Chapter 5: The Best Friend Clause

I had nothing to do at home, but Natalie had to work. I stayed at her place playing video games every day.

Her apartment was a two-bedroom in Tribeca, all exposed brick and soft throw blankets. I took over the living room with a mountain of controllers and empty soda cans. Most days, I wore sweats and a messy ponytail, living the post-divorce dream.

When Natalie ordered DoorDash, she'd order for me too.

We worked our way through Shake Shack, Five Guys, even that weird vegan place with the neon sign. We rated fries from "meh" to "life-changing," eating on the couch and binging old sitcoms.

Natalie got off work really late. When she came home at night, she was half-dead, slumping lifelessly on the couch.

Sometimes she’d kick off her heels with a groan, sometimes she’d just flop face-down and mumble, "Don’t talk to me until I’ve had my Diet Coke."

I put down my game controller and gave her a shoulder massage. Maybe out of muscle memory, I was really good at it.

My hands seemed to know just where she held her stress. It was like my body remembered routines my mind had lost.

After resting, Natalie started sighing, "Derek’s mom was a piece of work. Remember how she’d call you at midnight just to complain about her back? And you’d actually go over there."

"...."

Natalie kept talking, then flicked my forehead. "Jess, you’re just too soft. When I’m not around, you let them walk all over you. That family only pushes you around because you grew up without anyone looking out for you."

Her words stung, but it was a familiar kind of sting—the kind that comes from someone who cares too much to let you lie to yourself.

I rubbed my head, feeling a little wronged. "I don’t remember any of that. I only remember you."

Natalie stopped talking, then laughed. "Yeah, you don’t remember, that’s good. Just remember me—I won’t mess with you."

She flashed me a crooked grin, the kind that had gotten us through every scraped knee and heartbreak.

I believed Natalie, because we grew up together.

We learned to survive together—shared Pop-Tarts for dinner, covered for each other when the caseworker asked too many questions. Our childhoods were a patchwork of shared bedrooms, caseworker visits, and whispered secrets under the covers. We stuck together when no one else did.

When we were little, I followed Natalie everywhere. She’d grab snacks for me and help me wash my clothes.

She taught me how to fold socks and dodge trouble, how to keep our shoes dry in the rain. She was the big sister I never had, tough but soft in all the right places.

Later, when we got a bit older, Natalie tutored me. She’s a year older than me. When I was a senior in high school, she was already a college freshman. She called me every day, telling me to work hard.

She wanted me to go to the same college as her, but Natalie’s grades were too good. I studied like crazy, but still couldn’t get into Columbia.

When the results came out, I bawled into Natalie’s hoodie, the fabric smelling like cheap laundry soap and her favorite vanilla perfume. She held me tight and promised I’d thrive anywhere.

Natalie flicked my forehead. "Why are you crying? 1480 on the SATs, that’s an amazing score. What’s there to cry about?"

She patted my head. "You did really well."

She always knew how to knock sense into me—literally and figuratively.

Later, I cried as I went off to Chicago.

She helped me pack my bags and promised we’d FaceTime every Sunday. I watched the city shrink in the rearview mirror, clutching a letter she’d written me for the trip.