Baby, We Might Just Be Friends

I had one hand on the door of the Harbor Room and the other wrapped around a stack of LSAT flash cards when Julian asked if I was always this close to crying in public. "I'm not crying," I said. "I'm considering it." He leaned against the bar, looking like he'd been put together in a hurry and somehow improved by the process. A damp curl fell over his forehead. His white shirt was rolled to the elbows, and a camera strap crossed his chest. "Then I'll give you a minute," he said. "No pressure to cry on my schedule." I should have kept walking. The library closed in twenty minutes, my practice test had gone badly, and I had exactly three weeks before the exam that could decide whether I got into the law school I wanted. Instead, I sat at the bar. "Coffee," I told the bartender. "Black." Julian glanced at the flash cards. "You're studying for something?" "The LSAT." "Ah. The test that turns ordinary people into people who say things like 'necessary assumption' while brushing their teeth." "I don't do that." He looked at me. "I do it a little." His laugh was warm and unforced. I took a sip of the coffee the bartender brought and tried not to notice how good Julian looked when he smiled. I was twenty-six, working mornings at a legal aid clinic and evenings at a bookstore, and I'd spent most of the year being sensible. Sensible had got me a strict study schedule, a tidy apartment, and a persistent ache in my shoulders. I wanted one unsensible thing. One uncomplicated thing. Something that wouldn't ask for a five-year plan. Julian asked if I was waiting for someone. I told him I wasn't. He asked if I wanted company. I said it depended on whether he planned to quiz me. "Only if you want me to," he said. "I can also offer the thrilling alternative of talking about literally anything else." We talked about the Harbor Room's terrible lighting and the strange things people paid him to photograph. He was a freelance photographer. Weddings, family portraits, restaurant openings, anything that covered rent. He said it like the work was an amusing accident, not something he wanted badly enough to chase. When I asked if he was seeing anyone, he didn't dodge. "Not seriously," he said. "You?" "I'm not seeing anyone at all." "Would you like to?" The question was simple enough to make me suspicious. I looked at him over my coffee. "Not in the relationship sense." "Good," he said. "I'm not in the relationship sense, either." That should have been the end of it. Instead, the bluntness made me relax. We went back to my apartment after the bar closed. In the morning, Julian made coffee while I hunted for my notebook, and he didn't pretend the night meant more than it did. He asked when I had to leave. I told him in half an hour. He kissed me at the door and said he'd had a good time. At work the next day, I replayed the conversation while filing intake forms. By closing, I'd decided the most important thing was that I'd slept without dreaming about logic games. Two nights later, I texted him. Maeve: Dinner and no talk about tests? Julian: I can promise dinner. I can promise my best effort on the test thing. We met at a little Italian place on the waterfront. It was warm inside, the windows were fogged, and Julian ordered a bottle of red without making a performance of knowing what it was. He asked about my life without turning the conversation into an interview. I asked about his, and he showed me a photo on his phone of a bride laughing so hard her veil had slipped over one eye. "I like catching the part people don't plan," he said. "That sounds suspiciously like you have a romantic view of weddings." "I have a romantic view of the cake." I laughed. He reached across the table and touched my fingers. Nothing in his expression suggested he was about to ask me to become a different person. So I told him the conditions. "I'm taking the LSAT in a few weeks. I'm applying to law school. I don't have the time or attention for a real relationship." "I don't need you to pretend you do," he said. "I also don't want exclusivity." "Okay." "No jealousy. No checking in because we think the other person owes us something." "Agreed." "If either of us starts wanting more, we say so, and we decide what to do." He paused just long enough for me to notice. Then he held up his wineglass. "Clear, honest, and extremely appealing. I'm in." I clinked my glass against his. "Friends, then." "Friends who kiss," he said. "That sounds less likely to cause a misunderstanding." "Good. I'm famously bad at those." I didn't believe that, exactly. But I believed he wasn't asking me to give him anything I couldn't afford. That night, I went home with him and left before breakfast. At the door, he asked if he should expect to see me again. "When I have time." "Then I'll wait for your calendar to become less terrifying." I walked down the stairs smiling, then made myself stop. The arrangement was simple. I had a test to pass. He had a camera to carry. Neither of us was asking for more than the other could give. For once, I decided, simple could be enough.