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If Only For a Moment
Chai was her favorite. Every time we went to the little coffeehouse on Robinson, she ordered chai. She never added anything to it, but sipped it slowly, breathing in the scent. She’d sigh, then, and say, “Sometimes, Walker, this is it.” I would nod and slurp my hot chocolate. Usually, whipped cream found its way up my nose and I would turn away and discreetly dislodge it with my handkerchief. She always knew what had happened, though, and would laugh at me. I didn’t mind so much.
There were many reasons I didn’t mind so much. After all, Tara was my best friend. I’d known her from infancy. We’d been together through everything: illnesses, injuries, divorces, remarriages, school, relationships. She used to bring me soup when I was sick, and I used to beat up anyone who made her cry. We lived next door to each other, and our windows faced each other’s rooms. Whenever our parents argued at night, we would send each other flashlight signals. We had been quite proficient at Morse code. We suffered though every awkward teenage issue together, every “it’s the end of the world as we know it” problem, every failed romance. I used to shrug off questions from my other friends when they asked what I saw in her, but by the time we graduated, it didn’t matter. In a more simple, selfless way than I would have ever thought possible, I loved her. I liked to see her happy, and what was my dignity next to that?
After high school, we both stayed in our home town. We were working then, and didn’t see each other near as often, but we did try to meet at the coffeehouse once a week. Just to catch up. We’d sit for hours and talk, drinking more tea and hot chocolate than any two people should consume in a week. She would complain about the college boys who lived in the apartment below hers, and I would complain about my neighbor’s demon-possessed terrier. I would suggest she buy a taser and a can of mace; she would recommend I buy a shotgun. Others in the coffeehouse would look at us oddly, but we didn’t care. That’s the nature of youth.
But then, there was that one meeting. The one where I felt the earth shift, and we both changed for good. It seems like I should have known it was coming, but it started like any other. “Did you know Michael proposed to me, Walker?” she asked, sipping her tea with special care.
“Yes,” I replied. It’d been announced in the paper, and I knew it was coming, anyway. Michael was a friend of mine and felt it appropriate to ask my permission before proposing since Tara’s dad was neither available nor accountable. I hadn’t expected much to change between us.
“Did you know Michael’s been offered a job in Waukegan?”
My mug stopped halfway to my mouth. Waukegan was almost three hours away, assuming good traffic. Surely that couldn’t be true. “No, I didn’t. He’s not going to take it, is he?”
“He’d be stupid not to.” She sighed. “It’s a big raise, and he’s never going to get anywhere if he stays in Herrin, you know?” I didn’t see anything wrong with staying in Herrin. My expression must have related that more clearly than I wished. “You aren’t really mad, are you?” she asked.
I closed my eyes for a moment. When I was a kid, I used to wonder what would happen if Tara moved away. I sighed. “No, not really. It’s for the best, of course.”
“Neither of us are moving until after we’re married,” she said in a hurry. “That’ll be a good six months. He won’t start until next month, anyway.” I nodded and sipped hot chocolate quietly. She gave me a look that was so terribly sad that I wished I could say I thought Waukegan was an excellent idea. I wished I could say it would be great, she would love it there, and I’d come see her and Michael all the time. I never have been much of a liar, though.
We chatted awkwardly after that, and then I said I needed to go. I knew that she was all too happy for this meeting to end. I got in my car, watched her leave, and then got out again to take a walk. It was a breezy day in late fall. The sun was shining, but dark clouds were gathering in the north. If I walked for long, I knew I’d get wet, but I headed down the street Tara and I used to live on anyway. I knew most kids grow up and leave their childhood friends behind them. I knew once she was married, I couldn’t really be her best friend anymore, and once she had a family, I would only be a visitor. I knew I’d had a better, longer friendship than most people ever know in their entire lives. I passed our houses, where two new families lived. The swing set we’d played on when we were kids still sat between the houses, unused. I looked up at the sky overhead and decided to head back, feeling just as miserable as before. It seemed unfair that our paths should be so closely intertwined for such a long time and then separated by land and life. It seemed so unfair that I almost wished it hadn’t been at all. I returned to my car and slid the key into the ignition.
What would my life have been if I hadn't known Tara, if she had only been my neighbor? What would hers have been if I'd just been another boy at school? I remembered the giggling group of friends she had, the ones that I had always avoided. Ridiculous as they were, Tara had liked them. And I’d had other friends, not nearly so close, but they were good, for their own part. If Tara and I had never been friends, neither of us would have been too terribly hurt. Still, I think I would have felt like I were missing something. And what bliss to have touched her life, if only for a moment.
