We Never Actually Dated

My phone rings at 10:47 p.m., just as I’m considering whether going to bed before 11 on a Friday night officially makes me boring.

Mel’s name flashes across the screen.

I stare at it for a second longer than I should.

A few years ago, seeing her name this late would have done something very different to my stomach. Back then, a call after 10 usually meant she’d been drinking, she was horny, or she’d found another excuse for why I absolutely needed to come over despite having seen her 4 hours earlier.

These days, it usually means something has gone wrong.

I answer on the 4th ring.

“Hey, what’s up?”

There’s no immediate response, just a shaky breath that makes me sit a little straighter against the cushions.

“Mel?”

“Can you come over?”

Her voice is thick enough that I know she’s been crying, although I can’t tell whether she’s still crying now. I reach for the remote and turn the television down.

“What’s happened?”

“I don’t want to do this over the phone.”

“That’s generally not a reassuring thing to say when you’re calling someone this late.”

“I know.” She sniffles. “I’m sorry. I just really need you right now.”

There are few combinations of words more dangerous to me than I need you when they’re coming from Mel. I’ve learned that the hard way.

“Does this have something to do with Nathan?”

The silence gives me my answer. I close my eyes.

“Mel —”

“We broke up.”

Ah. There it is.

Nathan has been around for nearly 2 years, which makes him more significant than most of the men who came before him. I wouldn’t say I’ve ever particularly liked him, but I’ve made an effort. He’s nice enough, treats her well from everything I’ve seen, and possesses the most important quality any boyfriend of Mel’s can have: her parents fucking love him.

“Tonight?”

“About 2 hours ago.”

“Are you okay?”

“No.”

At least she’s honest.

I look at the time again, already knowing I’m going to go despite the sensible part of my brain telling me not to.

“Have you been drinking?”

“I’m having wine.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

“I’m not drunk, Jen.”

“Good, because I’m not carrying you into bed.” Another pause follows, but this one feels different.

“I wouldn’t ask you to.”

Something about the way she says it makes me frown. Before I can decide whether I’m imagining the shift in her voice, she speaks again.

“Please come over.”

I’ve spent years learning how to be Mel’s friend without becoming the person who drops everything the second she needs comfort. I’ve also gotten very good at forgetting how easily she used to get around my better judgment. Usually with her mouth.

I should tell her I’ll call her in the morning, or remind her there are other friends she can talk to. People who have more energy than I have right now, and people who haven’t previously been in love with her.

But she sounds fucking awful.

“I’ll be there in 20.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. I’m probably going to tell you you’re better off without him.”

For the first time, I hear something close to a laugh.

“You probably are.”

“See? Feeling better already.”

“Just get here.”

She hangs up before I can answer.

I stare at the phone for a moment.

Then I get off the sofa.

Mel opens the door before I’ve finished knocking. The sight of her immediately kills whatever sarcastic greeting I’d been preparing on the drive over.

“Jesus, Mel.”

Her eyes are bloodshot and swollen from crying, her usually perfect hair hanging loose and slightly tangled around her face. She’s wearing grey sweats and an old oversized T-shirt that I recognize from university, although I have no idea how the thing has survived this long.

She’s also very clearly not wearing a bra, her nipples hard beneath the thin fabric of her T-shirt. Even in an emergency, I’m still human. If a pair of erect nipples are right in front of me, I’m going to notice them.

“Hi.” Her voice sounds worse in person. “Come here.”

I barely get through the doorway before she wraps herself around me. For a few seconds, I just hold her. Her arms are tight around my waist, her face buried against my neck, and when I move one hand slowly over her back, she presses closer.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

“For what?”

“Calling you.”

“You’ve called me at 3 in the morning because you thought there was a mouse in your bedroom.”

“There was a mouse.”

“It was a sock.”

“It looked like a mouse.”

“You were 23 and sober. There is no version of that story that makes you look better.”

A quiet laugh warms the side of my neck. I squeeze her once before loosening my arms, expecting her to do the same.

She doesn’t.

“Mel?”

“Just give me a second.”

Something in my chest softens despite myself. “Okay.”

I let her stay there.

Her apartment smells faintly of the candle she always burns when she’s home, something warm and expensive that I’ve never bothered learning the name of. The lights are low, the curtains closed, and from where I’m standing I can see an open bottle on the coffee table beside a half-full glass.

Eventually she lifts her head. We’re suddenly much closer than I realized. Her eyes move over my face, lingering for long enough that the familiar little warning bell in the back of my mind begins ringing.

I know that look.

Or at least, I used to.

“Have you eaten?” I ask suddenly, wanting to ease the tension I feel in the pit of my stomach.

Her mouth twitches. “Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously. Wine isn’t dinner.”

“I had pasta earlier.”

“Good.”

I step away before either of us can make the moment awkward and hold up the bottle I’ve brought with me. It’s her favourite Malbec.

She looks from it to me. “You remembered.”

“Of course I remembered.”

The words land differently than I intend them to. She looks at me for a moment longer than necessary, and I immediately wish I’d said something else. I clear my throat and walk towards the living room.

“So, are we drinking this while you tell me what happened, or am I supposed to pretend I haven’t noticed you’ve already made a decent start on that one?”

“I’ve had 2 glasses.”

“That’s remarkably restrained for you.”

“Fuck off.”

I chuckle as I walk through her apartment. I hear the soft thud of her bare feet against the floor behind me, and she follows me towards the sofa.

Throughout university, and for years after we graduated, wherever Mel lived inevitably became my second home. This rental has been our sanctuary for the last four years. I’ve slept on this exact sofa after nights out, eaten takeout on the floor for months as she contemplated whether it was worth buying a dining table, helped her put up shelves that remain slightly crooked because neither of us knew what the fuck we were doing.

I’ve also fucked her in every room.

That particular piece of history is usually very easy to ignore.

I sit at one end of the sofa, expecting Mel to hole up on the other end. She sits close enough that her thigh rests against mine. I look down at the point where we’re touching, then back at her.

“Okay.”

“Okay what?”

“Talk.”

Her fingers curl around the hem of her T-shirt. “Nathan ended things.”

“You told me that already.”

“He said he was tired.”

“Of what?”

“Me.”

I frown. “That’s unnecessarily dramatic, even for you two.”

“No.” She looks down at her hands. “He said he was tired of feeling like he was waiting for me to actually want the life we were building.”

That shuts me up.

“He said we’ve been together for nearly 2 years and every time he talks about the future, I find some way to change the subject. Marriage, kids, buying somewhere together. All of it.”

“And was he wrong?”

“No.” There’s no hesitation; there’s no regret in her voice. I study her face.

“Did you love him?”

Mel takes long enough to answer that I assume the answer must be complicated.

“I cared about him.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

She nods as she reaches for her wine and takes a small sip. She holds it out towards me, silently asking if I’d want to share. I shake my head, knowing it’s better for one of us to stay sober. So she sets it down again.

“I wanted to love him.” I hate how much relief I feel at hearing that. “I thought eventually it would feel different...”

I don’t say anything. There are places this conversation can go that I have absolutely no interest in visiting. She turns, shifting her body towards me, one leg underneath herself, the other resting lightly on my thigh, one hand propping up her chin.

“I’ve spent most of my life trying to make everybody else comfortable with who I am.”

“I’m aware.”

“I know you are.”

“And I’m probably not the person you should be having this conversation with tonight.”

“You’re exactly the person I should be having it with.”

There it is again. That look.

I feel it this time before I properly register it. My body remembers Mel in ways I prefer not to think about, and years of friendship haven’t erased a fucking thing.

I should move my leg, but I don’t.

She notices.

“Jen.”

“No.”

“I haven’t even said anything.”

“You don’t need to.”

Her expression softens. “I’m not drunk.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“You’re thinking it.”

“I’m thinking you ended a 2 year relationship tonight and called the woman you used to sleep with.”

“The woman I used to be in love with.”

My stomach tightens. I take in the wine glass, the discarded throw blanket on the armchair, a scrunchie that must have dropped on the floor when I sat down. My heart wants to hear her out but my brain wants to keep this neutral, wants to avoid getting involved.

But I can’t help it. I look at her.

She holds my gaze. There’s no uncertainty in her face. No embarrassed little smile, no attempt to take the words back and make them easier for either of us.

Her hand moves, settling over mine.

“Mel, stop.” My voice comes out quieter than I intend.

She doesn’t.