Baby, We Might Just Be Friends

I had seventeen minutes to prepare for my graduate program interview when Noah Ellis leaned across the bar and asked if I was planning to keep glaring at my laptop until it apologized. I lifted my eyes from the practice question on my screen. "It knows what it did." Noah smiled. The bar's amber lights caught on the silver ring in his eyebrow and the condensation on the glass in his hand. He was too handsome to look so amused by my misery. Dark hair, easy shoulders, a black shirt that seemed to have been made for his arms. I'd seen him around Bellwether before, usually surrounded by people laughing at something he'd said. "I'm Noah," he said. "I'm legally required to ask if you want another drink." "Are you a bartender?" "No. But I know the bartender." That earned half a laugh from me, which was more than my interview prep had managed all night. I turned my laptop around. "Tell me what you'd say if someone asked why you wanted to study public-interest law." "I'd ask what kind of public interest." "Environmental law." "I'd say I like trees." "You'd be rejected." "Then I'd say I like clean water." "Still not enough." Noah rested his forearms on the bar. "What would you say?" I looked at the question. I'd written three versions of the answer and hated all of them. My mother had left a voicemail that afternoon reminding me not to sound rehearsed. My older sister had texted a photograph of her toddler eating a crayon, with the caption, At least one person in this family is thriving. My own brain had been keeping a running list of every mistake I'd ever made since college. "I'd say my hometown's public beach closed for two summers because the water was unsafe," I said. "The city blamed storm runoff. The county blamed the city. Nobody wanted to pay for testing. My dad stopped taking me there because he didn't want me swimming in it. I want to learn how to make it harder for people in charge to shrug and walk away." Noah's expression changed. Not dramatically. The smile simply settled. "That's the answer," he said. "You don't know anything about admissions." "I know you stopped sounding like you were trying to impress someone." I shut the laptop. "You're annoyingly observant for a man who likes trees." "I contain multitudes." I should have gone home. Instead, I let him buy me a drink and listened while he told me he worked as a sound engineer at the Lantern, a small music venue on the edge of downtown. He did freelance work for bands and spent most of his evenings making sure other people sounded better than they were. "And what do you do when you're not saving mediocre musicians?" I asked. "Flirt with women who have interview anxiety." "Is that a side hustle?" "Only when it's going well." He didn't push when I told him my interview was in the morning. He didn't ask for my number until I stood up to leave. Even then, he phrased it like I had an exit. "Would you like to get coffee after you've impressed the future of environmental law?" "I would like to sleep after I survive it." "Fair. Then I'll settle for a number." I gave it to him. The interview went well. I answered the beach question without sounding rehearsed. I walked home in bright, cold sunshine and waited for the familiar rush of relief to arrive. It didn't. All I could think about was how much remained uncertain: the writing sample, the recommendation letters, the fellowship review, the final decision. Noah texted that evening. Noah: Did you impress the future of environmental law? I: The future looked tired. It may have been me. Noah: Drinks to celebrate surviving? I stared at the message longer than I needed to. I was twenty-six, lived in a rented apartment with a temperamental radiator, and had spent the last year treating every pleasure like a distraction I needed to earn. I wanted a distraction I didn't have to defend. I: Drinks. But I should be clear about something. Noah: I'm listening. I wrote and deleted three versions before sending one. I: I'm applying to school. I don't have room for a relationship. I'm not looking for exclusivity or promises. I'd like something fun, if you do too. The dots appeared, vanished, then appeared again. Noah: Fun I can do. I'm not shopping for a future either. Noah: We can say what we mean and leave when it stops working. The answer was so reasonable that I trusted it. We met at a wine bar the next night. Noah arrived wearing a dark green jacket and an expression that suggested he'd never once wondered what to do with his hands. I told him I didn't want jealousy, constant texting, or a claim on his weekends. He told me he didn't want to be someone's secret, someone's project, or a substitute for a boyfriend. "Friends who sleep together?" I asked. "Friends who kiss well and don't lie about what they're doing." "That sounds less catchy." "I can work on it." I raised my glass. "To not making this complicated." Noah touched his glass to mine. "To not pretending it isn't." He walked me home. At my door, I kissed him first. He kissed me back with a warmth that made the cold walk disappear. When I pulled away, he didn't try to turn the moment into a promise. "Good night, Maya," he said. "Good night, Noah." I went inside alone, smiling in spite of myself. For the first time in months, I wasn't thinking about the future. I was thinking about one very handsome man and a set of terms I believed I could keep.