole world.
Eventually I gather up some courage and scoot closer. I throw my arm around her almost haphazardly. Her chest rises and falls underneath my touch; something I can't bear to name rises up in my chest.
She says nothing, does nothing. After a few moments, I roll away from her. Heat rises in my face like soup boiling over: what if I just did something freakish and weird? Best to let her sleep now and beg forgiveness in the morning--or better yet, jump out the window and run down the fire escape so I never have to see the consequences of my action.
But Eliza turns toward me, half-asleep, and touches my elbow. "Where's your arm?" she asks groggily.
She guides my arm to her chest. I, chaste, lay my fingertips on her collarbone. This time, I clutch her close.
I press the full length of my body against Eliza's: my chest against her back, my hips in line with hers, my knees bending to the fold of her legs. I bury my nose in her hair. It's smooth and thick and smells like her strawberry shampoo.
Her chest rises and falls with her soft breathing. I let myself breathe in tandem with her, relishing the steady thrum of her pulse under my palm.
She scoots backward and clasps my hand in hers.
I lie there, almost giddy, very aware of my hand's proximity to her breasts. Very, very aware of my front pressed up against her back.
She scoots in again, melding herself to me. My heart races and something tingles below my belly button.
Once my heart slows, I realize that her breathing's taken on a slower rhythm. She's asleep in my arms. I beam.
It takes me a while longer to fall asleep. The whole time I lie there, half-awake, I think, for some reason, of taking her last name. Like a middle-school girl daydreaming about her crush. Ana Thakkar, I think, mouthing the syllables. Anahit Thakkar.
~
I wake on my back with sunlight streaming in through the window and Eliza glued onto me, head on my chest and one arm encircling my torso.
I reach for my phone, wanting to check the time.
Eliza notices and looks up at me, a soft smile on her face.
"Morning," I say, my voice rough with sleep.
"Morning." She reaches up to play with my hair (or lack thereof).
"You're only here for one more night," I say. Has time really passed that fast?
She gives me a funny look, and I quickly add, "Sorry. Two more days."
"Yeah," Eliza says, "I'm only here one more night."
~
We spend Saturday out on the town. I show Eliza all my favorite spots: the nook in the library, a Lebanese restaurant with the best kibbeh in the USA, a park with big shady trees. We lapse into easy conversation, cursing real loud like nobody can hear us. She tells the funniest stories, giving me big belly laughs that make my cheeks ache. Eliza shows me her locket and makes me guess who's inside: ex-boyfriend? Her parents? Her pet cat? Nobody, it turns out. The locket's empty.
Swapping stories, walking down the street with takeout--it almost feels like the senior year of high school again. It was always just the two of us taking on the world. Back before I moved cross-country and went to college, before she started working full-time at the jewelry store on Main.
Yes, it almost feels exactly like it did. But back in high school, my stomach never dropped when she touched me. I'm hyper-aware of my body. I find myself begging her, through some desperate telepathy, to link her arm with mine. I wish she'd kiss me. Is that crazy? Whenever she walks ahead, my eyes follow the swing of her hips in that little white dress. Her--Eliza. My best friend.
At the train station, we both hop the turnstiles, one holding the bags while the other jumps. We take the subway to the last stop, then walk the rest of the way to the beach. It's a long trip, but worth it. I know she loves the ocean.
The sun is almost set by the time we get there. Gulls cluster on one end of the beach, digging through chip bags and looking superior. A few families linger on the beach; couples watch the sunset from blankets and towels.
Eliza picks out a spot, and we sit down. I give her my hoodie to sit on; she declines, kneeling down in the sand so that her dress spreads out around her.
"You look beautiful," I say. Blood rushes to my face as she turns to look at me. "I mean, uh, that's a nice color on you. It's beautiful on you."
Eliza smiles and hands me a kebab from one of the boxes. "Thanks. You too." She squeezes my thigh.
I pretend not to notice, even though my heart nearly pummels its way through my ribs.
"Surprise!" I yell, a little too loudly, and I pull a bottle of wine out of my bag.
"Wow, you really went all out," she says, glancing at the cheap brand name. She lightly punches my shoulder.
"Shut up, I'm a college student! What am I supposed to do, steal a bottle of Sassicaia?"
"Yes, obviously." We descend into banter; before I know it, the food and the sun are gone.
We lapse into a satisfied silence, still trading the bottle back and forth. A little sand gets on the rim.
A lone swimmer does laps back and forth, back and forth, way out alone in the waves. Her arm arcs up like a wing. The water reflects moonbeams and streetlights, showing off a dozen new colors in the twilight.
Eliza stares out at the waves. She's smiling, just a little. I don't think she realizes it.
"One day I'll move out here. Then we'll go swimming every weekend." She turns to face me. For the millionth time today, I marvel at her eyes: such a warm, rich, deep brown.
"I'd like that," I say.
"Thanks for the wine." Eliza smiles.
"No, thank you for lunch."
"Of course," she says, and she leans in--almost jerkily, like she's nervous--to give me a quick kiss on the cheek.
