I rubbed both palms against my jeans.
“And you swiped right.”
“Yes.”
“To tell me Nora died. That was the whole plan?”
“One coffee. Tell you who I was. Tell you what happened. Thank you for being her friend.”
I looked at her.
“And then?”
Claire gave a tired little laugh.
“Then you ordered another coffee. You stayed until they started stacking chairs around us.”
“That doesn’t answer why you lied, Claire.”
“No.”
Good.
At least she wasn’t trying to pretend that it did.
I leaned back in the chair.
“If Nora had never existed, would you have swiped right on me?”
Claire watched me silently for several seconds.
“I don’t know.”
That hurt more than a nicer answer would have.
She continued before I could respond.
“I probably wouldn’t have stopped on your profile long enough to find out.”
I turned my face away.
“But Nora got me to that coffee shop,” she admitted. “She didn’t make me order another coffee. Or stay until they stacked the chairs around us.”
I stood up.
“What happened after that doesn’t erase what happened before it.”
“I know.”
“There you go again.”
“Sorry.”
I picked up the photograph.
“You kept deciding what I was allowed to know.”
Claire didn’t try to defend herself.
After a moment, she said, “Yes.”
“Why?”
“At first, because I didn’t want you to think I was using Nora to get close to you.”
“You were using Nora to get close to me.”
“To meet you. Yes.”
“And later?”
Claire stared down at the gray carpet.
“Later I was scared you’d leave.”
That was the first answer she’d given me all night that didn’t seem wrapped in something noble.
I folded the photograph once, instantly regretted it, and opened it again.
“I need some time by myself.”
Claire stood.
“Do you want me to leave?”
I considered it.
Then I shook my head.
“Stay here.”
She nodded.
I walked outside alone.
And for once, Claire didn’t follow me.
But halfway across the library courtyard, another memory surfaced.
Nora snapping a book shut.
Me furious.
My own childish voice saying:
“Fine. Finish it yourself.”
I stopped walking.
Because suddenly I needed to know whether those had been the final words I’d ever said to her.
I texted Claire.
“Can you come outside?”
She appeared about a minute later but stopped several feet away from me.
“I remembered something.”
Claire waited.
“I told Nora to finish the book herself.” I rubbed the edge of the photograph with my thumb. “Was that the last time I saw her?”
Claire slowly shook her head.
“I don’t know exactly what your last conversation was.”
Strangely, that answer helped more than false certainty would have.
“But she talked about you afterward,” Claire added.
“What did she say?”
“Mostly that you were annoying.”
I laughed.
Then Claire smiled.
“She also said you always waited when she fell behind reading.”
I looked down at the photograph.
For years, Nora had existed somewhere inside my mind as a missing piece I’d stopped noticing was missing.
Now she was slowly becoming a person again.
Yellow glasses.
Cheating at games.
Skipping pages.
Getting angry with me.
I looked back at Claire.
“I believe you love me. But I don’t know what I trust yet.”
She stayed where she was.
“I understand.”
“No, you don’t. Neither do I.”
Claire nodded.
“What do you want me to do?”
The question surprised me.
“Tonight? Tell me about Nora.”
“And after?”
“I want to go home.”
“Okay.”
We spent another hour talking.
There was nothing dramatic about it.
Nora hated raisins. She wanted a motorcycle when she turned 16. She believed rules in board games were “suggestions.”
When we eventually returned to Claire’s apartment, the green dress had been folded neatly over a chair.
“Do you want me to return it?” she asked.
“No.”
Claire looked at me.
“I bought it because you wanted it,” I said. “That part didn’t change.”
Then I went home.
Four days later, I went back to the library by myself and checked out the book Nora and I had once argued about.
The ending was terrible.
I texted Claire.
“Nora was right. The ending is awful.”
Her reply arrived almost immediately.
“She was unbearable when she was right.”
I smiled.
“I’m still at the library if you want to come argue about it.”
Claire arrived 20 minutes later.
We sat together at the same small children’s table.
As I read, her hand automatically moved toward the page.
I put one finger down.
“Hey. I’m not done.”
Her hand stopped.
“Sorry.”
She pulled it back.
And waited.
I finished the paragraph.
Then I turned the page myself.