Baby, We Might Just Be Friends

Chapter 2: A Very Useful Distraction

I had a timed practice section open on my laptop when Julian texted me a photo of a plate of fries.

Julian: Emergency consultation. Are these dinner or a side?

I stared at the screen for several seconds, then returned to the question about conditional logic. The question stayed impossible. The fries did not.

Maeve: Depends. Are you willing to share?

Julian: I'm willing to be persuaded.

I closed the laptop before I could reconsider. The Harbor Room was busy that evening, and I found Julian in the back booth with his camera beside him. He'd taken pictures at a small restaurant opening and was waiting for the owner to finish counting receipts. I made him give me three fries as an entrance fee.

"You were studying," he said.

"I was suffering. There's a difference."

"I can respect a distinction."

We ate while he told me about a couple who'd hired him to photograph their anniversary party and then spent the whole night arguing over where to stand. I told him about the legal aid clinic, where I'd spent the afternoon helping a woman fill out paperwork to keep her apartment. It was the kind of work that made my law school application feel less like an expensive fantasy. It was also the kind of work that made it hard to study for a test designed to measure how quickly I could spot a flaw in an argument.

Julian listened. He didn't tell me everything would work out. He didn't say I was brilliant, or that the test didn't matter. He asked what I'd wanted to do when I was younger.

"Be a lawyer," I said.

"That's very specific."

"I liked arguing."

"That's not the same thing."

"I know. I liked the idea that knowing the rules could help somebody who didn't."

Julian turned one of his fries over between his fingers. "That's a better answer."

I left before midnight, telling myself I'd go home and sleep. He walked me to my car, and I kissed him beside the driver's door. I knew how to keep the encounter in its proper place. The kiss was warm; the goodbye was easy.

At least, it was easy until the next morning, when I saw his camera on the seat of my car and realized he'd forgotten it. I drove it back to the Harbor Room after my shift at the clinic.

Julian was outside, talking to a woman in a green coat. She was laughing, her fingers brushing his arm. He smiled at her with the same easy attention he'd given me the night before.

I stopped beside the curb. He noticed me and lifted a hand.

"Maeve. You're a lifesaver."

I held out the camera. "You left it in my car."

"Thank you." He took it, then looked between me and the woman. "This is Lena. She runs the gallery on Ash Street."

"Nice to meet you," Lena said.

"You too."

Nothing about the moment was a betrayal. Julian hadn't promised exclusivity. I hadn't asked for it. Still, when I got back in my car, I sat with both hands on the steering wheel and stared at the windshield.

I had known the terms. I'd written half of them myself.

That night, Julian texted me.

Julian: I'm sorry if that felt awkward. Lena's a friend. I can make introductions better next time.

I could have told him it hadn't bothered me. I could have told him it had. Neither would change the deal.

Maeve: It was fine. You don't owe me a briefing.

Julian: I know. I also don't want you feeling like I'm hiding something.

Maeve: Then don't hide anything. We said we'd be honest.

Julian: We did.

I set the phone down. The words should have settled me. They had, in a way. I had chosen a relationship with no claims. That didn't mean I'd never feel anything. It meant I'd have to own the feelings instead of blaming him for them.

The next morning, I made a new study schedule. I cut out two evenings for dinner with Julian and gave myself the weekend to finish my application essays. It was a small, careful adjustment. The kind I could explain to myself as practical.

We met on Thursday. We walked along the harbor, ate paper-wrapped sandwiches on a bench, and discussed everything except the woman in the green coat. Julian told me he'd been taking photographs of the same stretch of waterfront for years, trying to catch the light at different times of day.

"Do you ever get tired of it?" I asked.

"Of the harbor? No. Of trying to get it right? Sometimes."

"Maybe there's no right version."

He took a picture of me looking at the water, then showed it to me. I was half turned away, hair blowing over my mouth, eyes narrowed against the wind.

"I look like I'm plotting something."

"You look like you're deciding something."

I handed his phone back. "That's close enough."

He looked at me for a beat, then tucked the phone away. "Good."

I was careful not to ask what he meant. He was careful not to make me.

When he kissed me later, I let myself enjoy it without calculating the consequences. I fell asleep at home that night with my notes open on the desk, and woke with a sentence from my application essay in my head.

For the first time in weeks, I didn't think about the test immediately. I thought about Julian's hand on my back, and the possibility that I was beginning to want the part of our arrangement I'd claimed I didn't need.